Zombie Stories 

We meet at the literary festival in Reykjavík, two authors matched by the program organizers. At the venue, I notice Jan Grue immediately. He is waiting in the corridor—solemn and elegant in his electric wheelchair. It's not as easy to spot the immigrant in me, so I introduce myself first.

We exchange a few words, but the air between us remains tepid. Jan seems preoccupied. I wonder if he’s nervous about meeting the audience, but he is an award-winning author and university professor. I don't know how often Norwegians smile, but I wish he’d smile more. Then a wave of dizziness reminds me that I might be the problem here. My face is swollen. I feel numb. I’m burnt out. It's not easy to smile.

The event starts. Jan reads from his memoir about living with spinal muscular atrophy. I read from my book about being a Polish immigrant in Iceland. We answer questions about our writing, self-narration, and inclusion. The conversation goes smoothly, and it seems coherent, but Jan and I have no spark. Or am I just not able to feel it?

Lately, I've been trapped behind an intangible wall. It's soundproof, too. I am trying to keep my focus on Jan's mouth. He is well-spoken. I hope my sensitivity and East-European charm match Jan's intellect, but I am not sure what I am even talking about.

"Would I still receive recognition as a writer if I chose to write about zombies instead of immigrants?" I ask.

To my surprise, Jan reacts immediately.

"I am actually writing a book about zombies," he says.

"Me too," I jump in like a traveler, worried that the bus containing the zombie idea will leave without me. I've been stewing over zombies for a while. The fact that Jan writes about them, too, is the spark I've been hoping for—something to take home.

The event comes to an end. Jan and I politely chat with the audience members, but I am waiting to be alone with him.

When that happens, still light-headed, I ask, "What is your zombie story about?"

"It's the philosophical zombie," Jan answers. Seeing my clueless face, he explains that a philosophical zombie is a thought experiment in the philosophy of mind, the hypothetical existence of a person who looks and acts just like us but does not have conscious experience—a soulless, unconscious being shaped in a human form.

I blink because it helps me digest Jan's words.

"In my story, zombies are the unconscious labour force used to rebuild a fallen country," I finally say.

Jan nods. His smile carries a sign of approval. We say goodbye and promise to keep in touch about our zombie stories.

Fifteen percent of the Norwegian population lives with disabilities. That's about the same percentage of immigrants living in Iceland. A Norwegian man with a disability and a Polish immigrant woman meet on stage at a Reykjavík literary festival—both writing about zombies.

Almost a year has passed. I still think about Jan. He and I shared the most private experiences and intimate thoughts through our books. Such books are hard to write and discuss in public. They represent something larger than Jan or me—our shared vulnerability.

For ten years, I've been promoting Polish culture in Iceland. I co-established a multilingual publishing house and an international theatre company. I produced a show about my immigrant life, wrote an autobiographical immigrant-book and columns about immigrant writers, organized conferences for immigrant entrepreneurs, co-edited an essay collection by foreign-born writers, started literary events for international writers in Reykjavík. Burnout was inevitable. In my ten years in Iceland, I overexploited myself. Now, I just want to write about zombies. 

Since I met Jan, I have felt less alone with my new passion, although I never asked him why he chose that subject. To me, zombies make total sense. Whenever I write a poem or a story, I rediscover and confirm my place in the world. Now, after the burnout, I realize if my zombie book ever comes out, I won't be asked what it’s like to be a zombie. I will never place myself at the forefront of the public debate as a zombie. Zombie pain won't be my pain. Their shame won't be my shame. Their hopes won't be mine, either. I won't feel like I am representing my own life. To me, zombies feel safe.

4th of March 2024, Reykjavík