Kahel Kaschmiri | Foto © Rottkay

My Last Summer in Afghanistan

Kahel Kaschmiri

Ghazni, Afghanistan

 

…was hot; the rays of the sun burned so much
that I could barely work.
But is it possible not to work?
Not working means to go hungry and live on the street.
Where would my family and I have found shelter?
I sprinkled water on my face, put on a thin white shirt, and went to the bazaar to attend to the customers at the shop.

In Berlin, on the other hand, I didn’t even notice the summer. It was almost always cold. Only a few days were hot. And on those days, everyone walked in the streets naked. Or lay in the parks. Or went swimming. And I was astonished - how could it be that they nakedly walked in the streets or lay in the park and still found something to eat in the evening?

But the summer in Afghanistan was not just hot.
It hurt. There was the suffering of my mother. The poverty and desperation of my father. The hopelessness of my sister, forced to shield herself from greedy stares by covering herself from head to toe. In the end, she was married off, although she is younger than me. And now she already has a son. I ask myself, is that her son - or is it her doll?

During my last summer in Afghanistan, an armed motorcyclist shot a policeman on my way to work. He fled. The policeman had just been married. It was the beginning of his life. All he wanted was to do his job and earn money.
He died within a second.
By the time the police came, he had already parted from this world.

Do you want me to tell you more about my last summer in Afghanistan?

I loved riding my motorcycle, roaming around and speeding up.The air was blowing in my face and the sun was shining and I opened the throttle. I was only thinking of Ghazni’s beautiful nature as I accelerated.
Suddenly, a car overtook me. It was driving slowly. The driver gave me a sign. Stop!
I was afraid. I stepped on the gas and fled. I called my cousin: I shouted: “Open the gate, there are people following me. They want to kidnap me.”
It was the ones who are after pretty boys.
At incredible speed, I flew in his direction, towards his house. He opened the gate and I burst in. I took a deep breath and thanked God.

Do you want me to tell you more about my last summer in Afghanistan?

After a year away from home, I was relieved to finally have a place to stay, a room just for me. Four walls to myself, and a key for a door, which I could dispose of as I wished.
I sighed, opened the door, and fell asleep from exhaustion.
My eyes were not quite closed yet when a door opened and I felt the heavy presence of someone. I kept my eyes closed, the blanket over my face.
Suddenly I felt the heaviness of his body on my body, and I broke out in a sweat. I began to shiver.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
I heard the being say: What are you doing here and why did you come here?
I began to scream so loudly that I woke up from the sound.

He was gone and I asked myself, who might it have been?

 

Brief portrait Kahel Kaschmiri

Michael Krasnov answered to this Text with »My last Summer in Berlin«.
Mahdi Hashemi | Foto © Rottkay

Like An Arrow

Mahdi Hashemi

Ghazni, Afghanistan, raised in Iran

 

It took a month: the trip
That wasn’t a trip at all,
But rather a horror
Towards the land of hope.

Now I am waiting for a paper
That may contain bitterness and grief.
And I feel like an arrow.
Released.
Which should return
To its bow.

Brief portrait Mahdi Hashemi

Mohamad Mashghdost | Foto © Rottkay

Beginning of life

Mohamad Mashghdost

Bandar Anzali, Iran



The beginning of life was
That I did not exist.

There was a mother.
She was my God.

It was an unrequited love.
There was a father.
He was never there.

The body came to rest
But not the mind.
I was without solace.

The sister wanted to be a mother to me.
But she was tired.
I loved the mother.
She died.

I wanted to leave
And I stayed.
I wanted to stay
And I left.

Leaving was not important
And neither was staying.
I was important,
I, who did not exist.

 

Brief portrait Mohamad Mashghdost

Here and There

Salah Ali Ngab

Tripoli, Libya

 

Between here and there
There is no difference
Believe me, humans are humans

In my country
The nationalists fill the streets with hate speech
And here – sixty, seventy or eighty years ago –
The nationalists filled the streets with hate speech
There, everyone hates the Jews
And the neighbours
And dark-skinned people
And the prematurely born
Here too – sixty, seventy or eighty years ago –
Everyone hated the Jews
And the neighbours
And dark-skinned people
And the prematurely born

There, neighbours destroy whole cities
Thousands die and everyone fights everyone else
On the holy ruins and at the doors of hospitals
To rule the world
Or what remains of it
They are the best nation on earth, thanks to the chance of where they were born
And a little bit because of oil and because of an inheritance,
Half of which is holy, and the other half of which is built from daydreams
Here too – sixty, seventy or eighty years ago –
Neighbours destroyed whole cities
Thousands died and everyone fought everyone else
On the holy ruins and at the doors of hospitals
To rule the world
Or what remained of it
They are the best nation on earth, thanks to the chance of where they were born
And a little bit because of oil and because of an inheritance,
Half of which is holy, and the other half of which is built out of daydreams

There, children dream of victory for the national football team
And girls dream of the day when they may fly
Without surveillance by the beard of their younger brother
Or of a religious leader, surrounded by fatwas of prohibitions and bans
But here, children celebrate the victory of the national team
And the girls fly between continents
In search of a different life
Without surveillance by the beard of their younger brother
Or of a religious leader, surrounded by fatwas of prohibitions and bans

And that is the difference between here and there
Believe me, my friend
Only sixty, seventy or eighty years

 

Salah Ali Ngab (37)

comes from Tripoli in Libya. A publicist, researcher and human-rights activist, he has devoted himself to criticism of fundamentalist extremism and religious hate speech. He founded, among other publications, the arts magazine Armat, which means “justice” – but this, according to Salah, has never existed in Libya. It did not exist under Muammar al-Gaddafi and does not exist at all today. In consequence of his studies on fundamentalist religious thought and his membership of the Libyan Liberal Democracy Forum he was threatened by the Ansar al-Sharia group. The Democracy Forum had to close as a result of threats to murder its members. Salah’s readings to enlighten audiences about Islamic scriptures led to his persecution during Gaddafi’s regime. He was prosecuted for libel, blasphemy, heresy and atheism. He was listed as a “dangerous political activist” by various Arab government organisations and was arrested at airports several times.
Finally, in October 2014, armed militiamen of the Muslim Brotherhood abducted him on the street. He was beaten and threatened with death. Salah owes his life to influential friends who worked for his release. For him and his acquaintances, he says, there is no longer room in Libya; he is surrounded by enemies. In 2015 Salah succeeded in fleeing to Tunisia and then to Germany through an invitation to the Open Eye Award of the German foundation MiCt (Media in Cooperation and Transition) thanks to his work as a journalist. In the same year he applied for political asylum in Germany.
Today Salah lives in Düsseldorf with his wife and two daughters.
Amira Gudegast | Foto © Rottkay

The Germans

Amira Gudegast

Berlin, Germany

The Germans are punctual, orderly and reliable.
They work for society.
They work a lot and with pleasure.
That gives them strength.
They are open and direct.
Germans accept a lot,
but they also demand
what they think they have earned.
Their money, their liberty, their tradition.

For my mother, being German meant
being able to separate yourself from the family,
weighing out the food for guests
and going to work on time
the day after your mother’s death.

But I
see the Germans differently.
Germans do much for the common good,
even if their own families first have to wait.
The Germans are not frugal.
They just don’t want to waste anything.
And Germans don’t love less.
They simply grieve differently.
They are not only the ones
who were born here,
but everyone
who is pleased to be here.

 

Amira Gudegast (17),

the daughter of an Arab family, grew up in Germany. As her father died young and her mother cannot take care of her adequately, Amira lives in a charity-run home in Berlin-Wilmersdorf. Later she would like to be a nursery teacher.
Samiullah Rasouli | Foto @ Rottkay

Women

Samiullah Rasouli

Ghazni, Afghanistan

 

When I say women, I mean real women,
Those with eyebrows, real noses, and shoulders.
Who belong only to themselves from the beginning,
Who are not selfish but proud of their gifts,
Who love themselves in their simplicity,
And want to be only themselves
And not resemble another.
These are the women I mean when I say women.

The light in her gaze is like the scent of Kobeko*
Her tender hand is incomparably precious.
Her wisdom shines forth from beneath her make-up.
She walks with beauty in public.
The watering mouths of the gawkers do not bother her.
The self-confident, strong woman pursues her gifts and talents.

Some women stay at home, they dissolve
And turn to water.
And the ones who go out turn to bread and food.
And when I say women, I mean these women.

*Perfume named “Mountain to Mountain”
Samiullah Rasouli | Foto © Rottkay

Samiullah Rasouli (*1999)

Samiullah Rasouli grew up in Ghazni, Afghanistan. The region is highly contested today. His father died four years ago. Samiullah was on the run for four weeks. Now he has begun training as a trade merchant. His poems are about love and longing for his father. Photo © Rottkay

Headscarf

Sarah Safi

Kapisa, Afghanistan

 

I thought you could fulfil your wishes in Germany
No barriers would be put in your way if you really want something
I thought I could take my future into my own hands here

It is not like that at all
There are many distinctions here
Between Germans and refugees
Between a Turk, an Arab, a Russian and a Rumanian

Every other person in the supermarket can go shopping quite “normally”
But I, in this crowd,
Am the difference for them
All sorts of people are there
But the security staff
Lurk behind my back

Why always me?
Because of my headscarf
Because I am a Muslima
Can’t they put themselves in my place?
How bad it feels when you are treated like this
What taunts I face from their children
When the adults behave like that

You walk along the street normally
And they barge you away with their shoulders
As they walk past you

You are in the subway
All sorts of people are there
When the ticket inspector comes
You are the first person that he checks

How am I supposed to feel then?
Like a free human being?
Like a strong woman?

Sometimes I think I have lost my way
My entire confidence in myself

 

Sarah Safi (17)

has been in Germany since 2017. She fled to Germany alone, coming to Berlin by air from Greece. Her family, too, has been in Germany since summer 2018. She attends the Peter Ustinov School.
Ali Alzaeem | Foto © Rottkay

Don’t Mention Me

Ali Alzaeem

Idlib, Syria

Don’t write
That I am a refugee
I came to you with a life jacket
Without a suitcase
Don’t mention me on the streets of Anatolia
Or in the Greek houses
Don’t record with my registration
That I am the best letter of your alphabet
Don’t speak to me in the language of princes
Because I am a shepherd, who knows the valleys
And the wolves fear me
Don’t give me a passport
That embarrasses the airport
Or geography lessons
To teach us that oil streams from the ground in our land
Don’t write my name in newspapers
Or on the doors at the events:
What showing-off would that be
Don’t regard my homeland with the eyes of a compassionate journalist
Or in the sympathetic embrace of a woman passing by
Don’t read my poem, read my story
Don’t comment
Move on to your drinks
For I have a long night ahead
Thinking of the olive days

 

Ali Alzaeem (19)

comes from a village in Idlib. He had a pleasant childhood as a shepherd, schoolboy and footballer. In summer 2015 he came to Germany. He likes to act and write poetry. He is extremely interested in politics and economics, which make him both annoyed and addicted. He attends the Elinor Ostrom School.
Mohamad Mashghdost | Foto © Rottkay

Homeland

Mohamad Mashghdost

Bandar Anzali, Iran

 

I’ve left my home, my heart.
Now it is like sleep and dream
And burns in the depths of my body.
The weeping mother has sent me forth.

The troubles are over, I said.
I packed and went on my way.
Body and soul I left to the ocean,
God, I still exist, thank you.

May God curse the sea that devours bodies.
Prayer and love for my sister helped me arrive.
But my eyes have seen the colors of despair.

 

Brief portrait Mohamad Mashghdost

The Apple

Alan Halo

Shingal, Iraq

 

I see a large garden
Vegetables and fruit everywhere
And my mother at its centre
She is planting a new apple tree
I see how the apple tree grows
With only one apple
My mother forbids us
To touch the apple
She defends the only apple

I hear my aunt at the door
Her pink scarf covers her bald head
She looks around in the garden
And finds the only apple on the tree
She goes to it, looks, pulls the branch towards her
And picks the only apple
We children grin and say
“Be kana u nha tue sanbe kan jea”
“She’s laughing now, but in a moment she is in for something”
Everyone looks at my mother
And at my aunt
And what happens is

Nothing at all

Shortly afterwards, the war came
We ran away
Into the mountains, across the mountains on foot
People lost their lives before my eyes
And left their children behind

Everything is gone, home is gone
The garden is so far away
My aunt has died
She left four small children

When I see a garden or an apple
I think of her

 

Alan Halo (15)

was born in Shingal in Iraq. When war broke out, he and his family fled on foot and by boat to Germany. At first he lived with his uncle and two brothers in a camp in Germany. Only after a year were his parents and other siblings allowed to come from Turkey. Now the family is reunited in a house in Oldenburg, but their future is unclear.

I’d Like to Say You Are Multi-Coloured

Helena von Beyme

Berlin, Germany

 

Germany, you can be grey
Your wind blows through narrow streets
Through blonde and brown and black hair
And for some people it is a problem
That not everyone looks equally German
And what is that supposed to mean?
Germany, can I say you are my country?
Can I wear your colours?
A black and a red and a gold
When flags fly
I have a strange feeling
Germany, I want to say that you are multi-coloured
I’d like to say that you are tolerant
I’d like to say that you are my country
But Germany, where are you going?
To the right, the left, or straight ahead?
And who are the people who think they must defend you?
Who are afraid of change and otherness?
People who shout your name
With so much hate and so much rage
Who are these people who claim to know who you are supposed to be?
What you are for me –
I don’t want to leave it to them
What you will become –
I don’t want to leave it to them
Germany, I’d like to speak your name
and feel good about it

 

Helena von Beyme (17)

grew up in Berlin. She dances and loves to sing, even though this occasionally annoys her family. Her favourite season is summer, as she loves sunny weather. She has always been fascinated by language, and regards writing poems as a valuable way of expressing feelings.

Tomorrow

Ali Ahmade

Bamyan, Afghanistan


Be calm, you say to me.
Reminding me that you are still there.
What will be tomorrow? I don’t know.
Forgive me, for I can not speak of tomorrow.
But today I am still here.

Ali Ahmade (*2000)

The poem describes his thoughts about his mother before he gets on a boat in Turkey. He does not know whether he will survive the passage to Greece.
Yasser Niksada | Foto © Rottkay

Traces

Yasser Niksada

Panshir, Afghanistan, raised in Iran

 

Be next to me and see
What has happened to me.
It is over, the trace still in my heart.
No room for me to sleep on this bus.
Withered feet, the dream sunk into the eye.
The police said stop.
Go back, go back.
All then in the train car, just me alone on the tracks.
The rubber boat sank and my heart, hot for Europe, turned cold.
The world slept, only we were awake,
Hungry, thirsty, tired.
We left; it will be more difficult to return.
All this tearing oneself up for a little bit of rest.
Not my rest.
The rest of my family.

Foto © Rottkay

Yasser Niksada (*2002)

Yasser Niksada comes from the Panshir valley in Afghanistan. Ten years ago, the Niksadas fled to Teheran, where the family live as refugees. But that's no life, says Yasser. That's why the family sent him on a journey to Europe. In Germany, Yasser misses his family. Photo © Rottkay
Rojin Namer | Foto © Rottkay

Damascus

Rojin Namer 

Kamishli, Syria

 

How shall I describe Damascus?
How shall I describe paradise to those who do not know it?
Syria’s heart.
My soul.
Others’ hope.
That is Damascus.

Where there are wars.
Where bombs fall every day.
Where people are afraid.
That is Damascus.

What I dream of every day.
Where my roots are.
That is Damascus.

Where I ask the guilty one who is guilty.
Where no medicine stems the blood.
That is Damascus.

Where tourists went everywhere.
Where the streets are destroyed.
Where blood now flows.
My Damascus.

I miss your streets.
I miss your lights.
I miss your music,
which we hear every morning.
I miss your nights,
which are warm and full of life.
That is Damascus.

A city full of love.
A city full of blood.
Paradise
turned into a battle.

Where people shed tears of disappointment.
Of fear.
Not of joy.
That is Damascus.

My Damascus.
I want you back.
Back to me.

 

 

The Poetry Project, Foto © Rottkay

Rojin Namer (*2002)

fled alone from Damascus three years ago. She originally comes from Kamishli, a Kurdish town. She came as an unaccompanied minor to Berlin, where she attended the Friedrich Ebert High School. Her parents, brothers and sisters are living in Iraq as refugees. Rojin is a successful participant in debating contests, loves photography and wants to study philosophy. Foto © Rottkay
Shahzamir Hataki | Foto © Rottkay

On security and the little freedoms in Germany

Shahzamir Hataki

Mazar-e-Sharif, Afghanistan

 

Young women are allowed to have a boyfriend here
They can go out with them and do things together
Afghan girls can’t do that,
Except if they are old enough.

In that case, a husband is found
And there will be a wedding.
Until the wedding night, they will never see the husband.

Two cars had an accident in Berlin
Not even two minutes passed
And the police was there with blue lights flashing
In Afghanistan, the drivers would have gotten into a fight
And two hours later, the police would have shown up.
Although nothing happened, just a scratch.

People walk down the streets here in the evenings,
Not in Afghanistan. When a young Afghan leaves the house, he doesn’t know whether he will return. He says goodbye forever.
When a young Afghan leaves the house, he probably has money, he can be kidnapped. If he’s a bit prettier, they will do other things to him, or even blow him up with a bomb. It’s not like that in Europe.

 

Shahzamir Hataki

Mahdi Hashemi | Foto © Rottkay

Rules in the Institution

Mahdi Hashemi

Ghazni, Afghanistan

 

If you use the telephone,
I’ll take it away from you!

I want to go out!
You aren’t allowed out in the evening.

I want to watch a film!
Only until ten o’clock!

I don’t want to go to school tomorrow!
Then we’ll throw you out!

Can I sleep at a friend’s place tomorrow?
No, tomorrow you have to go to school!

Can I go back to Iran?
No, that’s not legal.

Can I die?
You’re crazy. No, you have no right to do that.

Can I live?
That’s a difficult question.

 

The Poetry Project | Foto © Rottkay

Mahdi Hashemi (*2000)

When he was an infant, his family fled from Afghanistan to Iran. There, he grew up as a refugee, close to the capital Tehran. Mahdi Hashemi writes about why Afghan refugees in Iran even apologise for breathing the air there. Photo © Rottkay

I Stare Back

Omran Fadel

Homs, Syria

 

Arriving at the airport in Berlin.
I am alone among 1,000 people.
I have arrived.
And yet am still in Egypt with my family.

I cannot read the signs.
I have to go to the exit and find my uncle.
I simply follow the other people.
My uncle recognises me straight away.
We haven’t seen each other for six years.

The buildings are five times as big as in Egypt.
The language is strange.
How can I learn it quickly?

From the capital city to a smaller town.
People in the subway stare at me.
I stare back.

 

Omran Fadel (15)

was sent to Germany alone by his family to live here with his uncle and have a better future. His parents and four brothers and sisters still live in their homeland. Omran likes sporting activities and wants to start an apprenticeship after finishing school.
Robina Karimi | Foto © Rottkay

Violence and Pride

Robina Karimi

Kabul, Afghanistan

 

Do I not have the right to choose my partner?
What makes an Afghan woman different from a German woman?
Both are women!
Is there a difference between being German and being Afghan?
The burden of virtue lies on the shoulders of the woman.
A man does what he wants.
But if I let my will run free, I am the one who is bad.
I am a human being, I breathe, I want to live, I want to be free and fly.
And enjoy the life God has given me.
Why do you want to take this life away from me, to deny me freedom?
I too am a human.

Boy, this is not Afghanistan!
Look around you, open your eyes.
The things you did to me there, you cannot do to a girl here.
Here you do not decide alone.
Here she too decides whether she wants to be with you or leaves.
Here our rights are the same.
You have to recognise me.
Here it is enough to be a woman.

 

Robina (17)

from Afghanistan, Kabul, on violence and injured pride when love is gone.
Lotti Spieler | Foto © Rottkay

Means of Repression in Prenzlauer Berg

Lotti Spieler

Berlin, Germany

 

I miss winter as much as summer,
and always when the opposite season
is not there.

If I lose my arm,
then I miss it too,
because being without an arm,
is terrible after all.

But at the moment it is not so important to me,
or to put it better,
not as important as an arm can be,
or must be,
because in the end, I need it after all,
and it can be really useful, too,
an arm like that.

Somehow I miss my memories too,
but not at this level of feelings.
They are simply no longer there.

Missing something doesn’t have to be a feeling,
as then you can avoid kitsch.
For example! I can also miss my keys,
when they are not there,
and without any feelings at all.
Then I need them, and when they are not there,
it’s a nuisance,
like with the arm.

“Do you remember …?’”
No, to be honest, I don’t,
but “yes, ha ha ha’’,
because all the others remember, and it would be funny if I didn’t
and were out of it.
Perhaps these are means of repression,
but I grew up in Prenzlauer Berg …

There, a bad childhood means
grandma sometimes bringing you fries from McDonalds,
because the awful thing is, it’s not all gluten-free and vegan,
and the poor child has so many allergies.
Not a bad childhood, so no means of repression.

Do people who couldn’t eat walnuts all their lives,
because they are truly allergic, miss the taste of nuts?
Or the colour blind. Can you miss something
that you don’t know?
Perhaps you can, deep down inside. That is what
every bad romantic novel is based on.

That something or in this case someone was missed,
down inside.
But I don’t lack anything at all.
After all, I’m doing just fine,
to return to that ethical, show-appreciation stuff.
I don’t lack anything, I have both of my arms and
my keys too at the moment,
and a solid education apart from that.
At least, I think or hope so.

By the way, you have pretty stark acoustics in here.
You can hear every word
that’s spoken outside the door.
Cool, but a bit creepy too.
I’ve nothing left to write now.
Your acoustics here are really awesome.
I might miss them today
or maybe not, because…
As I said, overhearing strangers is a bit creepy.
But it’s fun, too, in a way.

A brief final thought: wouldn’t it be unbelievably cool if the sun were a hole?

 

Lotti Spieler (14)

grew up overprotected, as she says herself, in Prenzlauer Berg in Berlin and attends school there. In recent years she has regularly won poetry prizes. She constantly criticises the insecure future of her generation and often thinks aloud on paper.

Memory tax

Abdallah Ghbash

Aleppo, Syrien

 

Where is God?

God is in Immigration Office.

Passport Department.

 

Is this your first time in Göttingen?

I came here last winter.

What do you have in your bag?

Some positive feelings and some memories.

But it does not look so heavy.

Yeah, because I lost some feelings on the way and I was hungry, so I ate all the bad memories.

Did you pay a tax for them already?

Yes, Sir, I paid 4 years.

 

Abdallah Ghbash (30)

studied oriental music theory in Syria and had his own music studio. He composed songs and wrote poems. In 2013 he fled to Istanbul, where he hosted his own radio show. In Germany he has performed as a musician playing the oud at the boat people project of the Freies Theater and in the Stadtlabor Göttingen, among other venues. Since 2017 he has been a member of Musikland Niedersachsen.

 

To the AfD

Sophia Grabendorfer

Wendelstein, Germany

 

I am afraid.
When I walk the streets and see blue-and-red election posters, I feel sick.
When I hear other people shouting anti-immigrant slogans, I get angry.
And when I look at the result of the last election, I feel afraid.

63 years of peace in Germany.
63 years with no slogans, no shootings, no concentration camps
and no fear for one’s own life.
Have we learned nothing from this period?
Is it so wrong to give to others what we now have?

Not so long ago
German children fled to Britain, German families to America.
And today many long for “the good old days again”.
Which good old days?

Were we better-off then than today?
Can’t we take a little bit of fear out of other people’s lives?

 

Sophia Grabendorfer (17)

lives in Wendelstein and goes to high school there. At school she takes part in the “School without Racism – School with Courage” working group and explores, among other things, the question of how to treat others with respect in everyday school life and what can be done to oppose every form of discrimination.

Violence Like Stars in the Sky

Omran Fadel

Homs, Syria

 

In my homeland there is as much violence as there are stars in the sky.
People are beaten and shot by the police.
No one can say anything. Otherwise they are arrested.
People in my homeland are simply punished.
There are no proper laws.
If you have money, you can buy anything.
Even the police.
Even the laws.

 

Omran Fadel (15)

was sent to Germany alone by his family to live here with his uncle and have a better future. His parents and four brothers and sisters still live in their homeland. Omran likes sporting activities and wants to start an apprenticeship after finishing school.
Ali Alzaeem | Foto © Rottkay

Sheathe the Arabian Swords

Ali Alzaeem

Idlib, Syria

 

Oh October,
I will tell of Laila, of how she kissed freedom.
Seven heavens attend to my poems.

Oh sun of Damascus,
Does the Tigris still send our wishes towards Baghdad?
On the Arabs’ horses
To the towers of the Hamdanids
Under the aegis of the Umayya.
Our camels bear the martyrs to the origins of freedom.

For nineteen years, oh my mother,
Laila has played the instruments of evenings
And the streets are filled with the laments of mothers
About the images of their children.

Nineteen years, oh father,
I have spent erasing
The history of my homeland
From the illusions of kings.

For nineteen years, oh brother,
I have lied by asserting
I approved the morning salute
Of the flags of our land.

Put down the Arabian swords,
For Laila has married a westerner.
She no longer tells the story of the moon,
Is no longer the purity of the nights.
Sheathe the Arabian swords,
Until Laila parts from the stranger
And returns to her roots.

 

Ali Alzaeem (19)

comes from a village in Idlib. He had a pleasant childhood as a shepherd, schoolboy and footballer. In summer 2015 he came to Germany. He likes to act and write poetry. He is extremely interested in politics and economics, which make him both annoyed and addicted. He attends the Elinor Ostrom School.

»Other«

Zoё Matt-Williams

Berlin, Germany

 

Hot summer day. Noon.
The trees are sweating
when my friend tells me
he wants to leave England
because no other country on earth
hates the “other“ as much.

October. Berlin.
Aren’t I “other“, too?
I´m half-German,
same as him,
but pale-skinned, blond.
No one screams at me from street corners.
Hate filtered through
entitlement and fear and cigarette smoke,
because I am not one of them.

December. Alexanderplatz.
Germany’s different, he says.

Christmas Eve. The dinner table.
My friend´s father asks me to pass the gravy
And through mouthfuls of animal flesh
He exclaims:
Germany should stay the way it is.
No more refugees. An identifying German culture.
They haven’t done anything to earn their place here.
And when my father asks what he did to earn his,
and what if you were born in Syria instead?
He replies:
But I wasn’t.

 

Zoё Matt-Williams (18)

grew up bilingually in Berlin with a German mother and American father. She rarely gets the chance to visit her US family. Zoё attended the international John F. Kennedy School in Berlin and now studies English literature at the University of Cambridge.
Robina Karimi | Foto © Rottkay

Is It a Crime to Be an Afghan?

Robina Karimi

Kabul, Afghanistan

 

Is it a crime,
to have been born in Afghanistan?
Why do I ask?
Because as an Afghan you are treated with disrespect all over the world.
Why is an Afghan not entitled to education in Iran?
Why do we Afghans in Germany
not have the same rights of residence as other refugees?
Even if we were born outside Afghanistan,
we are still stigmatised as Afghans.
Even if we have never seen the country in our lives,
we are reduced to being Afghans only, degraded – or shall we say:
disregarded.
Do you really think
it is easy to leave your mother, your father and your sister?
Do you really think
it is easy to be alone and far from your loved ones?
Do you really think
we want to be alone because we like it?
Only God is destined to be alone.
Only God alone.
And therefore I ask you, in all countries where we Afghans are,
trying to live – stop mistreating us.
Every country produces its benefactors, geniuses and criminals.
But why are we, as Afghans,
all punished if someone breaks the rules or behaves badly? Why are fingers pointed at all of us?
It is not a crime to be an Afghan.
Because I too am a human being.

 

Robina Karimi (17),

fled from Kabul alone. She describes the mistrust against which she has to struggle as an Afghan.

Our House

Amir Shaduli

Shingal, Iraq

 

We had a house, we built it ourselves.
The walls of stone, their colours
smelled light and dark, and the windows were
very large. We opened them and looked out.
The floors of the house had ceramic tiles, and sometimes
I heard neighbours and the street.
Everything in the house was special.
There was only my family and me.
That was my favourite house. We built it ourselves.

 

Amir Shaduli (23)

came to Berlin from his home town of Shingal in the north of Iraq because of the war. His native language is Kurdish. In Wittenau he is attending the Emil Fischer School and would like to train as a hairdresser after finishing there.
Shahzamir Hataki | Foto © Rottkay

The Only Son

Shahzamir Hataki

Mazar-e-Sharif, Afghanistan

 

There were 65 people on the boat.
The smuggler gestured to a mountain,
There is Greece, he said.

The water fell around us like walls.
The motor stopped.
There were many kids on the boat.
It capsized.

I can’t swim.

I stayed under water for two minutes,
The red vest pulled me to the surface.
I was terribly afraid.

It was
Very cold.
Everybody screamed. Me too. There was a child in front of me.

I consoled him.
You don’t have to cry, but I knew better.

A mother sank before my eyes,
Her child in her arms.
Two hours, then the boat came to rescue us.
Twenty people survived.
All of the small children were dead.

One boy, he was my age,
Sat next to me in the rescue boat.
He screamed and screamed
»Mother, Mother!«
I asked him, why are you crying?

He said that his whole family, seven people,
Had died.
I wondered, who would have told my parents
If I had drowned in the sea?
I am the only son.

Doctors were waiting.
My legs couldn’t support me.
They recovered only eight of the dead.
We survivors went to the hospital.

Eight days and eight nights I slept,
And each day in the hospital passed before me like a year.

When I left Turkey I had 100 dollars.
They were lost in the water.

On the 20th day I called home.

My mother said, »Why didn’t you call?
I haven’t eaten in three days out of worry!«
I told her that I arrived safely,
But simply hadn’t had the money to call.

How could I tell her
that for 10 days, I could only drink hot chocolate,
because my body was so full of salt water?

 

more: Shahzamir Hataki

Nimruz

Samiullah Rasouli

Ghazni, Afghanistan

 

We sat on the flatbed of the truck,
In the desert of Nimruz, when we saw seven corpses.
Who had killed these poor people?
We got off to look at the dead.
The men were young, 20, 21 years old,
All dead, except for one.

He was still breathing.

The blood on his body had already dried.
We asked him, »what happened?«
He said, quietly, »thieves.«
They had been ambushed and robbed.
The dying man warned us: »robbers, robbers, take a different route.«
We fled and left him lying there.

Could I have done anything differently?

 

more: Samiullah Rasouli

Father

Samiullah Rasouli

Ghazni, Afghanistan

 

A hundred kisses I send to the dust
That your feet whirl up.
A hundred times melancholy you had to suffer to find bread.
If only I could become the calluses on your hand.

Not once did you complain, or say that you were tired
I bowed before your sacrifice.
Just like you circle the Kaaba,
I want to circle you.
But even that would not suffice,
To repay your hardship.

 

Samiullah Rasouli

Shahzamir Hataki | Foto © Rottkay

Without You

Shahzamir Hataki

Mazar-e-Sharif, Afghanistan

 

Living my life here without you
Is difficult, father.
I am thirsty for your tears.
And to cry here among these people is difficult, father.
When you stride there and walk over thorns, father,
I feel the pain of your feet.
I wish to throw myself into your arms.
To kiss you from this distance is difficult, father.
I would tear my lips off to do it,
But to mourn without lips is difficult, father.

You are the most beautiful flower in a field of flowers.
You are the color of the sun, which bows at night.
You shine like the stars, my father,
And you are light as the moon.

Foto © Rottkay

Shahzamir Hataki (*2000)

Shahzamir Hataki from Mazar-e-Sharif, Afghanistan, is his parents’ only son. They wanted to secure his survival and his future and therefore sent him away. On the passage to Greece, the boat sank and Shahzamir barely escaped death. Photo © Rottkay