On the way to the Sistine Chapel in Rome recently I met a young guy from Syria. An asylum seeker. His story emerged as we talked, tried to communicate. Only much later I pieced together in my mind things that were unsaid. I won’t talk about “the plight” of refugees, a despicable expression that can only evoke pity than than compassion and solidarity. I just want to paint you a picture of one man, one family in a desperate situation at a precarious time; during the covid pandemic and a climate emergency.
I say young, he could have been maybe thirty. Really hot day, navigation isn’t exactly my forte yet found the entrance to the Termini Metro easily, paused thinking, “That wasn’t too bad, so far so good.”
At this point I noticed him, crouched on the ground. He wore a tee-shirt streaked with dirt, pulled halfway up his back. He had his head in his arms, hands clasped at the back of his head, rocking on his heels. I noticed an old man and woman close by; sleeping bags, cardboard, carrier bags.
I spoke to the old guy, something like, “E tutto bene con lui?” Is everything ok with him? His reply, unintelligible to me. Tried Spanish, only to result in another unintelligible reply. Reached in my bag, took out a bottle of water and placed it near this young man and stepped back to a Covid safe distance. We were all unmasked, at this point masks were only required on public transport.
Some meaning was comprehended. Then both the old man and the young one said something simultaneously. Both equally unintelligible to me. Shook my head, shrugged. Then, suddenly, the young one leapt up, span around, beaming, pointed at me, pointed at the sky, saying, “De deus, de DEUS!” Meaning, I assume, “From god”, from either the French or Portuguese. As we might colloquially call, “a godsend” or say, “You’re an angel.”
With him standing now, we fell into a halting conversation; gestures, pulling words from all sorts of languages. He seemed to be asking where I was from. Once I said London we tried to communicate in English. “Three times I come here,” he said. I took that to mean two times he had been deported. “Where from?” I asked, his answer baffled me. He reeled off a list of what I took to be place names, the only ones I recognised were Lesbos and Aleppo, that came last.
Only then I realised he was listing the names of places on his journey here in reverse. A journey so many have made since dictator Assad’s counter revolutionary push against the Syrian Arab Spring, a war of attrition against the Syrian people. Assad’s father, a former dictator for twenty-nine years, was a killer too, ruthless, both cosy with U.K. government’s.
Citizen journalism image. Jabal Bedro, Aleppo, Syria, 2013 (AP Photo/Aleppo Media Center AMC)
The man’s accent in English was strong too but intelligible. At some point he told me his name, pointed to his chest, said, “IT engineer.” I told him my name, didn’t say, poet! Shame, they love poets in the Middle East, more, they respect them, pay them! Surely he would have understood “Poeta.” We continued to struggle to communicate. At some point he showed me a patch of baldness on the side of his head, caused by the stress of it all presumably. “You need vitamins!” I said. (I’d seen the same thing on the heads of children in a poor Mexican village.)
“Eh.” he replied
“Fruit! Frutta, domani, I bring qui domani, okay!”
He made the peace/victory sign. Smiled and I hastened off. I had a timed ticket to get into the gallery and I know how long it can take me. It took me about twenty minutes to work out the ticket machine! Had to ask for help when it swallowed my money.
When I got to the Vatican bought more water, offering the guy a 20€ note. “Cambio?” He asks. Change? I replied, “La machina en metro mangiato,” The machine in the metro ate it. Wondering where this sudden grasp of the language was coming from. Another customer, laughing commented, “Come sempre!” Like always.
The next day I was leaving for a yoga retreat. In the morning went to the supermarket, bought peaches, pears, bananas, grapes and a few of bottles of spring water with vitamins. There was a dilemma; if I take it all straight to the metro will I have time to come back and get my stuff? So I lugged everything down together.
When I got back to the Termini, the old man was there, the old woman, no sign of this young man. I put the bags down next to them. What I wanted to say was “Please say hello and goodbye for me to your friend,” Way too many prepositions! So throw in; hola/ciao, (hello) otro/ altro, (other) tu amigo/amici, gesturing wildly. I still wasn’t sure if they were fellow asylum seekers or homeless locals. Probably the former from the language. Then the guy appeared, bounced towards me with such a big smile and joy washed over me. I point towards the bags, said, “Frutta, acqua.”
We “talked” again for a while, not sure how, couldn’t understand each other well. My Arabic all but lost due to neglect. Though I’d thought if I try a word in Arabic, he might reply in Arabic and I won’t understand a thing. Never heard a Syrian accent before, guttural. Like trying to understand a Glaswegian. Eventually he said, “You leave?” pointing to my bag. I nodded.
Just really wanted to give him a big hug to be honest but covid separates people! I put my hands in the prayer position, dipped my head towards him and the others, indicating namaste, an expression exchanged when meeting or parting that means my higher self bows to/greets your higher self. That I used to say as far as I’m concerned we are equals.
Then reluctantly had to go, try and navigate the metro again and catch a bus. Hopping on with literally minutes to spare after having a covid temperature check. Method: the guy sneaks up besides me while I’m looking the other way, his arm outstretched, holds a device near my forehead. Moves on. No per favore, no grazie. Sat on that bus hoping, really hoping, they had understood that last gesture.
Left wondering just how many people there are like this young man, adrift, grappling with a second or third language. Sleeping in the dust in European cities perhaps alongside local people experiencing homelessness, at the time of the pandemic, during the climate emergency.
Men with the ability, determination and courage to cross continents on foot while I struggle to make a journey across a city by metro, subway, tube. While I can go to a safe home. While I can be home in hours from Europe, while their journeys on foot take weeks and months. Risking life to reach what they hope are safe shores. People with such potential, hopes and dreams. Longing to see again a familiar face, longing to hear their mother tongue.
Aleppo 2016 © AFP
It’s worth noting since “begging”, despise that word too, is illegal in Italy, and despite Berlusconi, Salvini and the hostile environment for refugees there. Given all that the carrier bags I’d noticed the first day, I reflected much later, must have been donations, the only way people in this situation, can survive must be through these donations and solidarity.
Now looking back, especially at this time of year, I can’t help wishing I had, like a friend of mine visiting the Jungle in Calais, gave him my phone number and said if you make it, get in touch.
Now I wonder if those were his parents, that he was looking after them. Both young and old man spoke with the same guttural accent. Imagine that; the young one, the strong one, the one with a second or third language, the one with the qualifications and training, the one looking after you is possibly unwell. Imagine having to witness your hope rocking on his heels like that. Imagine the despair.
That other lad from the Jungle did make it and stayed with my friend for many months and is doing well, while my friend jokes, “Didn’t want kids, now I have a son.”
I’m not going to go into it here, what is, in my opinion, the atrocity that is the hostile environment here, the lack of safe routes, the demonising of asylum seekers, not now. Just asking you to recognise the humanity of others, our common humanity, something I feel our government fails so appallingly to do.
A blog post by Anne Enith Cooper
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