I finished Ausma Zehanat Khan’s The Unquiet Dead not too long ago. Two Canadian cops investigate a man who died from falling off the Scarborough bluffs and need to determine 1) if it really was an accident 2) if his true identity is that of a war criminal.
My modern day mystery novel was not just a crime to be solved but a lesson on the Bosnian genocide during the early 90s. After reaching the ebook’s ending, I thought about sixteen year old me. I read a book as part of my grade 11 philosophy class. It was Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning and I still own my copy. It’s been years since I’ve read it.
Frankl wrote it after surviving four concentration camps between 1942 and 1945. In his book, he “argues that we cannot avoid suffering but we can choose how to cope with it, find meaning in it, and move forward with renewed purpose”. It’s been a while since I’ve read the book but I couldn’t help but think about Frankl as I read about the survivors in Khan’s The Unquiet Dead and thought about the real life survivors of Bosnia, the Holocaust, Rwanda etc
I also think about today. My small fears. My big fears. My existential fear. My own search for meaning.
I should really re-read Frankl’s book.