María Ignacia Schulz is an Afro-Colombian-German author and translator. Her research interests include Hispanic Afro-Caribbean literatures and Black and Afro-Caribbean feminisms.

It's always the same. I keep telling myself that this time I won't go, that I don't have the time, that there's always next time. The most I've managed to resist the urge to buy tickets immediately for this book fair, one of the biggest in the world, has been until two weeks before the fair opens its doors. Then I choose train connections, call friends in the city to arrange my stay, pack a small suitcase and rejoice, once again, in my visit. What is it about the Frankfurt Book Fair that has brought me here year after year for almost a decade now? I must admit that on this occasion, the announcement that both my friend and colleague, the incredible translator Johanna Schwering, and my Colombian friend, the writer Rodolfo Lara Mendoza, would be there, was a big factor. But the fascination is still there, despite my attempt at rebellion. So when I heard about the possibility of these reunions, it gave me yet another reason to succumb.

The first time I attended was in October 2015. The literary magazine that I had founded with several friends and with which I was associated until 2019, alba.lateinamerika lesen, was presenting its eighth issue as part of the fair: a special edition devoted entirely to Chilean literature. Alia Trabucco Zerán, Alejandro Zambra, Nona Fernández, Enrique Winter and Andrea Jeftanovic, were some of the voices that had contributed to that issue.

The guest country that year was Indonesia. As is the case today, Europe was beset with a migration crisis. Millions of refugees were fleeing wars and ethnic conflicts in their countries of origin. Between 2015 and 2017, Germany received almost half of all asylum applications submitted to the European Union. Angela Merkel, then the Chancellor of Germany, famously said: "Wir schaffen das!" ( We can do this!). Nine years later, the right wing in Europe is growing exponentially, racist and discriminatory rhetoric of all kinds is rife, and wars of all kinds are raging in Haiti, Gaza, Ukraine and the Congo. And the book fair? The fair proposes, as it does every year, to solve the dilemma of positioning itself politically without being "too" political. In other words: giving strategic visibility to some problems while turning a blind eye to others. Because deep down we know that lives do not matter in the same way.

Considered the largest commercial book fair in existence and one of the most important in the world, every year it brings together hundreds of thousands of people around books, their publication and distribution. What is less mentioned, however, is that it does not have the highest total attendance figures. This distinction goes to the Guadalajara Book Fair (FIL), in Jalisco, Mexico.  And it is also not the longest running book fair, because that is the Ekushey Bookfair in Bangladesh. The Frankfurt Book Fair was created primarily to bring together a specific audience to learn about, discuss and update the latest book releases. The general public has access on the last two days of the fair (Saturday and Sunday) and this is when the fair is at its most spectacular: thousands of people wandering through its pavilions and corridors, visiting each exhibition stand, queuing for autographs, and filling cloth bags with the many magazines, newspapers and promotional material on offer. With any luck, some of this bibliophilic hustle and bustle will be captured by a television camera.

In Germany, of course, in the run up to the opening, and during and after it, the fair is one of the main topics on television. Who was invited, who was not; what were the most heated discussions and how has the outside world determined the course of this booklovers' microcosm, will be the central concerns. The Frankfurt Book Fair has long since become a media spectacle of self-promotion. Always in pursuit of records: more visitors, more stands, more events, more of everything than the previous year. And yet it retains the charm of an immense library, its shelves crammed with books in various languages. All except for the silence. Instead of a library's silence is the murmur of footsteps, of voices perhaps making appointments or closing deals. It takes some getting used to and requires a high level of concentration to listen attentively to the scheduled talks, most of which take place on stands set up in the aisles or at the publishers' own stands, with a fluctuating audience that can be drawn in by the content of the talk itself, by the speakers or by the promise of a glass of wine at the end.

This year's guest of honour is Italy. An the end of the 1970s, a pavilion dedicated exclusively to the literature of a guest country was created. In this way, knowledge of the guest nation is promoted and the fair's programming revolves mainly around themes related to the literature of that country. The cultural program extends beyond the sites of the fair to the whole of Germany during this period, broadening the reach of the guest country's literature to other German cities. 

 I was excited when Spain was the guest country of honour in 2022, imagining the treasures I might discover in my mother tongue. It was the longest I'd attended, from Wednesday to Saturday. I planned my schedule carefully, to maximise efficiency - at the fair, getting between venues can be time-consuming, so there must be some strategy in deciding what to see and what not to see. That year, however, the fair was opening its doors to a normalcy that was still very disconcerting. After the pandemic, people moved through the world differently and this was very noticeable. There was a sense of restraint, safe distances being immediately established, more frequent searching for a breath of fresh air. The exception that year was meeting Irene Vallejo, with whom I exchanged a few words. A writer with a warm, friendly smile, who makes you feel like you've known each other for ever with just one embrace.

Slovenia would be the guest of honour the following year, in 2023. That year, I would be left with the bitter taste of the denial of the Literature Prize to the Palestinian writer, Adania Shibli. The award had already been announced, but with the horrific backdrop of the attack by Hamas militia members on Israel and the subsequent violent response of the Israeli government bombing Gaza, the fair's board decided to withdraw the award. In his deeply emotional opening speech, the Slovenian philosopher, Slavoj Zizek, furiously denounced this withdrawal of the award, calling it a cancellation culture. Shibli would not be the only person that year to have her participation in the fair revoked after having been invited. A political positioning that I still struggle to understand.

So when, in autumn, this year's Frankfurt Book Fair began to be announced, I had reason to wonder if it was worth attending a space whose political positioning left much to be desired. This year, Italy was the guest of honour. Italy, where the extreme right is head of the government. And, once again, the political panorama took over the book space. Writers critical of the government of Giorgia Meloni were excluded from the Italian delegation. Thus, the annual celebration that books exist and continue to be read takes a back seat, and I don't think it's all bad that this is happening. We cannot isolate ourselves from what is happening in the world, nor can we pretend that we can build spaces like bubbles where everything works wonderfully, behind closed doors.

What brought me to the fair this year, as I wrote at the beginning of this article, was the possibility of a reunion with my friends Johanna Schwering and Rodolfo Lara Mendoza. I have known both of them for more than ten years and we share a deep friendship that has a lot to do with our great love for literature. Johanna was also co-editor of alba for several years and without her tireless work at that time, the magazine would not have positioned itself as it did back then. She is also an amazing translator, winner in 2023 of the prestigious Leipzig Book Fair Translation Award for her German translation of Aurora Venturini's The Cousins (Die Cousinen, dtv Editorial, 2022). I am eternally grateful to her for a sincere conversation we once had that prompted me to rethink practically my entire life and led me to the place from which today I present myself as a Afro-Columbian-German woman, writer, researcher and mother of three.

We met at the appointed time in Hall 4 and listened to two talks. One, on what it means for writers of Jewish background to write in the aftermath of October 7, 2023. At the end of the talk, the floor was not open for questions. The other was the presentation of translations of James Baldwin's poems as a result of a translation workshop conducted by a group of international poets, including Nigerian poet Logan February. Afterwards we went out into the grounds for some fresh air, something to eat and a glass of wine. We talked and celebrated. And we talked for hours until decideding to go back inside. I did not see the Italian pavilion. I didn't pass by the hall where the independent publishers are located. 

Two days later I would meet Rodolfo Lara Mendoza, one of the authors who was part of the first issue of alba. There, at the stand of Ediciones del Lirio, a Mexican publishing house, we hugged and more or less caught up on our lives. He introduced me to Miguel Ángel Flórez Góngora, a Colombian journalist and researcher, who introduced me to the book The Story of Mary Prince (Ediciones del Lirio, 2022), the first account of a black enslaved woman, published first in English in 1831 in the United Kingdom. An invaluable document, now translated into Spanish by Cuban writer Ana Elena de Arazoza Rodriguez and constituting, as Florez Gongora states, the first testimony of a black woman claiming her freedom through a deed of petition before the English parliament. Our conversation would be joined by Mercedes Alvarado who would introduce me to the work of the Cuban poet Odette Alonso. I've been moved by her poems, on first reading. Nor on this day would I do further exploration, except to tour the new pavilion created in the face of constant criticism that a quieter space was needed for events. It was a bleak picture. Stands with no visitors, few people, unoccupied chairs. A place still lost amidst the din of the fair. Perhaps, later on, the public will make it their own, so let's give it some time.

I relate all this and corroborate that what makes me keep visiting the Frankfurt Book Fair is just the possibility of reunion and, with it, to meet new voices, to create new bonds, to weave ideas and projects. It is not the show, it is not the political discussions that, like the fair, are over when it closes its doors, leaving me with the feeling that everything is nothing more than a pose, a pretence. It is in the real world, outside, where the battles that must be fought lie.