The translator is travelling

- What does the translator do when checking in her luggage at the airport?
- She tells the guy behind the counter that she found a spelling error in the English version. And writes it down on a piece of paper as well, so they know how to correct it.

Marks of my birth

Tuesday morning, minus 2 degrees. The hairstyle doesn't keep at all.
It doesn't matter, though. I am sitting in the surgeon's office.

– Which birthmark do you want removed?
– Well, there is this big one on my back, and also I knocked it against the window frame, and a chunk came of as well, so definitely this one. Then there are these two, they are always rubbing against my pants. And these two on my shoulder.
– Well... I usually suggest 2-3 at a time, because it is a bit uncomfortable for the body, if it's too much at once.

I look at him.

– I have a sinus lift with osteoplasty and a dental implant on Thursday, so to be honest, I am not that scared by all this.

He smiles gently.

– Well, if you are sure... All right then, please undress.

(Undressing.)

– Oh, and this one from the side. It's the same now anyway, isn't it?
– Well, yeah, it is.

Betadine, anesthetic injections all around (based on the pain, I notice that my skin is very sensitive on my side). He cuts them off and out, stitches. There is no pain, but it is a very weird feeling to have your flesh cut and you not feeling it.

– You can come back on the second day of Easter so I can remove the stiches.
– Well... I am going back to Germany on April 1st, so I would like to come earlier.
– Well... you can come next Friday then. That's ten days, which is all right.

(During this time I also learned that parasitosis is still widespread in Romania compared to other European countries (and here comes that long medical word for it), because of the high number of shepherds, since this parasite infects humans through the sheep and the dogs.)

The night will be exciting, because I'll be able to sleep on my left only, since on my back and on the right side there are these wounds that feel like small needles. Since today, my mum calls me her little politraumatised baby. I wonder what she will say on Thursday.

Tones

It's half past seven in the morning, the alarm is ringing on the phone. The same tone that I carefully deleted from every single alarm setting, but apparently, I forgot about this one. Of course, since earlier this was not half past seven, but four o'clock in the morning. Earlier. Last time that was a year ago or so. I didn't change the settings since then, I didn't delete it, didn't touch it even. Then last night, being half asleep, I probably decided that it should really go away, we have no use for it, so let's change it to seven thirty. And I forgot about the ringtone.

So, it's half past seven, and that alarm is ringing. The alarm that woke us up when we had to get up at 4 am, because we had to catch a train to Bielefeld or Soest. Because there was something to take care of: interview, fingerprinting, monthly appearance, anything. The immigration office ringtone. Its called Fresh Air on the phone. Yeah, well, I basically jump out of bed, my heart is racing, oh my god, we'll be late, it's already seven, the train left before six, whom could I call quickly to explain that we are on our way, we are coming, we're not missing the appointment, we'll only be a bit late, but we'll be there, and we'll even spend the night on the street if there is no other way, you understand, right, we just don't want any trouble, no notes taken anywhere. My Eastern European reflexes only make it worse. I can barely catch my breath, let alone fresh air. Please put the laptop in the backpack, I'm telling A., we might have to spend the whole day there.

He hugs me. We're not going anywhere, it was only a bad dream. No more Bielefeld, nor Soest, nor Bad Sassendorf. It was the alarm ringtone.

I am changing the settings for this ringtone, and I can hear the coffee getting ready in the kitchen, the water boiling for the tea. I put on my slippers and go slowly to the toilet. We have time.

The day humanity was lost

„We have just concluded our discussion about migration and the need to help Italy manage the Central Mediterranean route. Leaders agreed to offer Prime Minister Gentiloni stronger support for Italy's work with the Libyan authorities. We have a real chance of closing the Central Mediterranean route. That is why we decided that Member States will provide sufficient finances for the North Africa window of the Trust Fund for Africa, while the Commission ensures that this money is channelled to stem illegal migration.” (source) Translation: 1. we'll pay off not only Turkey, but also Libya and other North African states (all of them well-functioning democracies where all human rights are guaranteed) 2. we'll stop talking about refugees and shift the focus on the word 'migration' and 'migrants', because it resonates better with the voters 3. also, the word 'illegal' will be used more often (see above) 4. this way white people don't have to watch anymore how others (who were not so lucky to be born white and European) drown, get killed, tortured, raped, thrown into slavery, sold off piece by piece as organs, or some combination of these This is a shameful, inhumane decision, with which the EU Member States and the EU institutions openly support torture, rape, and are willing to look away, pretending that this has nothing to do with decades of exploitation, warmongering and really bad politics on their side. There is no humanity here, only interests. Translation: fuck you all.

Everyday multiculturalism

Today in the phone store the salesperson was quite openly wondering how I could have a Romanian ID, when my skin is so _light_ (exact words). Because in her experience, Romanians have darker skin. And then she quickly added that it is true that they (Turkish) are also different: it depends if they come from the Eastern or Western part of the country. I was so confused for a second, that I could only mumble something among the lines that I am definitely a Caucasian.

Checklist for today (finished tasks)

-call the Amtsgericht (enquiry)
-fill the papers to be submitted to them
-ask Lawyer_1 to check the paper prior to submission to the Amtsgericht + thank him for his fast reply
-call the Bundesagentur für Arbeit (Integration Point), ask for an appointment (letter for the appointment will arrive in 2-3 weeks). No, this is not the jobcenter, but it somehow is. Don't ask me how it is, I don't know and don't care. 'Another authority' in my system, and that's it.
-call the bank pursuant to their letter (appointment on Thursday)
-modify personal data on the online banking site

Efficiency is my middle name.

When the last train starts moving

Joke

Two volunteers talking in Zákány:
- When did you arrive?
- Eight trains ago.

I am folding some smaller blankets, maybe the children will need them. Some of them are damp from all that rain. Would be nice to dry them somehow. There is a small area not far from the train station, it is surrounded by concrete pillars. Some rope, a knife and Norbi: the rest goes like clockwork. Blue and brown blankets drying under the weakened autumn sun. The only normal moment in this chaos.

After this we prepare the usual food packets. There is a lot of uncertainty in the air, whether they would really close the border. But for this time we focus on this train. Always on the train that comes next. The three Palestinian volunteers brought pizza and grilled chicken. I share mine with a medical student from Manchester who came to help for a few days. He visited Budapest and then came to the border. We grab the drumsticks. I am eating the meat in huge mouthfuls: I am hungry and in a hurry as well. I need the energy, but there is not much time, and I really don't have the patience to eat at all, I am only doing it for the energy. I want to work.

Rain starts falling slowly, like teardrops in the air. The blankets. We run and gather them. They didn't get wet and the rain stopped as well. The sun is setting. Orange, red, then lilac and pink, yellow and blue, in the end it's the dark sky. This is what we can give them to take away with the food. An amazing sunset. The train is there. The penultimate train. Food and water is already near the rails, we walk. The train is in reverse, we go forward and still in the same direction. And despite this I get the feeling that we are the ones who are in reverse. For them the only way is to go forward. Lots of people, also on the corridor. I am handing out the food as part of a routine, I know what to do. Germans came as well from Berlin, Bonn and Munich.

A bearded man leans out the window: water, baby, water. It takes me a few seconds to realise that this time the 'baby'... well, that's me. This is the easiest way to say it. Young guys try their luck with 'sweetheart', although my heart doesn't need to be softened anymore. They smile. Some are shy, some are more courageous. In other circumstances this could be called innocent flirting. Some wash their hands and faces with the water. I don't mind: it's theirs, they received it. And maybe this is the first act since days or weeks over which they have total control. At least some normality for that day: their hands and faces are clean. This could be an average family evening: washing hands and having dinner together. One of the volunteers brought plush animals – they put them into the baby packs. The Palestinians help hand out the formulas and the diapers. I will never forget that guy who walked along the train shouting 'bambers'. (There is no 'p' in Arabic, and it's easier to call diapers that way.)
My colleague tells me about a little baby of 30 days, she (he?) was gray. Probably from not eating, because she had a blanket. She gave her formulas. And then says out loud something which is there palpably in the air: I have no idea if she'll survive until they reach Hegyeshalom. We will never know.

There is no more water, and we go back for new ones in vain because the train starts moving when we get back. We hurried but it wasn't enough. We try to calm ourselves saying that it'll be enough until Hegyeshalom. People are waving. We wave back. They are shouting thank you. I wish I'd know why... Those measly cheese cubes, a few slices of bread, a muesli bar, an apple and a bottle of water? Because we smiled at them? They go into the unknown and we will never know what happened to them, we only have hope. And then the uncertainty. Will there be a next train before midnight? 'We are parts of a historic moment', says A. with a sad smile. My shoes killed my feet, I have blisters all over. I wear them since 12 hours already, but I don't feel any pain anymore.

We are standing there in the historic moment near the rails, the train already left, her eyes are filled with tears. I dare not look at her, I dare not hug her, although I feel that she would welcome it. I am a coward, I dare not move. I feel like I have to be strong for her as well. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe I missed an opportunity to comfort someone. I regret it in a few minutes and I ask for her forgiveness in my mind. I sigh, I shake myself and I start to gather the carrier bags without saying anything. Maybe we will need them. Maybe there will be another train.

The other ones are talking standing before the tent. We don't know a thing and it's already 8.30 p.m. If there is going to be a new train at midnight, we have to start making new food packs. I take 20 minutes of me-time. I go to the car and eat something. I go to the toilet at the train station. I am washing my hands when a young soldier comes in. He blushes, says sorry. He cannot be older than 22, he doesn't even have a real beard. As I look at the other policemen and the soldiers standing there, I suddenly feel very old. They are children compared to me. Who did think that they should do this? Entirely unprepared from a psychological point of view. Me-time is over.

There are lots of volunteers still standing outside the tent. The Germans have no more food, but they offer their help in packing. There will be another train. A last one. Someone says that it is rumoured that the border will be closed exactly at midnight, and if the families are separated then they will be separated. We hope that this is only for show, but we decide that should this happen, we will rally before the train. Or in place of the barbed wire. Anywhere. The Mad Max carriage is already in the station, it's near me. If I would extend my hand I could touch it. I dare not. Not even photograph it. I suddenly feel fear. I don't know how... maybe it was my refugee grandmother from WWII from whom I inherited this animal-deep dread of the barbed wire.

We are packing the new portions. A thick slice of bread, 2 cubes of cheese, a muesli bar, an apple, a small milk. We are running out of bags so we decide double the portion and then people share it on the train. The apples were in the rain, they are a bit muddy. There is no time to wash them, only to clean them. There is no towel at hand, and no time to find any. We have maternity pads, they cannot be handed out by piece anyway. I open a package and give one to the British guy, who doesn't realise at first what it is, and wants to open it. I start to giggle. Then I explain to him what he is holding in his hands. He gets a bit embarrased, then starts laughing. We are in an absurd situation with absurd solutions. The Germans come to help as well. I ask the Australian ecobuilding expert to hand me the knife, I start to cut the bread. I try to relax by cutting. We pack in silence. Sometimes someone starts to talk, then we talk. The press conference is taking place only a few meters from the tent. Someone comes into the tent to tell us to be silent because we disturb the press conference. Someone starts a forced laugh. Loudly. To make them hear. At least this.

Meanwhile the train comes in. The last one. We start bringing the food near the railroad tracks. The cameras are still there, we are in the background of the speaker. As if we would have agreed upon it: we carry the food and the water (18 l/person) in slow motion. In silence. Not to disturb, no. But to make them see at least. I hear someone saying 'this is the most humane...'
Yeah, bullshit – the words just come out of me loudly. That's all for today's political activism, the rest of my energy needs to go elsewhere. 18 liters of water are really heavy, my hands are full of blisters ('I told you to bring gloves' – I can hear the concerned voice in my head), and it needs to be carried far, on a muddy road.

They start to load the train. 'One line, one line, fuck it. Please, one line' – the police is nervous and polite at the same time, but mostly tired and tense. This is the last train, they tell themselves. A children are completely silent, they just bear it. They proceed slowly with their parents. Strictly in one line. A little girl sits on a bag, resigned, not a word. There is a policeman beside her. I ask him what's wrong with the girl and if I could help. She lost her family. They are here somewhere. Maybe. But there comes an Arabic interpreter so I go on. We look for a 9 month pregnant woman, she could go into delivery anytime. We bring her a wheelchair. An old lady needs one too. She sits down, thanking her God in Arabic, alhamdulillah, looking at the starry sky, then at us, she grabs my hand. The others look for the pregnant woman with another wheelchair. There is a child who cannot get on the train, so I lift her. A soldier helps her mother.

People are muddy, exhausted, and weary. The mud is high as the calf in some places, a child doesn't have any shoes. Someone runs off to bring socks and a pair of shoes. There is no time for pity and to be moved, urgent help is needed, and then to look for new people to help. I ask one of the soldiers how long we have until they load the train. An hour for certain, he says. So we get a few more bottles of water and some food packs as well. Lots of children, we need more baby packs. The train is loaded, the doors are closed, the train starts to reverse. We're walking. Sometimes I start jogging, although it is sure that I will not miss this train. The feeling to get on it and not to stop until I reach Germany is growing strong inside me. I feel something warm pouring down my feet. My shoe must have scraped a fresh wound.

We distribute. There is a 6 year old boy in the window, just standing there, looking at us. I offer him a food pack, but he refuses politely. He shows me with gestures that he already ate and then points at the other carriages, telling me to take the food there. 'Are you sure you don't want any? There is chocolate in it' – I say smiling and my nephew comes to mind. There is nothing common in those two, except the fact that they are both children and that they love sweets. The word 'chocolate' makes him unsure, but he still doesn't know what he should answer. He looks behind him with a question on his face. I hand him the pack again: 'take it, it's yours'. He leans out the window and takes it. I have a sesame snap in my pocket as well. Wanted to eat it as a snack, but I forgot about it. I give him that as well. The policemen are not rushing anybody anymore, we practically walk calmly along the train. And then this train starts moving as well. The last one. Around 1.47 a.m.

No more, it's over. And we stand there, empty bags in our hands again, worried and exhausted. And yes, suddenly without a task. Although this is an illusion, since the only thing that happened is that there are no more tasks in Zákány. There are tasks someplace else, in places even more difficult to reach. I am ashamed and proud at the same time. I am standing there with those empty bags, feeling empty inside. No need to rush anymore, no more food packs to be made. I could stand here till kingdom come. I could even cry, but I have no tears. No more. Or not yet. I feel there is a crust around me. I stink from sweat, I am muddy, my hair is damp from the rain, my socks dried into the wound on my foot. I am standing in the middle of the mud, talking on the phone, trying to explain in an incoherent way what just happened. I am clinging to the voice from the other side. I try to get myself together, but I only feel immense fatigue, I am at a loss for words. I still continue to talk, because inside I am terrified that if I stop talking I won't be able to speak anymore. The stars are sparkling up above. Cold and away. The only connection to other people. I hope that many of them watch the sky tonight.

In a few hours I am in Budapest, in another world, too beautiful to be true. The Western Railway Station is literally civilised. For instance, there is a platform and no mud. Buffet. It's a strange feeling that there are no policemen or soldiers with a handgun. I buy the ticket partly asleep, I get on the train, arrive home at around 6.30 a.m. Shower, bed. I sleep for four hours. I am ridden by remorse.

I need to rest.

Zákány – train station at the end of the world

Zákány. Train station at the end of the world. A small building: policemen, soldiers, border patrol. They have a small table with coffee, tea, some biscuits on it. On the floor there is a cooking pot with the lid on it, that is the warm food provided to them. Deplorable is the first word that comes to mind. One toilet for everyone to use, but it's clean.

The volunteers have some sort of truck, it continues in a tent. Thin walls. If the wind is blowing really hard (and it is, all the time), it is cold in the inside as well. A heater is much needed. The day before yesterday the wind just blew it away, the food and the boxes got wet, the bags were dirty... There is a small table inside the tent, we sort the food on it, making food packages. In this damp weather the rubber gloves got also wet. It's pure heaven to put on wet rubber gloves. You should try it sometime.

The rain is pouring continuously, I have no waterproof pants. So when I leave the tent they become soaking wet in five minutes. Mud till your ankles everywhere. And this is still okay, since in Presevo at the Serbian-Macedonian border people are literally standing in knee-high water, waiting to get on the train. When they get here they are immediately transferred to another train. And then the waiting begins. It can last several hours.

After that the train is pulled to a different track, which is longer away from the tent. No idea why. First we put the water bottles on the ground, a pack every 10 meters. The boys pull some wagon filled with water. Then the food packages in big IKEA bags. There are separate baby packages as well (two diapers, a banana, baby food). I am one of the two volunteers distributing baby packages. Some are trying to lift the bags before the tent. They are heavy. I am strong – I say – I can take one. Really? Let's see. I lift it. It's heavy, but I can carry it. Great, here we go.

They pull the train to the track. If it is not pulled exactly where they usually do, we pick up everything in a hurry and start to run. No platform here, only wet grass, mud, some rocks. One bag on one shoulder, another on the other one, it always tries to slip. And you walk in the mud near the train. No, you don't walk. You run. You glide, you slide, balancing the stuff you carry. People are leaning out the narrow windows as low as they can. They're saying 'food, water, baby.' And then you give them packages. You are literally standing on tiptoe, because your height is a measly 163 cm, the windows are high, everything is fucking slippery, and your jeans are muddy, but that's the least of your cares right now. Not because of your clothes. It's time you don't have enough of. Your hood falls to your back, your hair gets wet immediately, the rain is almost piercing your face, the wind is blowing you away, and your XL visibility vest looks on you like a saddle on a sow. And in this situation turned inside out you suddenly start guffawing, because you remember someone worrying for you, since you'll be among lots of men and who knows about their dirty thoughts. And you realise that if there is a person there who gets a turn-on because of this look, well, they actually deserve it. The thought is there for only a split second, until you get from one window to another and grab another packet from your bag. Then you run again because you still have 16 carriages (approx. 80 people in a carriage). The first four are served by the Hungarian Red Cross. They come in, give people the packages, camera rolls, showing that everything is okay on the border and then they leave. The rest is the job of the volunteers, who have no media coverage, no state financing, who practically don't even exist. No time to say fuck the system, you need to  distribute, people are hungry.

You hear a baby crying – that is good because then you can give them a baby package. And hurrying on you hope that both parents are there, not just the brother of 15, and who knows where the parents are because they couldn't get on the train. Or they drowned. People hold out their arms asking for the packages and you ask them to show you the baby. Show baby. You imitate the size of an infant and then at your eyes. Because the poor bastards are lying as well, just to get something. Because they are herded like animals from one country to another and learned quickly that those who don't fight, die.

Show baby here. To me. No grammarly subtilities. Pampers, you tell the 14-year old. You don't need that, son, trust me. He is grinning, he really doesn't. You cannot get on the train, they cannot get off. You have 8 to 10 minutes, then it's over. A policeman comes and tells you to stop distributing. I have two more packages, I hand them out quickly. He seems angry, even says something, but he looks like someone who has to put on an angry face.

The policemen and the soldiers look all apathetic, tired, tense. But they help me carry the 12 liters of water. When I first go inside the building, they show me to the toilet, they let me go ahead, since after all: I am a woman and manners maketh man.* Peeing with automatic weapon escort. We make jokes after that with a girl that next time we will pick our own suite. In 90 minutes I ask again if I could use the toilet. Naturally, I need someone to escort me. They don't mind. At least something happens.

One of them is chatting on facebook and when I greet him with a smile, he smiles back surprised and says hello. He's 23 max. They're young, some of them quite the lookers. Maybe they think of the volunteers as a bit crazy. They try to put on a grim and serious face while they don't have even wrinkles on their faces, not to mention the missing beards. Beanpoles, all of them, they could be my little brothers – I feel my heart softening. There are no chairs or beds inside. The whole place is no bigger than a regular 3-room apartment. There are the stairs, you can sit there if you are really tired. They are also soaking wet from the rain. Sometimes they look at me suspiciously and then they open the door for me. It is surreal. I ask one of them if he has a dry set of pants, mine are wet. I'd like to stay for the night but in these clothes it's really risky. He looks at me, maybe even thinks that the woman standing in front of him is mad. What the hell would this woman of 55 kg want from a 180 cm athletic guy. And then he shows me his pants, those are wet as well, he doesn't have any dry ones. You are both smiling.

After the train leaves you inspect what you have left. You try to get new food. You get some air, drink something warm, go to pee (escort), wash your hands and start making packages again and wait for the next train to come. There are trains during the night as well, sometimes even 3 or 4 of them. Few volunteers and even less food.

On the way home in the car you get off your wet and muddy pants, you cover your white, cold thighs with a shawl and you are already writing a list of what you have to buy: rain pants, hiking boots or rubber boots (I had waterproof shoes but it would be a waste to use them there), a separate hood, hiking underwear. You need to get your thermoleggings out of the closet, try on your skiing pants which you use for biking in winter, cap AND a shawl to make a turban, warmer shawl, gloves, waterproof backpack. And another set of dry clothes, just in case. You already know what to write in the e-mail to your friends when you ask them for help, you just need your computer back at home to write a text in Hungarian and in English. You really try to hold your tears when you talk about your day in the phone. You fail. Although you are strong, because baudolinA is tough as old boots, everybody knows that.

You arrive back home to a warm appartment. To a bathtub of hot water, normal food, tea, people who love you, financial stability, fresh clothes. Bed. You weren't herded for days, you were never even near mortal danger, no-one stripped you from the last morsels of your dignity. You didn't have to give up your pride completely in order to be grateful to people whom you see for 2 minutes in your whole life for the first and last time on a cold and rainy day somewhere even god has forgotten about, and to whom your only connection is an encouraging smile and 5 seconds while you touch each others hands on a dirty sandwich bag.

*Word-for-word translation from Hungarian: a gentleman is a gentleman even in hell.