Abbas Khider - The Village Indian

On my first day in Rome, I met a Moroccan refugee who spent each night at the station. He showed me rectories, monasteries and other church institutions where I could have a shower and sometimes get food and pocket money. I stayed in Rome for a few weeks. I didn’t need much money there and I could move about freely.

I enjoyed my time there a lot — the broad streets, the old houses, the beautiful women. I strolled from one square to the next, then returned to the station. Walked through the town centre, looking at the old stones.

It rained one day and I felt an incredible desire to dance. Not because I was sad. No, not at all. Because I wanted to. And so I closed my eyes and danced. When I opened them again, I saw other people dancing round me. I stopped and began to applaud. I then went off, recalling Abba and Abd, the first people to dance with me in Baghdad. Abba wanted to be a philosopher, Abd a sociologist. We’d always wanted to dance in the rain in Rome. Why Rome? I don’t know. Each time things went badly for us or it was raining and the streets of Baghdad emptied, we’d head for al-Sade and dance. ‘Like Zorba the Greek!’ Abba would shout. ‘It’s as if we were in Rome!’ Abd would shout. We would dance until the rain dried up or our tears did. Abba and Abd stayed in Baghdad. Abba became a famous document forger and, later, the bodyguard of an Islamic leader. Abd a prison warder. I, though, danced in the rain in Rome. A refugee. A pigeon, lost and homeless.

The refugees at the main station told me that I had to go to the police and get a refugee ID that was valid for a fortnight. Within that fortnight, the refugee had to leave Italy. To get the ID, you had to spend a night at the police station. So I set out to look for the nicest central police station. I reached just as dusk was about to fall. The policemen fingerprinted and photographed me, then took me to a cell. They left the door open, though. I was the only prisoner. Finally, I could sleep in a clean room. In the days before, I’d either slept in the station building or in a tunnel with the homeless and the refugees.

That night, in my comfortable cell, I couldn’t sleep a wink. The guards were making a hellish noise with their night-time gambling and boozing. They got so drunk that one of them even came to my cell to take me with him. He found a chair for me, got me a bottle of beer and pressed a few cards into my hand. I hardly knew a word of Italian. And they had no Arabic. Their English, too, was so bad that it was no help at all. Nonetheless, we chatted all night and had a great time, laughing and roaring. I even began telling them something in Arabic. They laughed and laughed. We drank and danced as if we were somewhere else, not in a police station. By dawn, by about four maybe, we had totally lost control. No one knew what was going on.

Next morning, the men on the next shift arrived, gave me my ID and said in English, ‘Go!’

In Rome, I got a ticket and travelled to Bolzano, on the border between Italy and Austria. I spent a few days there, sleeping at the station, going to Caritas to eat and strolling through the town centre, watching the people shopping, talking, kissing. . Then, hidden in a train, I travelled one night to Germany and ended up in Munich. I didn’t want to stay there for long, though. The refugees at the main station in Rome had shared an interesting classification of the European countries. Britain, they said, was good for intellectuals as it had many different Arabic or Kurd newspapers, magazines, TV and radio channels and organizations. Sweden, they said, supported families, students and, again, intellectuals. Germany, on the other hand, was suitable for workers and people who wanted to save money. Germany was one big factory. Life in one big factory wasn’t for me. It was therefore my intention to travel through Germany and on, until Sweden. My journey was brought to a halt, though — by the German police.

‘I want to go to Sweden,’ the interpreter translated for me.

‘Why?’ the police official asked. ‘I want to go to Sweden.’

‘You’re here, illegally. You can’t continue to Sweden. I’m arresting you! Don’t you understand?’

‘I want to go to Sweden.’

‘You can apply for asylum, but only for here.’

‘I want to go to Sweden.’

‘We now have your fingerprints. They’ll be forwarded to all countries offering asylum. If you try to flee, you’ll be brought back to Germany.’

I was very sad at not being able to reach Sweden. What could I do, other than submit to my fate?

This, then, was where my journey ended. Truth be told, it didn’t end at all. It only took on new forms. The German authorities sent me from one asylum seekers’ home to the next. The first few days, I spent in a home near Ansbach, then in Bayreuth and then in Passau. When I’d finally been given a residence permit, I went to Munich. I wanted to look for work, to save up for a language course. For months, I ran from one authority to the next, seeking support. No luck. And it was almost impossible to finance that kind of thing from my own pocket — Munich’s an extremely expensive town.

Things were generally difficult in Germany, in this one big factory. I did some work as a cleaner and a labourer for a large number of agencies. It took me a while to begin to learn the language. I worked in the mornings, attended a course in the afternoons. My life was full of appointments and commitments. Yet that never-ending emptiness began to spread through me again. I tried everything possible — and impossible — to get my life back together but foundered, often, on the numerous paragraphs and bureaucratic rules under which Germany is buried. To me, this country was like a town hidden behind a wall. If you want in, you have to make a hole in the wall. The wall, though, is made of iron. It can take years to make that hole. And what do you find in the end?

Again and again, I tried to make a new beginning — inside the hole, in the wall or behind it, but. . The emptiness in this country’s forests and mountains was just as great and powerful as the one I’d encountered in the desert. I was gradually seeing how great and powerful the emptiness is that you may encounter wherever you go. It is so great and powerful, it takes away the air I breathe. My prayer came back to mind but for some reason I didn’t want to say it. And yet I haven’t forgotten my last great wish — to be granted asylum on some other planet. And, perhaps, to find my great-uncle Jabar there. .

I swear on all creatures, both visible and invisible that I have nine lives. Like a cat. No, no, twice as many. Cats would go green with envy. Miracles happen — in my life — always at the last minute. I believe in miracles. In those strange moments for which there is no other term. One of life’s secrets, as it were. These miracles have much in common with coincidences. But I can’t call them coincidences because a coincidence doesn’t happen many times over. A coincidence is just a coincidence, as lame as that might sound. You can talk about one big coincidence in life, two at most, but not more. So there are events that are miracles, not coincidences — that’s how I will put it, even if the logic isn’t exactly Aristotelian. I’m not a superstitious person, the supernatural and subterrestrial are not for me. In the course of my life I’ve developed, so to speak, my own religious persuasion, one made to measure for me. Absolutely individual. To this day, for instance, I worship tyres. Yes, car tyres! To me they’re not just a car’s feet but guardian angels. I know that doesn’t sound particularly intelligent, given that many people have lost their lives to car tyres. But car tyres can also save lives. And that is how the first miracle happened.