January 27, 2007
Budapest, Hungary
As we sit in an overly lit, almost empty room crowded with dozens of chairs and too many tables, I stare across the table at the man sitting on the other side, unsure of what to say. I want to smile, hold his hand, talk to him about life, but this is inappropriate for the situation, I tell myself.
Ali's an amazing guy, only 22, who has been all over the Eurasian continents and speaks half a dozen languages. I think for a moment before I decide to offer him a small, questioning smile.
"So, how did you manage to learn six languages?" I ask him.
"This is not important. I am in Hungary now," he explains with a smile to let me know the response is without sharpness.
The conversation then continues along its usual route, with him bombarding me with question after question, peppering my answers with, "Good, good" while he clasps his hands but rotates his thumbs around one another.
We understand each other and I catch myself thinking that I wish I had met him in any other context besides this.
My thoughts are shaken by the lawyer returning to the table and Nino clearing her throat uncomfortably.
"Ali, do you know why your claim was rejected this time?""No, no I don't. I don't know.""She didn't tell you? Let's go over what they said, just give me one moment to look over the summary."
For the next thirty minutes we listen to the conversation, sometimes heated, pass between our lawyer and asylum-seeker.
It's heart-breaking and I cannot but help thinking that our only difference in luck is that I was born in a different country. Eventually, Ali is told that he must appeal within fifteen days and that he must wait for it to come before the court until September.
September.
I've been at the refugee camp for a grand totally of four hours and I cannot wait to get out. The moment that we pulled up to the gates I began to feel dizzy, my heart started beating faster, and I thought I was going to throw up. Apparently, it is one of the "protocol" camps (ironic, I know) in the region. It has an internet/computer building, individual houses, a canteen, and so forth.
I met a man who has been in the Bicske camp for three years. While he was one of the lucky few to be granted refugee status, he is going back home to Nepal in a few days. His family was unable to join hum, and while he would like to stay in Hungary, there is no point as he is unable to get a decent job in the country, or enough to support his family. In his own words, "he is not made to live like an animal." I walk around the camp in circles, alone, because Maureen and Nino would rather sit in the warm office than try and walk around the camp, out in the cold.
I also think this is what makes us different: I want to be surround by this kind of reality; they do not want to be "depressed."I think of these people, who are given the equivalent of $12 USD a month, who must decide if they will give up their lives, their dreams, their ambitions to survive in a caged area until they are give the green light to be deemed capable to be integrated back inot society. Or they can "disappear."
A couple years ago, this trip to a refugee camp would have shattered me; I would have cried for days and thought of nothing else. On Wednesday, I wallowed, but not in sympathy of my feelings but in the shock of their lives.
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I've always wondered where I've gotten this wandering/writer inclination from. Up until now, I've forgot to look to my easiest source: my grandfather. He's an incredible man -- he went to prison with Gandhi, wrote countless books, worked as a lawyer (many times for free) even though he had nine kids to take care of, and the list could go on. About two weeks ago I decided to fore go the opportunity to work with the UN in Sarajevo to go back to the homeland. I thought about it for a long time, and while I felt like I was giving up an amazing opportunity, I really wanted to see India again. It's been five years since I've been and I have a feeling that this time I will take advantage of my time there. I am planning on writing for a newspaper, volunteering at an orphanage, visiting Pakistan/Kashmir (albeit the incredulity of my relatives), and taking Hindi classes to brush up my skills. I thought of my grandfather and how much I would like to see him, to talk to him about what I have been doing and progressively became intensely excited. The next day, I decided to call my parents to tell them of my decision, but my mom didn't sound like she really cared. I hung up the phone feeling as if I had made the worst mistake in the world, and while I was still kicking myself while watching Laguna Beach with Annie, Cam, and Heather, she called me back. "Khusbu, beta, uhhhhh...dadaji passed...uhh...yesterday.""Oh, ok. cool. I have to go now. Bye."Yeah, so I didn't manage to handle that so well, either, but strangely enough, I didn't react for about a week. The girls have been extremely supportive, telling me it was a coincidence, not some strange act of fate, that I made my decision on the same day. However, I think this is for the best because I am finally at a point where I can experience India from all perspectives and vantage points. Also, some friend(s) from Turkey might visit and being able to see them will be so exciting. I didn't realize how used to talking to them on a regular basis I am and how concrete we are in each others' lives. Although many of us just met a few months ago back in August, Selma went to see Bahadir off at the airport before he left for the states. They worked together for pretty much only a month, but knowing that they stay in touch, just as I do with the rest of them makes me happy. I sign onto MSN at home sometimes, but I can't type because my keyboard is completely messed up. I just want to see some of the familiar names, mostly. I fell asleep reading Kafka on the Shore last night at around 10 and I woke up late this morning at 9 to a barrage of messages. I love that Benan thinks of me when she has "boy problems" and that Noyan writes to me randomly just to say hi. My favorite was from Baris who,surprisingly, I haven't spoken to in a week or two, told me that they wrote Mr. Flower on Bahadir's farewell cake.
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Next week, I am going to Austria and Slovenia for the weekend. I feel that it would be pretty stupid not to go everywhere since I am in such a central location. So, we have trips planned to those places, a week-long trip to the Ukraine/Moldova/Romania, weekend plans for Croatia and Serbia, an adventure to Poland and the Czech Republic, and my personal favorite -- a solo trip to Sarajevo and Kosovo (which might be amended to include Selma!).
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Recently, I've been working on a case which involves a schizophrenic woman who has no past, speaks an number of languages, seems to be very educated, and makes allusions to a history which seems impossible. She is Jewish and from Israel but speak no Hebrew; instead she speaks Arabic, English, French, Russian, and German perfectly. I've spent a solid week feeling a litter bit like Nancy Drew trying to contact the people she has let slip from her memory.
I also feel like I've been cheating on Turkey a bit in the past few weeks. A number of asylum-seekers from the East of Turkey come to Hungary, and I have had to compile a report on the torture cases in violation of Article 3 of the European Convention on Human Rights in front of the ECtHR.
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I woke up this morning a little early for a Saturday and looked out my window to figure out what time it was and why the hell I was up so early. It took a few moments to register, but I caught the sight of freshly fallen snow and almost jumped off of my loft bed in all of the excitement. It's strange how it is finally snowing, when it was almost springtime-warm during Heather's visit just two weeks ago. We had a great time, and I cannot imagine not seeing her or everyone else for another few months. What I haven't told you is that I am thinking of going to Jordan for a year to work at a Center for Human Rights and learn Arabic. I think grad school can wait one more year for this kind of adventure. Yet, I am still unsure and part of me wants to go back home and work in NY while I apply this fall. I still have time, but it all seems to be going by so fast. Walking outside in the windswept city makes me feel at home. I don't know what it is, but the cold, wet nights in city centers make me feel most at home. I am really beginning to think that the world is smaller than it seems, and that nothing is as different as we make it out to be. I think of Ali, who has searched over continents to find a place that feels like home and who not given up yet. I think of Vijay, the Nepalese man, who has given up his long fight of hope of a safe home, and is regrettably giving up his new home to return to his daughters and wife. And then I think of myself, only 22, who has been lucky enough to find a handful of homes all over the world.
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