In Stig Dagerman's Village - Saiful Baten Tito

 We set out for Stig Dagerman's village to see the paths of his childhood, his school, his church, and even his grave. Katarina, with her excellent driving skills, drove at a moderate speed on the right side of the road, describing various landmarks in her fluent English. Stig Dagerman was born in 1923 and died in 1954. A remarkable Swedish writer who lived only 31 years yet left an indelible mark on world literature. Stig Dagerman’s death wasn’t natural—it was by suicide. Why someone chooses to end their own life might only be known to the one who takes that step.

He was married twice. During his first marriage, Dagerman fell in love with a famous Swedish actress, with whom he also had a child. This led to a divorce from his first wife. Curiously, though, the community that has now celebrated him with a museum and an award in his name was a place where Dagerman lived only until the age of seven. After that, he moved to Stockholm, where he chose to end his life at just 31. He left behind three children, the youngest of whom is now over seventy. One of his children even won an Oscar. 

Sweden is like a country from a postcard, meticulously beautiful.  Summer is in full swing, and nature has donned a colorful palette. Both sides of the road are adorned with wildflowers, many with names familiar to the locals, though some remain unknown unless one studies botany. Their lack of fame does not diminish their charm! During this time of the year, if you visit a countryside home, you’ll surely find apple trees in bloom, and clusters of white apple blossoms decorating the branches.

At one point, Katarina pointed to the left and exclaimed, "Look! A waterfall! But it's man-made." Seeing my puzzled expression, she explained, “Remember Jan told you about the salmon research center? This is the place. Jan used to work here as an electrical engineer." She added, "And this road was the path Stig Dagerman walked to school."

A couple more minutes on the road, and Katarina declared, "We’ve arrived." We got out of the car and found ourselves on a small lawn where the seven-year-old Stig Dagerman sat quietly with a book in his hand—his statue, that is. I walked up to it, tilted its chin, and asked in Swedish, “Hur mår du?” (How are you?). Katarina laughed at my gesture. I placed a hand around the statue’s neck and took a photo. As we left, a melancholy clouded my heart. Why did Stig Dagerman choose suicide? No matter the difficulties life throws our way, they must be faced while living. To end one’s own life is to concede defeat. But do people end their lives because they feel defeated? Or do they feel defeated because they choose to end their lives? Or perhaps they believe their suicide will defeat everyone else? Life, after all, cannot be reduced to a game of winning or losing—it is far too nuanced and profound for such simplicities.

If you wish to understand Swedish literature, you must know Stig Dagerman. Reflecting on Dagerman’s short story To Kill a Child, Maria Haskins writes:

“Dagerman was an amazing writer, and his short stories really show his incredible literary skill and talent. His language is evocative but never ornate or overly emotional. There’s no literary ‘showiness’ in his work, just a clean, clear, expressive prose that grips you from the first word to the last.”

Graham Greene encapsulated Dagerman’s genius perfectly:
“Dagerman wrote with beautiful objectivity. Instead of emotive phrases, he uses a choice of facts, like bricks, to construct an emotion.”

Bangladesh is my homeland. In 2023, road accidents claimed the lives of over five thousand people there—a figure that feels like an epidemic. In contrast, Sweden has almost eradicated road accident fatalities. I believe Dagerman’s short story To Kill a Child has played a significant role in this achievement. It shows the power of literature, inspiring me in my own work.

I read To Kill a Child several times while translating it. The way Dagerman merges realism and magical realism to describe the child’s killer and the child’s proximity to death is masterful, touching the human heart in ways that words alone often cannot. From the start, Dagerman refrains from labeling the killer as a bad person. Instead, throughout the story, he describes him as cheerful and kind:

“He wouldn’t hurt even the simplest creature, and yet, still, he will soon kill a child.”

A sunny morning. A child is killed. Dagerman writes:

“Because life is constructed in such a merciless fashion, even one minute before a cheerful man kills a child he can still feel entirely at ease, and only one minute before a woman screams out in horror she can close her eyes and dream of the sea, and during the last minute of that child’s life his parents can sit in a kitchen waiting for sugar, talking casually about the child’s white teeth and the rowing trip they have planned, and that child himself can close a gate and begin to cross a road, holding in his right hand a few cubes of sugar wrapped up in white paper, and for the whole of that minute he can see nothing but a clear stream with big fish and a wide-bottomed boat with silent oars.”

The poignancy of this imagery is harrowing. A mother awaits her child with sugar cubes that now mingle with blood on the road.

We traveled along a road reminiscent of Dagerman’s story. Yellow flowers on the slopes brought memories of mustard fields in Bangladesh. These flowers are called Maskros in Swedish. They were once used to make wine in the 1980s. Dagerman’s story lingered in my mind. On such a road, the fictional child met its tragic fate. Katarina’s impeccable driving brought us back to the main road, where the sparse traffic surprised me—so unlike my homeland, where chaos reigns.

After some distance, we came across a church named Älvkarleby kyrka, built around the 12th century. Katarina had mentioned it on the first day itself, and I was eager to visit it, for churches are treasure troves of history. This church is over eight hundred years old, although Europe is home to even older ones. When we arrived, a woman and her colleague were mowing the lawn outside. Katarina approached her and said, "I have a writer from Bangladesh with me. He’d like to see the church. Could you open it for us?" The woman happily obliged.

European churches are rich with artistic history. This one stood as tall as a four-story building but was actually just one floor. The ceiling was adorned with intricate frescoes. I pointed to them and said to Katarina, "These frescoes were painted at least two to two-and-a-half centuries after the church was built." Katarina, peering at me over her glasses with a look of surprise, asked, "How do you know that?" I replied, "Notice the use of blue in these frescoes. Back in the 1200s, Europe had no access to blue pigment. These paintings must have been created after the 1400s. Even then, the blue used wasn’t pure. Look closely—it’s not the vivid blue you’d find in later works. Pure blue didn’t become widely available until at least the 1700s, when artists like Antoine Watteau and Nicolas Lancret began using it. By the 19th century, it became a popular color for wall art."

Katarina, an artist and long-time art teacher, listened intently. I wondered if recounting the history of blue in front of her was presumptuous of me.

Blue enriched European art but devastated Bengal’s farmers. The British forced them into indigo cultivation, subjecting them to inhumane exploitation. In the history of British India, indigo cultivation is a painful chapter of economic aggression and social suffering. Sir George Watt, a prominent botanist and historian of India’s economic crops, wrote:
“Compared to other crops and industries in India, the story of indigo cultivation is uniquely intriguing, tragic, and instructive.”

The mere mention of indigo evokes images of British officers wielding whips, helpless farmers shedding tears, and hunger’s cruel grasp. In various parts of Bangladesh and India, ruins of indigo factories still stand as silent witnesses to this history.

We spent quite some time exploring the church. I stood at the pulpit where priests once delivered sermons and said, "Listen, foolish people of the past! Every religion is man-made. Religion is a tool of oppression and commerce. This magnificent church you admire was built on the blood and sweat of farmers, laborers, and slaves. European civilization wasn’t built by priests—it was built by those they exploited." Katarina was in stitches at my theatrics. She asked, "When did you become an atheist?" I replied, "When I was in the seventh grade." Then I asked her, "What about you?" She smiled and said, "I think I was born an atheist. Neither my parents nor anyone in my family has ever been religious. I’ve never seen anyone go to church."

As we left, Katarina asked one of the workers about the frescoes. The worker directed us to a brochure inside. Katarina read it in Swedish and smiled at me, saying, "You were right—the frescoes were painted in 1490."

It was time to head back. I asked one of the church workers, Monica, if she could share an interesting fact about the church. Monica led us to the southern side of the church, pointed to the uppermost part of the wall, and said, "That section was hit by Russian cannon fire." I couldn’t help but laugh. "The last time Russia attacked Sweden was probably in 1610. Did Russia even have such powerful cannons back then?"

We continued our journey along Stig Dagerman’s paths, discussing his life and works. The following day, we visited the library, where we were greeted by Per Lidvall, the cultural department head. Per, a jovial man in his sixties with a robust build, gave us a brief introduction to a local literary prize established in 1996—the Stig Dagerman Prize. This award is usually given to writers, though researchers who contribute significantly to literature have also received it. In its inaugural year, it was posthumously awarded to John Hron, a 16-year-old writer murdered during World War II for his work. Institutions have also been honored, including two libraries. This year, the prize went to Elinor Torp for her book on sexual harassment in workplaces.

Per mentioned my work, saying, "I know about your writings. You also have a research-based book, don’t you?"

The library paid homage to Stig Dagerman in a way that felt almost like a museum. His writing desk, all his books, family photos, and handwritten manuscripts were beautifully displayed. As a writer, this deeply moved me. A country that honors its literary figures so profoundly will undoubtedly cultivate more talents. In contrast, my homeland offers little respect to its writers. As the philosopher Muhammad Shahidullah once said, "A country that does not honor its intellectuals cannot produce intellectuals." This void continues to hold us back.

I spent an entire week in Stig Dagerman’s village. On the final evening, during dinner, Katarina’s husband Jan said something that brought Dagerman back to mind. Jan remarked, "You know, Katarina isn’t my first wife. She’s my second." It seemed an ordinary enough fact until Jan added, "But I say my first wife was murdered."

Startled, I asked, "What do you mean?"

Jan explained, "She was run over by a drunk driver. At the time, I had two very young children. I struggled immensely, but Katarina stood by me, extending her friendship and compassion. She became my anchor. My children embraced her, and we became a family. Eventually, we fell in love and got married."

Jan’s grief over his first wife’s death touched me deeply, but the love and solace he found with Katarina felt equally profound.

The week passed quickly, and soon it was time to leave. For seven days, I stayed at Katarina's home, sharing their space and savoring the Swedish meals they lovingly prepared. As Katarina drove me to the train station, she asked, "How was your stay?" After a moment of reflection, I replied, "It was a mix of emotions—both good and bad. Stig Dagerman’s suicide deeply saddens me. Yet, seeing how you continue to honor him seventy years after his death fills my heart with admiration as a writer. From now on, Stig Dagerman will also have a place in my heart. But I can’t help feeling a touch of disappointment that he gave up on life at just 31. Life is so much more than the span between birth and death—it holds infinite meaning."