Dear brother, dear sister,
let me share with you my long and tiring experience, forgive me if I write with simple words put down in naked frustration. Let me share part of my story, so you know what kinds of life are possible for men to live. So you know of men who belong to no country, who have less rights than a dog in Europe, who haven't, since before 2014, known a peaceful night of sleep not invaded by the fiery missiles launched at our parent's home from a roaring F-16 fighter aircraft, chasing us through the cracked grey streets of our childhood memories.
I was one of the stateless in Belgium. A man, they told me, who belonged to no nation. Only GOD recognized me now.
On my long walk from Stoney Greece to Belgium, I was captured near München, Germany. The Army there seemed to be waiting for me and would not let me walk further, and although my feet ached and were swollen, my stomach was empty, my brain was hot and dizzy, although I was sore from my knees up to my shoulders, I wanted to continue walking to where my brother was residing in Belgium. But the Germans wouldn't let me continue. Instead of granting my request to keep walking, they insulted me for abandoning my home which was now so far away, and they forced me to give them my fingerprints before going into the custody of the German government.
„Coward, why did you not stay to fix the trouble in your homeland? Why do you bother us here?“ The German soldier looked as friendly as the snarling dog he kept chained by his side.
Trying to lift my head and look with some self-respect into the German's eyes, I spoke,
„Look, the only option in my homeland is violence. There are no jobs, even for someone with a degree...but I don't believe that violence is going to help my family, I don't believe in violence, my people, my...“
He pushed me forward before I could finish my explanation. It was obvious that he expected and heard no answer to his insult. I was just another oxygen thief causing him more paperwork. It seemed that probably his insult was standard, something he said to every face that he had to process. No explanation I could have given would have won his sympathy or recognition as a human being, someone with a story, with dreams, many broken dreams, a human being who desperately needed respect and hope, just like anyone else.
Far away in Belgium, my younger brother, whom I hadn't seen in many years, four years younger than I and more of the sensitive type than me, was worried waiting for any report of my location, or even my appearance in Belgium at any time. Now he would have to wait even longer than my sore feet could carry me to Belgium. But how long? A week? A month? A year? Five years? Who could say?
I remember when we were boys. He was always the patient one. The youngest of four proud brothers; he was both sensitive and fearless. How much I missed him. But I couldn't think about that now or the -swear word hidden- in the military transport would read the weakness in my face and probably smile. I couldn't bear that. I will be a statue for now, at least until I am alone again, then probably I will cry...I didn't make it to Belgium yet. What will I tell my mother?
Best answer by pdiffenderferView original