As I began the year 2025, I read I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman, translated into English by Ros Schwartz. The narrator, known only as the child, guides me through a world seen from a perspective untouched by life itself—through the eyes of a child living in complete isolation. I feel as though I, too, am sitting beside the child in the silence of the bunker, surrounded by the questions resounding in my mind: about God, emptiness, civilization, society, life, death, and the complexities of human emotions. Amid these thoughts, I realize that, perhaps unknowingly, we’ve built walls around our understanding, limiting the way we perceive the world and preventing us from seeing its true vastness. 

 

What truly struck me in this book was how it sheds light on the power of knowledge. The child, who has no context of the world, radiates a curiosity that’s pure and boundless. Things that seem ordinary to us—like time or tasting orange juice—transform into awe-inspiring discoveries in the child’s eyes. It’s a reminder of how valuable knowledge really is, like a light shining through the darkness. Too often, we forget that the smallest things can open new windows of curiosity, expanding our understanding in ways we don’t expect. 

 

I also found myself thinking about Sophie Mackintosh’s Afterword, especially when she talks about “want” and “desire”. These impulses feel so natural to us, like they’re just built into who we are. But when you really stop and think about it, desire can seem kind of strange, even a little absurd. It’s a reminder that our drives are more complicated and mysterious than we often give them credit for. Maybe that’s part of what makes the book so human, even though it takes us beyond the familiar world we know. 

 

One of the most memorable parts of the story is how the child comes to understand women. Despite her limited knowledge, she begins to see their incredible strength—they build, sew, cook, and fight to survive in the harshest conditions. What strikes her most is the bond they share: how they support and uplift one another, finding ways to endure even in overwhelming circumstances. This bond feels instinctive, almost like a protective shield against deep pain and sorrow. Through her eyes, we come to view women not only in their physical presence but also in their emotional depth, as sources of profound strength and resilience. They embody compassion and an extraordinary ability to endure and love, reminding us of the power in seeing the world with fresh eyes and an open heart. 

 

And then there’s something truly unique about this book: it has no chapters. I’m not sure if the printed version includes them, but in the digital version, there are none. The story flows seamlessly, without breaks, from beginning to end. At first, I expected a major event or a heartwarming twist to close the story—something definitive that would leave a clear emotional mark. But in the end, I realized this was just my own expectation. Instead, I felt like the child and the 39 other women in the bunker, quietly clinging to a fragile spark of hope for something ahead. Still, the ending left me deeply moved—it broke my heart, but somehow also brought me a strange sense of relief. It’s hard to explain, but I felt satisfied with how it all concluded. For me, I Who Have Never Known Men is a journey about learning to see the world in an entirely new way. It’s like being invited to start fresh, to view everything with open eyes and boundless curiosity. As Sophie Mackintosh beautifully writes, “No life is ordinary. No life is without hope, without light, even during the unimaginable.”