We are delighted to welcome Rashmi Sirdeshpande to the blog.  Rashmi's first book How to Be Extraordinary was published in 2019 and featured the real-life stories of fifteen inspiring individuals.  Rashmi's new picture book, Never Show a T-Rex a Book! publishes this August, has bold and brilliant illustrations by Diane Ewen and is a witty, wise and warm story about books, libraries, reading and of course - dinosaurs!  

Never Show a T-Rex a Book may be a super silly adventure about books and the power of the imagination but at its heart it’s also a love letter to libraries. Even my dedication is to librarians. Because libraries made me. My parents’ story is a classic immigrant story. They came to this country with next to nothing. They didn’t have much but they believed in books and they believed in learning. So naturally they believed in libraries. It’s no wonder then that libraries form part of some of my strongest childhood memories.

I remember walking into libraries and being WOWed by the number of books. I felt that as a child and again and again as an adult at university, at business school, and in public libraries and bookshops. I could spend a lifetime reading and it wouldn’t be enough to read all the things I want to read. So I gave them to T-Rex. I gave her my wonder and my endless hunger and I gave her ALL the books. When she learns how to read, there’s no stopping her. Because literacy is so foundational. Unlock that and she suddenly has access to whole worlds of fact and fiction. And she loves it all, hoovering up everything from comics and classics and poetry to books on STEM, art, meditation, and thinking BIG. 

Diane Ewen’s joyful artwork brings so much fun to this journey of discovering books and the chaos that ensues when T-Rex puts her new-found skills to use as Prime Minister. One of her first acts as the big cheese is of course to make sure there are libraries EVERYWHERE. You can tell she’d be 100% behind the campaign to save libraries today and she’d obviously be very pro school libraries. I don’t know where I’d be without libraries. My parents couldn’t have afforded to buy all the books I read growing up. And it’s at my local libraries that I discovered (as T-Rex does) the amazing range of books out there - fiction and non-fiction. That discovery made me a writer and that too, one who wants to write about EVERYTHING!

There was a little something missing in that range though. T-Rex is lucky. She’s very well represented in children’s books (or her male non-glasses-wearing counterparts are anyway!). But her little human friends sadly aren’t. Diane and I didn’t see ourselves much in books growing up so making this book really inclusive meant a lot to us. Especially because it’s a funny book and a madcap dinosaur adventure - because ALL children should have a chance to have those too. And ALL children should see the children around them enjoying these kinds of adventures and not just popping up in the heavy, issues-based books or the niche day-in-the-life-of books. Things are changing, thankfully, and we wanted to be a part of that change. After all, this book started its life as my submission to Penguin Random House’s WriteNow programme for underrepresented writers.

If books are a gateway into exploring new worlds and falling in love with reading and learning, they need to be accessible to everyone. This is where libraries are such a gift. Librarians too - finding just the right books to spark a child’s imagination. Books where they can see themselves and the people around them within those pages. Because when they find those books, that moment is the beginning of a beautiful, life-long adventure and a whole world of possibility.

Thank you to Rashmi for penning this thoughtful and heartfelt love-letter to libraries.

Can you tell us a little about your career?

I wrote and illustrated my first story when I was 19 years old. I showed it to some publishers but nothing happened. About the same time I started to work as a commercial illustrator for magazines and advertising.

Since I was a child I always wanted to go abroad and see the world outside my country.  So when I turned 23 I quit my job and decided to leave Japan for UK with the money I save in the last couple of years.  I really liked London and spent so much time walking about to get to know the different areas.  At the same time I was in search of what I wanted to do with my life.

One day while getting bored lying in my bed I came up with an idea for a story. I wrote it down and drew some illustrations. I made photocopies of it and sent them to ten publishers.  Most of them told me that they were interested and invited me to their offices. Two of them were quite keen and tried to publish my story but in the end it didn’t work out. Then I met Klaus Flugge of Andersen Press. He wasn’t too impressed by my story but liked my drawing and gave me the text of Angry Arthur written by Hiawyn Oram.  It became my first book to be published in 1982 and everything started from there.

I am most grateful to Klaus who has published so many books of mine since and Hiawyn who wrote such brilliant stories for me in my early years.

Where do you work?

I had a good size studio for my book works but because sometimes I do other things like sculptures in wood, I needed to have a bigger space. I have lots of carpentry tools and timbers and my studio got too cramp. Recently a flat downstairs became available so I rented it for the work I do that isn't on books.

The photo is the table where I work. There’s a scroll of paper spread over it. I buy a big roll of water colour paper and use it as it is. There’s a roll holder that I made on the right end of the table.  When I finish a drawing I it out and pull the paper onto the left and start a new one.

The other photo shows my kamishibai theatres and other objects I made.

Can you talk us through your approach to creating picture books?

It may start with doodles in my sketch book. An interesting phrase or sentence in a conversation I overhear in a café might become a starting point. Something quite ordinary can be an inspiration. If you see something common like a pencil as if you see it in the first time in your life, it suddenly looks so interesting that you would like to write a story about it ( as a matter of fact I have a pencil story that I’m writing at the moment. It’s nearly there but need few more ingredients to make it work).

You have worked on signage for sites like Eureka in Halifax and Seven Stories in Newcastle.  Do you think we make enough of illustration?

Many signages we see in streets or towns are very useful but sometimes if they had more characters and humours, not an obviously funny houmour but something subtle and witty like Ampelmannchen, the traffic light figures used in East Germany, our daily life becomes a little nicer.

You've worked with some incredible authors and poets, what are the differences between illustrating other people's work and your own?

I am very lucky that I started my career illustrating Hiawyn Oram’s text.  Angry Arthur is one of the greatest picture book texts. I learnt so much from illustrating Hiawyn’s writings.

I illustrated Roger McGough’s Sky in the Pie and it was a very interesting experience because I hardly knew anything about English poetry before then. Again, it was fortunate for me that my first poetry teacher was such a distinguished poet. The book taught me the joy of reading poetry and illustrating them.

John Agard and I come from very different background but we get along so well artistically as well as friends.

I love illustrating his books and at the moment am working on his picture book text.

Comic Adventures of Boots was, as the name suggests, told in comic strip form - as well as being comedic! - what differences are there working in this form, is it something you'd consider returning to?

Putting it simply, a picture book is a little like visual poetry while comics is theatre; you have to tell a story in dialogue like a play or film script.

It’s a very different approach from a picture book. Recently I have done some comics for literary magazines for adult readers. I’m beginning to understand how to write and illustrate comics and I like it even more. I’d love to do another comic book for children some day.

Which illustrators and what style of art do you admire?

The 1960’s graphic design and illustration from Japan, US and Europe were huge influence for me. Also, I have seen all kinds of paintings and sculptures from all over the world. There are so many artists I admire but if I chose one or two. . .

Paul Klee and Enku, Japanese Buddhist sculptor in 17^th centry.

The idea of expression and emotions run through many of your books and feature heavily in The Smile Shop, please can you introduce us to the book?

I have been to Mexico and other Latin American countries many times. I tried to learn Spanish at one point. A word for smile is ‘sonrisa’ in Spanish and I made up a word ‘sonrisaria’ the shop that sells smile. I liked the idea and made a rough sketch in very simple Spanish with pencil drawings about 20 pages. I thought of publishing it in Mexico because ‘sonrisaria’ sounded better than ‘smile shop’ to me. But I’m so much familiar with English publishing I showed my translation from Spanish to English to Scallywag Press. Sarah Pakenham, the publisher and Janice Thomson, the editor liked it, so I started to work on it in English.

While I was working on the book Brexit happened and that made me so sad. I left UK in 2009 for good after living there for 30 years, so it’s none of my business perhaps but I felt as if the country that I lived and had loved had become a different place. The Smile Shop is a tribute to London that had been a part of my life for so long. After finishing the book I realized both ‘Millie’s Marvellous Hat’ and ‘The Smile Shop’ are stories about someone getting something nice because they didn’t have money.

You've run workshops around Kamishibai storytelling, can you tell us a bit about this?

I’ve done workshops in Japan, UK, Latin America, Korea, India, South East Asia, Dubai and South Africa.

I enjoy meeting children. One thing I learnt having met so many children in different countries is that they are not different. Their sense of joy and fun are same. They speak different languages and their parents’ politics might be poles apart but people are same when they smile and laugh.

To see Satoshi performing a Kamishibai version of Hat Tricks (highly recommended!), please click here 

What are the differences between how children's book illustration is created and considered in Japan and in England?

There may be some differences between the cultures but I always try to find something in common.

Are you able to tell us what is next for you?

Apart from a book with John Agard, I have quite few ideas for the next book but haven’t decided to pick which one to start working on it. I’m busy preparing a show of paintings and sculptures in a gallery in Kobe in October at the moment.

A big thank you to Satoshi Kitamura for his time and insights and to Scallywag Press for the opportunity.

A M Dassu is a writer and magistrate based in the heart of England.  She is the Deputy Editor of SCBWI-BI's Words and Pictures magazine and is a Director of Inclusive Minds.  A. M. Dasu won the international We Need Diverse Books mentorship award in 2017.  She has used her publisihing advances for Boy Everywhere to assist Syrian refugees in her city and has set up a grant to support an unpublished refugees/recently immigrated writer.  Am Dassu can be followed on Twitter @a_reflective  or through her website.  We are delighted to welcome A M Dassu to the blog and are excited to be able to feature a preview of chapter one from Boy Everywhere which publishes in October.

Refugee week was founded in 1998 to encourage an understanding of why people seek safety and to celebrate the contributions of refugees. Unfortunately, over two decades later, xenophobia is still rife and the arrival of refugees and immigrants to this country is still questioned and frequently opposed.

The theme for this year’s Refugee Week is to Imagine and this is exactly what I did five years ago when I first began writing BOY, EVERYWHERE.

In 2015, I put myself in the shoes of a thirteen-year-old boy who lived a happy, normal life; who made plans with friends, had the potential to play for the school football team, an iPad, a PlayStation, a great school, weekends at the mall to look forward to, and I imagined what it would feel like to lose it all.

BOY, EVERYWHERE, was inspired by a news interview that showed refugees in muddy camps wearing Nike trainers and holding smartphones, and talking about what they’d left behind. Looking around my comfortable living room, I realised how similar their lives were to ours in the West and how easily a civil war could bring the same fate upon any of us. I had been supporting refugees by setting up fundraising campaigns to provide food and aid for many years but I knew this wasn’t enough. I wanted to do something long-lasting by sharing their incredible achievements, culture and backgrounds. So I started writing a story about a boy who once had everything.

I have been honoured to spend time with some of the most amazing people, who had been left with no choice but to leave Syria. Among them were English graduates, department store buyers, teachers, doctors and architects, and all of them had to start anew. Through BOY, EVERYWHERE I wanted to focus not only on the arduous journey a refugee takes to get to safety, but also what and who they leave behind and how difficult it is to start again. I wanted the focus to be on who they were and are, their identities as Syrians, not just the temporary political status attributed to them in their new country.

My hope is that this book helps to challenge stereotypes and break down barriers in our society. In a world where we are told to see refugees as ‘other’, I hope you will agree that ‘they’ are also ‘us’.

With love and hope,

A. M. Dassu 

Chapter 1

It all started going wrong during English. It was the last lesson on Thursday before the weekend, we’d just finished reading To Kill a Mockingbird and Miss Majida stood at the whiteboard going through some comprehension questions. I was scribbling them down, my head resting on my arm, when Leila tapped me on my shoulder from behind and handed me a note.

Are you coming ice-skating tomorrow?

I’d started writing back when the door flew open and Mr Abdo, our principal, burst into the room.

I shot up from my desk the second he entered and straightened my shoulders. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on Mr Abdo, their faces blank.

‘Pack your bags. You’re all to go home,’ he said, rubbing the creases on his tired, worn face. ‘See you back here on Sunday morning.’

We didn’t need telling twice. Everyone slapped their books shut and the room erupted into noisy chatter. My best friend Joseph turned to me and our eyes locked in confusion. ‘Your parents and guardians have been called and are on their way to collect you,’ Mr Abdo added, loosening the knot in his tie, his lips thin and tight, lines deepening across his brow. ‘But why, Sir?’ asked someone from the back of the class. ‘There’s been a bombing. This is not a drill, eighth grade. We need to get you all home. You know the protocol.’

A collective gasp rose from the room.

Through the sash windows the sky was a clear blue. I couldn’t see any smoke. Everything looked  normal.  The old orange tree stood firm in the sunlit courtyard, the gold crescent moon on top of the mosque’s minaret gleamed in the distance. Behind it the red, white and black striped flag on top of the church tower fluttered gently in the breeze, cars were hooting their horns, the newspaper seller was still shouting out to people passing by his stall.

Where had the bomb gone off? Panic prickled through me as I thought of home. I wished phones were allowed in school so I could just call to see if Mum, Dad and Sara were okay. I grabbed my bag to get my iPad, but remembered it wasn’t in there. ‘Joseph, get your tablet out,’ I said. ‘Just want to check what’s happened – I forgot my iPad at home.’

‘They won’t have bombed anywhere near us, Sami. Don’t worry,’ said Joseph, pulling his tablet out of his bag and swiping to log in. ‘What shall I type?’ he asked, leaning in towards me.

‘Google ‘bombing in Damascus’.’

After a second, he pursed his lips and said, ‘Nothing’s coming up.’ He showed me the error message – the internet was down again for the second time that day. I felt my shoulders tense and quickly reminded myself that it was usually the outskirts of the city that were bombed. Most   of Syria was torn apart because of the war, but no one had gotten close to Damascus.

‘Your mum and dad are at work, right?’ Joseph asked, his eyes focused on my forehead. I realised I was sweating and wiped the back of my arm across my face.

‘Yeah, Dad’s at the hospital but Mum worked from home today because Sara wasn’t feeling well. They should be at the

mall now,’ I said, glancing at my Swatch. ‘She’s picking up my football boots before the trials.’

‘Well, no one’s ever bombed the centre. The government’s always on high alert – just chill, bro,’ said Joseph, lightly pushing his fist into my shoulder before turning to put his tablet away.

He was right. But every time there was a bomb alert,    I couldn’t help worrying. Damascus is safe, I told myself. I took a deep breath, gathered my books and packed them into my bag while Mr Abdo spoke to Miss Majida. She had her hand over her mouth and looked like she was about to burst into tears.

A backpack pushed past my arm, followed by another – everyone was already leaving.

‘They’re doing you a favour, Sami, you weren’t gonna pass the English test later anyway.’ I turned to find George grinning at me. ‘Neither were you, sucker,’ he said, pushing into Joseph. Even at a time like this, George couldn’t help being an idiot. Maybe it was his way of showing he wasn’t nervous like me, but it was so annoying.

‘You’re the one that’s gonna fail, loser,’ said Joseph, sticking his face into George’s.

‘Shut up! You’re so fat, the only English letters you know are K, F, C,’ George sneered at Joseph, then turned to me, raising his eyebrows and running his hands through his hair. So dumb, I thought. George still hadn’t got over Joseph coming from a non-English-speaking school. The class babble and sound of scraping chairs made it hard to think of a quick response but I had to stick up for Joseph, whose cheeks were now the colour of tomatoes. I rolled my eyes at

George. ‘We’ll see… K, F and C are still three more letters than you know. Did you stay up all week thinking of that one?’ His grin grew, so I added, ‘Shall I use smaller words to make sure you understand what I’m saying?’ It wasn’t the greatest comeback but I couldn’t think of anything else. ‘Loser,’ I muttered, as I watched him get tugged away by his mini fan club, which consisted of exactly two friends.

Joseph and I joined the stream of kids leaving the classroom. Mr Abdo was now speaking to Miss Majida at the door, but she stopped talking the second I drifted towards it.

Joseph clutched his backpack, his head lowered. He was unusually quiet. Ugh. George had got to him again.

‘You want to go to Damer’s for ice cream after the trials?’ I asked to cheer him up.

‘Yeah, of course, man!’ Joseph said, his eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘Then we can go again tomorrow after ice- skating.’ He grinned.

Mr Abdo marched past us. ‘Hang on,’ I said to Joseph and ran to catch up with him.

‘Erm, Sir, we’re supposed to be going to football after school, where shall we wait?’ I said, wondering if Mum had collected my football boots.

He picked up his pace and strode into the classroom next door to ours and started talking to the teacher inside. I shrugged my shoulders at Joseph as he caught up with me. We rushed down the central stairway of the school behind the swarm of students and flowed into the large reception area, where our physics teacher, Miss Maria, was ushering everyone out of the side exit. I slowed down as I spotted Joseph’s dad in a smart dark-grey suit, sitting on

the deep-buttoned green leather sofa with his head in his hands. No one else’s parents were inside, which was odd. The dark wood-panelled walls where the president’s portrait hung made him look even gloomier.

‘Baba?’ said Joseph. His dad looked up.

‘Ah, Sami, come here.’ Joseph’s dad stood up and reached out to hug me first. Weird. I went to him feeling awkward, and as he embraced me tightly I felt my heart begin to race.

He pressed my head against his shoulder and ruffled my hair, then released me and grabbed Joseph. I stepped back, feeling woozy from inhaling his strong aftershave.

‘Right, let’s get you both home,’ he said in Arabic, turning from Joseph.

‘But what about the football trials?’ I asked. ‘Our driver is bringing my boots. I have to wait for him!’

‘Your dad asked me to pick you up. It’s not safe to be out today.’

‘But, Baba!’ Joseph interrupted. ‘We were gonna get on the team today! This is so unfair!’

‘Joseph, I already told you, it’s not safe to be at the stadium.’

Joseph tutted, shoved his fist into the carved wooden door and walked out.

‘Thank you! I’ll keep you updated,’ Joseph’s dad shouted at the school receptionist as he followed Joseph out. I ran after him, my stomach lurching. Dad wouldn’t send Joseph’s dad to pick me up unless it was serious. Maybe the bombing was really bad. Dad would know because of the number of casualties coming in at the hospital.

The street outside school was a tangle of gridlocked cars and beeping horns. Cars were double parked across the pavement, leaving hardly any room to walk between them. The newspaper seller shoved papers and magazines into our sides as we walked past his stall, desperately trying to get them sold while the street was jammed with people. We    all got into Joseph’s dad’s Honda CRV and I pulled the seat belt over me slowly, looking out at all the parents frowning in their cars. Joseph glanced at me and then pulled out his tablet.

‘Can’t believe they dropped a bomb today of all days… been waiting ages for this,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘I know…’ I said. ‘I bet Avraham’s on his way with my boots as well. He’s probably stuck in all the traffic now.’

‘What did you end up ordering?’ he asked, pressing

Start on a game.

‘Can’t get the Nike Magistas in Damascus. So I got the Adidas Predators.’

‘Oooh, nice.’ He looked out of the window and then said, ‘Thanks for sticking up for me with George.’ His cheeks were flushed again.

‘No worries… I’d never leave you to face that thug alone.’ George and his stupid gang had bullied Joseph ever since we started middle school. They thought they could do or say anything they wanted because they were ulad masooleen

– kids of government officials. I’d never seen Joseph look so sad or alone as that first week, and I never wanted him to feel that way again. I’d always be there for him. It had always been Sami and Joseph. And it would be for ever.

‘Ignore him,’ I said. ‘He’s just jealous of your skills – still

hasn’t got over last semester, when you scored that penalty.’

Joseph smiled. ‘Yeah, that was awesome. Do you think they’ll rearrange the trials to next week now?’

‘Yeah, probably.’

As Joseph went back to his game, I stared out of the window, checking out everyone’s cars. Leila’s mum was in her space grey Lexus RX, but I couldn’t see Leila through the tinted glass. Oh man – I realised I’d totally forgotten   to reply to her note after Mr Abdo walked in. I’d message when I got home and tell her me and Joseph would be at the ice rink at 3 p.m. tomorrow.

It took twenty minutes to get out of the school street behind all the other cars, but when we got moving I could see the high-rise buildings were still intact, the roads were clear, traffic only building up near the checkpoints. There were a few fluffy clouds scattered in the sky. Something circled the blue far away, probably a helicopter. I still couldn’t see any smoke in the air. They probably bombed the outskirts of the city, I reassured myself again.

On the way to Joseph’s neighbourhood, a crowd of people were gathered outside a big villa, the men in smart suits and the women in dresses, some wearing headscarves. But I was more interested in the cars they were standing next to – a black Bentley and a white Rolls Royce parked on the road. Both Joseph and I sat up to get a better look, our mouths open, practically drooling.

‘Woah. What do you think they’re here for?’ I asked Joseph.

‘Probably a wedding… or a funeral,’ he said, showing me his game score and smirking. ‘I beat you, right?’

‘Oi! Give me that,’ I said, grabbing his tablet and pressing

Play. We’d been doing this for weeks.

Joseph’s dad parked outside their apartment building. As the car stopped on the smooth black tarmac, we heard what must’ve been gunshots in the distance. I always thought it sounded like rain hitting a tin roof. But it wasn’t raining. We jumped out, sheltered our heads with our arms and ran through their black front gates. We raced straight up to Joseph’s bedroom, throwing our bags down next to some dried orange peel he hadn’t bothered binning.

I sat on the end of his bed while Joseph switched on his PlayStation and small flat screen TV. ‘May as well play FIFA, if we can’t play the real thing, eh?’ he said, his second chin protruding more than usual because of his grumpy face.

‘Yeah, may as well,’ I said, wishing the trials hadn’t been cancelled and we were showing off what we’d been practising.

There was a small knock on the door and it opened. ‘Hi, you two. Do you want anything to eat?’ asked Joseph’s mum.

‘Nah,’ said Joseph, still facing the TV screen, waiting for the game to load.

‘How about you, Sami?’

‘No thanks, Aunty, but can I have a drink please?’ ‘Sure. What would you like? Coke?’

‘Yes, thanks. Shall I call my mum to get Avraham to pick me up? He’s probably waiting for me at school.’

‘No!’ she said quickly, in a strange high-pitched voice. ‘Your dad wants you to stay for dinner. Stay there – I’ll be right back with that Coke!’ She pulled the door tight and left.

I bit my lip and frowned as I grabbed the remote from Joseph’s hands and put it on TV mode.

‘Oi! What you doing?’ shouted Joseph.

‘Shhh, I just wanna check the news. See why Dad got us picked up. Don’t you wanna know?’

‘Not really. All they’ll show is more dead people.’ ‘Oh, come on, it’ll only take a minute.’

‘Go on then,’ said Joseph.

I flicked through the channels one by one. Kids’ cartoons, music, documentaries, news channel. My head started spinning as I read the headline flashing in red at the bottom of the screen.

DAMASCUS: CHAM CITY CENTRE MALL REBEL TERRORIST BOMB ATTACK

I sat staring at the image on the screen. The once-shiny glass building was now partly rubble. The glass half of the mall was a broken grey shell – the concrete half was just about standing. There were no windows or doors left in any of it and people in high-vis jackets rushed through the smoke, debris, rows of police cars and ambulances. I watched, but couldn’t move. My ears throbbed. I could see Joseph’s arms waving around next to me. Everything had slowed down, the noise from the TV and Joseph’s words muffled. I tried to say something, but nothing came out.

The mall had been bombed. Mum and Sara were there.  Buying my football boots.

Empathy is a vital human force. One that creates happier children, stronger communities and a better world. It’s come into sharp focus during the pandemic and right now, we’ve never needed it more. Empathy is being able to imagine and share someone else’s feelings.

The good news is that it's a skill you can learn, and Empathy Day on 9 June aims to help everyone understand and experience its transformational power. Empathy Day focuses on how we can use books to step into someone else’s shoes. Scientists say that we can train our brain with stories – the more you empathise with characters, the more you understand other people’s feelings.

Empathy Day was established by not-for-profit EmpathyLab, who are on a mission to inspire the rising generation to drive a new empathy movement. On 9 June they will host a day of brilliant online events and home-based celebrations to help children READ, CONNECT AND ACT using empathy. Children can join in whether they're at home or at school, and authors, illustrators, schools and libraries across the country will all be taking part.

To mark the countdown to Empathy Day, the Youth Libraries Group are delighted to welcome Muhammad Khan to the blog.  Muhammad's book Kick the Moon is included in EmpathyLab’s Read for Empathy Collection, has chosen an extract from their book and tells us why they feel it’s a powerful read to develop empathy.

Extract: Kick the Moon pages 35-37, 2^nd para, line 6, ‘By the end of the lesson, I’m solving simultaneous equations like a pro…’ [See dowload link below]

On the first day of term, Ilyas can’t believe his luck when told he’s being moved up a set in maths. His old teacher, Mr Gordon, had a less than encouraging teaching style (read old school bullying); and his gang were always snatching his book and copying his answers (more bullying). In spite of all this, he’s a little wary of his new environment. He needn’t be. It turns out Ms Mughal’s classroom is a safe space for learning. Though Ilyas is chuffed to discover this, he doesn’t think it would be cool to express these positive feelings. His gang have brainwashed him into believing ‘dons’ never show emotion except to laugh at losers, aggressively flirt with girls, or demonstrate violence. These are the hallmarks of toxic masculinity. We feel empathy for Ilyas because we know he wants to be a good boy but past experience has determined it leads to bullying.

Ms Mughal’s students seem to really like her, share jokes together, but clearly understand where she draws the line. Ilyas is surprised when they all say ‘bye’ to her on the way out. Finding this new respectful dynamic awkward, he tries to slip out unnoticed. In spite of the apparent snub, Ms Mughal tells him he is welcome to see her anytime for extra help – thereby showing she understands the enormity of his burden. In this moment she is promising to have his back, she is empathising. It flies in the face of Ilyas’s gang who claim they are the only ones who will ever look out for each other thereby exerting control through fear and lies.

Outside in the corridor, Ilyas sees Jade - the beautiful girl he is obsessed with - engaged in a controversial conversation with a couple of friends. Melanie says horribly racist things. Jade is complicit and it breaks Ilyas’s heart. Until now he’s placed her on a pedestal but discovers an ugly side which throws a massive spanner in the works for future romance (no matter how unlikely it was!) The third friend, Kelly, looks deeply uncomfortable with this bigotry but doesn’t have the strength to challenge her friends over it. She is an analogue for Ilyas – both teens are caught up in groups of friends who say and do things that are ostensibly wrong. The moment foreshadows the eventual friendship that will blossom between the two.

As a secondary school maths teacher, I drew direct inspiration from the children I teach. I wrote this book to try to understand why some of the kindest teens hang out with others who lack empathy and can be cruel. High school, of course, is not an easy time. There is strength in numbers. To stand alone and fight for what you believe in can make you a target, especially in friendship groups where a pecking order exists. Many young people already feel self-conscious – the burden of taking those ‘flawless’ selfies and clocking up the most likes doesn’t exactly breed confidence – so it is difficult to challenge peers to become better people. Hierarchies are established through fear and shame which of course creates subordinates while venerating a de facto leader. And as we know: power corrupts.

Ilyas and Kelly are both relatable in their very averageness. They have hopes and dreams just like everyone else and desperately want to be friends. We empathise because we see how happy and creative they become whenever they are together and feel sympathy when berated, mocked and threatened by their respective ‘friendship’ groups who demand they keep apart.

Standing up for yourself or your friends is not easy, but hopefully the book empowers young people to believe some things are worth fighting for no matter how daunting the odds.

For the first time this year, EmpathyLab will host its Empathy Day programme online to support families at home. Schools and libraries across the country will also be offering a wide range of home learning and story-time activities.

Prior to the big day, EmpathyLab are hosting a Countdown Fortnight on their social media channels (26 May-8 June). Highlights include brand-new empathy-themed illustrations from leading artists, short stories from favourite authors and video readings of empathy-boosting books and poems from the writers themselves. Families can also download a new Family Activities Pack, featuring 14 writing, drawing, crafting, listening and reading activities to do at home. https://www.empathylab.uk/family-activities-pack

Events on 9 June will begin at 9:30am with Children’s Laureate and best-selling author Cressida Cowell, who will introduce Empathy Day. The day’s activities, designed to introduce children to the concept and importance of empathy and how to put it into action, include a draw-along with Rob Biddulph, a poetry challenge with Sarah Crossan, Empathy Charades with Joseph Coelho, exercises on listening with Jo Cotterill and Robin Stevens, before rounding up the day with an activity on putting empathy into action with Onjali Rauf and Sita Brahmachari. Finally, an evening event with Cressida Cowell, Muhammad Khan and psychologist Professor Robin Banerjee aimed at parents, teachers and librarians will address the science that drives EmpathyLab.

The full programme can be found HERE https://bit.ly/EmpathyDay2020

Join in with the #EmpathyDay social media campaign and share your #ReadforEmpathy book recommendations.

The Youth Libraries Group is delighted to have a new writer or illustrator in residence programme.  Each individual will be in post for a three month tenure and will be selected on the basis of championing an under-represented form of writing or illustration, helping to shine a light upon this, or else because they champion an underrepresented community.  We are delighted that Emma Shevah has agreed to be our first electronic writer in resident.  If you have not come across her books, we can highly recommend these.  This electronic residency will form a part of our Raising Voices initiative more of which will be announced soon.

Hello. I’m Emma Shevah and I’m honoured to have been asked to be the YLG’s first electronic Writer-in-Residence. I’m the author of three Chicken House books for 8-12s (Dream on Amber, Dara Palmer’s Major Drama and What Lexie Did), and an early reader with Bloomsbury (Hello Baby Mo!). My fourth MG novel will be published in summer 2020.

As a Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic (BAME) author writing about BAME characters, the findings of this week’s ‘Reflecting Realities’ CPLE report on Ethnic Representation in Children’s Literature have been interesting. They reveal that only 4% of UK children’s books published in 2018 had BAME main characters—up 1% from 2017 but still unpardonably low. Hopefully, my 2018 offering was included in that percentage, but Lexie is Greek Cypriot and the BAME acronym’s ‘minority ethnic’ definition is unclear (more on that next month).

Meanwhile, a PhD student interviewed me recently: her department at the University of Leicester is researching artists, writers and musicians, and how they manage - or don’t - to finance their creative lives. She asked about my writing process, my books, and whether I need to undertake other work. Four of her questions struck me. What percentage of your income is from writing? followed by what percentage of your time is spent writing? (face palm moment). Would you recommend writing as a career? And do you think it’s different for BAME writers?

Hmm. Writing about BAME characters can pose financial problems. The UK’s drive for diversity in children’s books is not necessarily shared globally, and contemporary novels about diverse characters and/or family situations can be difficult to sell internationally as they may not reflect the experiences and situations of cultures overseas. The reason there are more animal protagonists than BAME ones is that animals are generic and therefore translatable: a lion learning about his identity is likely to sell in many more territories than one about a mixed-raced child in Luton with same-sex parents. Publishing is an industry, and for authors and publishers, global markets matter.

Back home, there are issues, too. UK book buyers for the under 12s are predominantly (white, as that is the demographic) parents. While some are just relieved their children are reading and will buy any book they choose, others cherry-pick ‘literary’ books of ‘quality’ that will further their children’s schooling rather than ones that will widen their cultural and sociological understanding of modern Britain. Writing contemporary novels in the first person doesn’t help: I write in a style and vernacular that mirrors today’s eleven-year-olds, who tend not to talk in lyrical language rich in metaphors and similes. Historical, fantasy and third-person narratives free authors of this limitation.  A very small number of books scoop up the majority of sales, and once they sell well, more resources are put behind them from publishers and retailers so they sell even more, leaving little space and money for the rest. Celebrity authors are the new vogue, too, for the same reason. And while school librarians tweet photos of my dog-eared books, saying there’s a queue for them, which I love, those many readers are reading just one book.

These factors affect sales, and low sales negatively affect the ability of BAME writers to earn a living from writing. Of course, most writers share this problem. But without strong UK sales and foreign rights, generic stories about bears will continue to trump BAME characters and their specific experiences. There are further issues: with the BAME acronym, with the immigrant work ethos influencing/ dominating the career choices of first generation children where writing is not a valid career option, and the unconscious (or possibly conscious) collective bias that means books about young British Muslims have more chance of being published and promoted than ones about young British Jews.

What percentage of my income is from writing? Less than 5%. What percentage of my time is spent doing it? Oh God. 40%? Rising to 70-80% in the school holidays? Would I recommend writing as a career? No. See above. But this is also subjective: I’m a lone parent with four children living in an expensive part of the country. I have a demanding full-time job, and a part-time evening job, and when I should be gathering strength and enjoying my children, I’m exhausting myself by tapping relentlessly on a laptop keyboard. My books haven’t sold in forty territories – eight is the most so far, and this is good, especially as it includes the US and Canada, where—thanks to The Odyssey Honour award and New York Times, Wall Street Journal, People magazine and starred library journal reviews– my profile and sales are higher than they are here. But this still isn’t enough to provide me with more time and space for writing.

Are my BAME books getting out there, making a difference, changing the world and its shameful statistics? Who knows. I’m tired. I’d like to stop for a while because I value my health and my family, and need, really, to focus on my reliably-paid jobs. Is this experience shared by other BAME writers? No idea. Our experiences of writing are as personal as our stories.

Obviously, I’d love to see more BAME protagonists in UK children’s books. I wrote about the dearth of South East Asian characters in The Bookseller and write them myself to ensure they exist. But parents need to buy them, booksellers and librarians continue to promote, showcase and encourage readership of them, teachers use them in the classroom and add them to reading lists and curriculums, and the ‘canon’ adapt to incorporate them. BAME writers must have money and room if they are to write, and, importantly, to continue writing.

Is it different for BAME writers? I think it is. We’re in the peripheral vision, finally. But there’s still such a long way to go.