The Books That Built Me

Before I was a mother of ten in Sharjah, I was just a girl in Indonesia with a book in my hand… and a very specific obsession.

British stories.

I know exactly how it started. My paternal grandfather and grandmother were the ones who paved the way. I still remember my first encyclopedia; my grandmother bought it from a walking salesgirl who came to our door every month for a year. My grandma paid for it in installments—month by month, page by page—investing in my mind before I even knew what a “future” was.

Then there was the time in Grade 2. I had broken my arm at school and came down with the measles at the same time. I was stuck at home for more than two weeks, itchy and in a cast. My uncle—my father’s brother—brought me a massive book of fairy tales with the most wonderful, vivid pictures. I read that book over and over and over again until the characters felt like my closest friends, and the spine needed to be reinforced with tape.

When I eventually moved to Surabaya to live with my parents, the tradition continued. They bought me books all the time, and I spent every spare moment in my school’s tiny library. It was my sanctuary. In my family, books weren’t just objects; they were the cure for boredom, the comfort for pain, and the quiet companions that made sure you never felt truly alone.

Because of them, my afternoons were never really in Indonesia. I was always somewhere else.

The Kirrin Connection

I loved The Famous Five so much. Julian, steady and responsible. Dick, a little lighter. Anne, gentle and easily frightened but still trying her best. And of course—George.

George, who refused to be anything other than who she was. And Timmy. Always loyal. Even Uncle Quentin—with all his strange experiments and bad temper—and Aunt Fanny, trying to hold everything together around him… they felt real to me in a way I couldn’t explain. Looking back, I think I loved them because they were independent. They solved things. They took care of each other.

The Fire of Elizabeth Allen

And then there was Elizabeth Allen—The Naughtiest Girl. I loved her. She didn’t want to be sent away. She pushed back. She resisted.

But slowly… she changed. Not because someone forced her to, but because she began to care. Now, as a mother, I see that so clearly. The children with the strongest personalities… the ones who challenge everything… they are not the “difficult” ones. They are the ones with the most fire.

Character over Marks

Then came Malory Towers. Darrell Rivers learning to control her temper. Sally Hope, quiet but deeply sensitive. Alicia, always stirring something just for fun 😄 And Gwendoline… dramatic, vain, but somehow still human.

And Miss Grayling. I don’t remember every word she said, but I remember the feeling. When the girls were about to leave, she reminded them that what truly mattered was not their marks or their achievements… but their character. Kindness. Honesty. Courage. Those words stayed.

The Notebook and the Nutmeg

But the one that lives in a very specific corner of my heart is Lotte Rangkap Dua (Louise and Lotte). The original story—Das doppelte Lottchen by Erich Kästner.

Two girls: Louise and Lotte. One raised by their father, Ludwig the composer. One raised by their mother, Luise the journalist. I still remember the notebook they filled with details so they could switch places. The soup with too much nutmeg. The effort to act like someone else. And of course… Miss Gerlach. Strict. Cold. Watching everything.

Back then, it felt clever. Now? It feels exhausting. Because motherhood is exactly that. Holding details. Remembering everyone’s likes and dislikes. Carrying multiple lives in your head at once.

The Quiet Resilience of Red-Roofs

Then there was The Family at Red-Roofs. Molly, Peter, Michael, and Shirley. Children who had to grow up quietly when their father disappeared at sea.

The small details stayed with me. Jackdaw, loyal and constant. Jenny Wren, always ready to help. There was no drama in how they survived—just quiet resilience. I didn’t understand it fully then, but something in me recognized it.

Pippi and the Joy of Chaos

And in between all of that seriousness… there was Pippi. Pippi Longstocking, living alone, carrying a horse, doing whatever she wanted. And Emil from Lönneberga. Always in trouble. Getting his head stuck in a soup tureen. Being sent to the shed again and again. And yet… never losing that light.

Those stories taught me that life is not only about being “good.” Sometimes it’s about being alive.

The Quiet Discovery

Now, when I look at my own home… it’s loud. It’s messy. There are mysteries—usually involving missing snacks 😄

But sometimes, I walk past a room and I see one of my children sitting quietly with a book. And I pause. I think of my grandmother paying for those encyclopedias in installments. I think of my uncle with the fairy tales. I think of my parents in Surabaya.

I realize I am simply continuing the work they started. I’m not just giving my children a story. I’m giving them their own world.

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💬 A Thought for You Who was the person who first put a book in your hand? Was it a teacher, a parent, or a grandmother with a plan?

Let’s honor them in the comments 🤍