Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Would you please correct the third part of my text?
The other day I was called to an interview with a welfare officer. The man wanted to know what my plans for the future were. When I told him I had none, his face dropped in disappointment. “What happened? You speak Swedish well, much better than other refugees do. I believed you were going to continue with your education and have a bright future. What do you think of doing?”
I couldn’t tell him the truth. He would never understand it anyway. Certainly, he had a comfortable life where he didn’t lack anything. His wages were well enough for a decent living, his home was in a prosperous suburb, he was regularly eating dinners in restaurants, enjoying his hobbies, taking holidays abroad a couple of times a year, and was never in danger of becoming destitute because the state was always beside him to take care in case anything unexpected happened. He lived in his bubble of happiness, and I didn’t wish to burst it. Had I told him what I thought of his homeland I believed he would be offended. His face would still be the mask of compassion, but he would think that I was an ungrateful refugee who didn’t deserve to be in his peaceful land at all. I was dependant on the state and I knew that it would be unwise to bite the hand that was feeding me. I told him I didn’t feel well and was in bad mood.
“Maybe you’re suffering from depression. Have you seen a psychiatrist? If not, you should get an appointment with someone you can talk about your problems.”
Before our conversation ended, he told me that he would make an appointment with an industrial psychologist who would make an assessment of my capacity for work. This was a routine procedure recommended by authorities. Did I have anything against talking to her? Of course, I didn’t. I could talk to anyone on earth, but nobody was going to set me free.
About one week later, I met a psychologist in her thirties, who looked like an angel, with her long blond hair and deep blue eyes. She wore no make-up and no jewellery. They would only spoil her natural beauty. I felt sorry for her for talking to me. I didn’t want to hurt her and make her stomach turn because of my story. Neither did I wish to cause her nightmares. I imagined her living with her husband, a couple of children, and a dog or a cat in their recently bought home close to the countryside, where they all enjoyed their long walks and scents of flowers and trees.
Her children would never face famine, would never go to school with empty stomachs, or stand in a queue waiting for the Red Cross to give them food packets to sustain them for a couple of weeks. Their problems were of different sorts. Where to travel in the winter: Switzerland, Italy or France? What car to buy: a Volvo, Audi or BMW? Should they have a TV and a stereo in every room? Should they buy two pianos or it would be enough with just one?
Of course, she had watched the news and seen all the misery around the world, but that was abstraction. Those places were far away, and you probably never heard of them before. Those people spoke some incomprehensible languages and behaved like barbarians. They did not know anything about democracy or human rights and slaughtered each other mercilessly. In her innocent blue eyes, I was nothing but a specimen of those unfortunate people who found refuge in her homeland. They had taken care of us, but they expected something back. As the saying goes, “one good turn deserves another.” My problem was I was not able to give back anything. You would not have much use of a corpse anyway, except as fertilizer.
TO BE CONTINUED
The other day I was called to an interview with a welfare officer. The man wanted to know what my plans for the future were. When I told him I had none, his face dropped in disappointment. “What happened? You speak Swedish well, much better than other refugees do. I believed you were going to continue with your education and have a bright future. What do you think of doing?”
I couldn’t tell him the truth. He would never understand it anyway. Certainly, he had a comfortable life where he didn’t lack anything. His wages were well enough for a decent living, his home was in a prosperous suburb, he was regularly eating dinners in restaurants, enjoying his hobbies, taking holidays abroad a couple of times a year, and was never in danger of becoming destitute because the state was always beside him to take care in case anything unexpected happened. He lived in his bubble of happiness, and I didn’t wish to burst it. Had I told him what I thought of his homeland I believed he would be offended. His face would still be the mask of compassion, but he would think that I was an ungrateful refugee who didn’t deserve to be in his peaceful land at all. I was dependant on the state and I knew that it would be unwise to bite the hand that was feeding me. I told him I didn’t feel well and was in bad mood.
“Maybe you’re suffering from depression. Have you seen a psychiatrist? If not, you should get an appointment with someone you can talk about your problems.”
Before our conversation ended, he told me that he would make an appointment with an industrial psychologist who would make an assessment of my capacity for work. This was a routine procedure recommended by authorities. Did I have anything against talking to her? Of course, I didn’t. I could talk to anyone on earth, but nobody was going to set me free.
About one week later, I met a psychologist in her thirties, who looked like an angel, with her long blond hair and deep blue eyes. She wore no make-up and no jewellery. They would only spoil her natural beauty. I felt sorry for her for talking to me. I didn’t want to hurt her and make her stomach turn because of my story. Neither did I wish to cause her nightmares. I imagined her living with her husband, a couple of children, and a dog or a cat in their recently bought home close to the countryside, where they all enjoyed their long walks and scents of flowers and trees.
Her children would never face famine, would never go to school with empty stomachs, or stand in a queue waiting for the Red Cross to give them food packets to sustain them for a couple of weeks. Their problems were of different sorts. Where to travel in the winter: Switzerland, Italy or France? What car to buy: a Volvo, Audi or BMW? Should they have a TV and a stereo in every room? Should they buy two pianos or it would be enough with just one?
Of course, she had watched the news and seen all the misery around the world, but that was abstraction. Those places were far away, and you probably never heard of them before. Those people spoke some incomprehensible languages and behaved like barbarians. They did not know anything about democracy or human rights and slaughtered each other mercilessly. In her innocent blue eyes, I was nothing but a specimen of those unfortunate people who found refuge in her homeland. They had taken care of us, but they expected something back. As the saying goes, “one good turn deserves another.” My problem was I was not able to give back anything. You would not have much use of a corpse anyway, except as fertilizer.
TO BE CONTINUED
