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| Some migrants on rafts on the shore (archive) |
By Lyra Goga*
I never want to go to the United Kingdom, I think to myself. “Mother, even if we get the chance to
visit the UK, we will not” I utter the words out loud, well aware that we would probably not be
granted a visa anyway. I read more comments from the British; the ordinary people, the
government officials, and the media. I am enraged. My momentary thoughts would bring them
happiness.
You see, I have a strong link to English culture. I have been an English major at university for
six years. Without a doubt, I am fonder and way more well-acquainted with their very own
writers than most of them are. I have lived with genius English writers. That is why I would wish
to step into this land, even if just to visit all the graveyards. Alas, I also happen to be Albanian.
An Albanian who is a Ph.D. candidate and spends most of her time either working on research
papers or writing fiction. Either way, in their eyes, I am nothing but a criminal.
The English people are known to be cold as ice, alright, thus it is understandable that they are not
overjoyed at these uninvited guests. And the number is not small. Like at all. Thousands of them
are passing the channels illegally. In this dull yet promising land. The elegant Brits are stunned
to meet these men, arriving all wet and in poor condition. Shame on them! Actually, since these
migrants are not European enough, they are called ‘male’ instead of ‘men’. Because you see, to
the pretentious Europeans, everyone else is a secondhand citizen.
These, as they call them, ‘male Albanian criminals’ are all stepping into this land, albeit illegally,
maybe for the first time. Despite this, the Brits welcome them with familiarity. They must be
drug dealers. That is why they came. Surely so! All 10,000 of them are the future criminals of
the world, ready to invade Great Britain. And not just them, we all are. I share the same
nationality, therefore, the red and black flag identifies us as criminals.
A few times ago I would have to introduce myself, but I no longer have to do that. You know, if I
decide to join my fellow invaders. Only, some people need to remain home and deal with
statistics and other stuff. The notorious criminals even invaded the entire streets of London,
dancing and singing at the top of their lungs. Uncivilized swine! That was the purpose, after all,
to reach this land, steal the people, and destroy the place. What else can one expect from
Albanian males and females, right?
Go back home, you damned Albanians. Nobody wants you there, or anywhere for that matter.
The media and everyone else are confused. They are coming from a free country, there is no
danger there. There is no risk of death, Albania is a democratic place. This makes no sense to
them. It rather annoys them.
Well, I get why they feel the way that they feel. I certainly don't justify its ugliness, but it makes
sense. I have met enough entitled white Europeans who are blinded by their privileges. They
naively believe that the world has the same opportunities that they do or that it doesn’t make
much change if they don’t. Awfully insensitive to the infinite struggles the people coming from
third-world countries have to deal with. On a daily bases. To be frank, I envy this lack of
understanding with my entire heart. To such a mindset, of course, that these ‘male Albanian
criminals’ are a nuisance and plain dumb for risking their lives for this little trip. To each their
own.
Albania is a free country, indeed. It was a free country even many, many years ago, one of my
old visits to the capital city. Keep in mind that not much has changed since then. I normally
remember little to nothing of such faraway trips, but the picture is scarily clear for this particular
one. Well, I was only a kid at the time, and we were walking the streets of Tirana. The buildings
were beautiful and I was amazed at the library near the main square. The sun was shining and my
little heart was smiling, I loved the place. Someone stopped our walk, wishing to sell us pens.
The little seller did not look more than six or seven, dressed in old racks, very small in size. He
showed us the pens, they had the red and black flag on them. The sun was almost blinding me as
my soft eyes were fixed on the misery drawn on his face. How poor, how awfully poor was this
little Albanian boy. Rudely, I do not wait for my parents to pay, I turn my head away.
Brokenhearted, they kindly say bye to him. I cannot look at that innocent face of poverty any
longer, that broken childhood. My parents show me the pen and my vision is now blurry. I was
not more than twelve at the time. Throughout the years, I get teary each time I think about him.
And he was only one of the many.
Another similar case was at the beach, in summer. It was an extremely hot day, I could barely
stand the heat even with swimming and standing under the umbrella. A young seller comes,
about nine or ten years old. It often happens that you see them, selling fruits at the beach. The
moment this boy passes, there are plenty of children his age playing around in the sand, others
splashing each other in the water. The little boy stops, not to sell anything, just to think. Older
than his years due to poverty he gets lost in contemplation. Then, he just keeps going. I later
write a story about him. In my story, he contemplates whether he should drown in the sea or not.
He keeps going, only there is little difference in his life if he dies once or daily.
And they were just two. You can still meet the likes of them today, all around Albania. All
around free and safe Albania. Is it really free if you fear starvation? Is it really safe if you have to
tell your children we are skipping meals today? Is it really free if you live in a forgotten wild
mountain, where even beasts do not visit? Is it really safe if children have to wander around
alone, so they afford some little bread? Is it safe if there are no jobs available, or finding one and
getting paid little to nothing?
These two boys might be over eighteen today. Young Albanian males. My two little boys, that is
what I wish to call them, are probably among the ones embarking on those little boats. Especially
my dear one from the beach, from his young years, at least as my fictional character, he did not
fear losing his life on the sea. There was nothing to lose. He had absolutely nothing. He would
either escape his native country, or he would die in the sea. The second was less scary than dying
in your country little by little. So, maybe they are uncomfortably holding to one another right
now, forcing their way to a foreign country. Their cheeks wet, wishing for a better life. I am
holding your hands, my boys...
Coming to the end of this story, I can only think about something that the Brits cannot even
imagine. Our strong bond to our families, to all our people. We consider all Albanians a big
family. Being abroad, my heart would break each time I heard Albanian. Because I know how
much it hurts for people like us to leave people behind. To roam alone in the world. And those
‘male Albanian criminals’ who happen to have the biggest hearts, would never pass this damned
Channel, would never abandon their families, if their loved ones being hungry and cold and
miserable and lost didn't scare them away.
Don't you think they also wish to go back to their countries? Hell, they would want nothing
more. Exile scratches the heart each second. Invaded for their entire history, not once did we
think to invade any other country. They risk their life, well, for life. And if that is a crime, be it.
But, I think that the idea that all nationalities are equal but some are more equal than others is a
bigger crime. Far bigger.
I still have the pen the little boy sold me. I keep it as a souvenir. In some other life, perhaps the
eagle will fly away from the pen, and the red will stop representing blood and the black will
lighten up. In some other life, perhaps people who were fed with a silver spoon will stop labeling
the ones who were not fed at all as criminals. Anyway, I now go back to plotting other killer
essays, as the female Albanian criminal that I am. Others can go on complaining about the
weather.*Lyra Goga is an emerging writer from Kosovo and a Ph.D. Candidate of literature at the University of Prishtina. She is the author of a personal blog, literarylyra.wordpress.com