I live in Iran as an Afghan. As a refugee. The dream of every Afghani refugee in Iran is owning a home and a car and a large family. In Iran I wanted to be able to be able to do something that other people could: learn something. Study. Live like an Irani. Because there are rules for us Afghani there. These are difficult rules. Rules that almost no one can follow completely:
You have to have an Iranian boss to get a SIM card.
You have to be married to get a driving license.
It is a system that you have to submit to. You are without means. You have no rights.
If you have enough money, you can go to Afghanistan to get married. You need one million Afghani to marry. That is 2,000 Euro. That is very much money. Then you can find a wife. It takes five years to earn that much money. Then the men return immediately after getting married. Then they continue working until they have enough money to have a child.
Because there are no jobs in Afghanistan. There you have to steal tomatoes. And steal watermelon. To eat.
Men just disappear in Afghanistan. Families simply disappear in Afghanistan. I recently saw a movie in which a family in Afghanistan was killed. Because the father owed 100 euros and could not pay them. Five people.
I was 13 when I left. My older brother actually wanted to go. We discussed. We fought. I stood in front of the door; my little brother suddenly said that he would go, too. He was ten. Tiny. I immediately slapped him. My mother saw it. Then she slapped me.
I was chosen. Because I didn’t want to lead the life that my father led. He had worked in the factory for twenty years, shredding poisonous plastic textiles to produce new poisonous textiles out of plastic. The fumes get into your eyes, into your nose, into your clothes. They creep into your skin and poison you from within.
What did my father gain from this? He was a wreck at 36.
Why should I work when I got nothing for it? I wanted to go another way. In Iran you have to do everything when you need money. Collect plastic bottles. Is this to be my future?
I was chosen. Because the smuggler said that I had the best chances. I wanted to continue on to Switzerland from Germany. Perhaps to Sweden? The smuggler said it was better there than in Germany. But it was a matter of strength. I remained here.
I want the German passport. Not an Afghani. Not Irani. To this day, I don’t have a passport. I don’t want it to say that I’m German. It is a piece of paper for me. I want to travel. The passport means freedom and money. The passport means family. The passport means many things. Being a person, having rights.
Do you know what it means to not have any rights? When you call the police as an Afghan in Iran because you’re being threatened, then you’ll be arrested yourself.
The Germans think they are something special because they have a passport.
But you are also a person without a passport.
