In the precedent story, Bas wrote about his encounter with Maria, who had been working in the United States as an illegal alien after a tough journey through the Mexican desert. It reminded Bas of the time when he traveled the world with a torn passport. Here follows the sequel; Bas just arrived with sweaty hands at the American customs.
“Hi”, it was meant to be a masculine, jovial greeting, but because of my tight throat, it comes out like the high-pitched tone of a tiny, drunk opera singer, three notes too high.
“Where do you come from?”
“Honduras, Sir”.
The man bursts into laughter and cordially says that I look a little whiter than the average Latino. In my nervousness, I hadn’t grasped that he meant my country of origin, but my mistake appears to be in the bull’s eye because he is a naturalized Latino himself. When I tell him that I have been volunteering for months with street children, he spontaneously gives me a high five and as some kind of a bonus I receive all the necessary stamps in the same gesture. He hasn’t so much as glanced at my passport.
Triumphantly I proceed to the slot where Singapore Airlines SA 738, is ready for departure to Tokyo. Well, if you can conquer the United States of America with a pair of nail scissors, you can master the entire world, right? Or am I wrong?
Thirteen hours of flying and a date line further on, I’m in another queue. This time I know right away; I’m going to get caught. The Japanese customs offices are equipped with 100 Watt light bulbs, under which each document is minutely scrutinized. I had done this test at home too. Here’s the weak point of my ingenious operation because the transparent tape that holds the two halves of my passport together, glows in a spectrum of disco colors.
The woman looks at me suspiciously. To my astonishment she speaks not a word of English and as I feared, my soft-soap smile doesn’t stand a chance against her professionalism. She leads me to a cubicle. It doesn’t bother me; I’ve come through the United States undamaged and I cannot conceive how the Japanese can suspect me of passport falsification or devising an attack on their capital. Within five minutes, the chief walks in and welcomes me warmly to the land of the rising sun. I’m a free man.
For a brief moment, I consider offering the Bush administration a set of light bulbs for their war on terror. Well, never mind.
I awake from my dreams to discover that, in reality, I am still sharing the front seat of my little car with Maria, in Honduras. She continues her account of the life of an illegal alien in the United States. Maria has this typical Latin American habit of remaining joyful under the most dispiriting circumstances and I admire her ability to unfold her painful life story with such a sweet smile lighting up her gentle face. Her teeth are pearly white. Listening to her story, but deeply thoughtful, I find myself wondering how one can be so poverty stricken and still have such white teeth, and to my deep embarrassment I catch myself harboring a hint of jealousy.
She is the Latin American version of the Africans who engage in desperate acts to enter the European Union. At home in a comfy chair in front of the telly it all seems so unreal. A few dozen Ghanians who drown in a hopeless effort to reach a Southern European islet, several hundred Nigerians handcuffed by the Moroccan police because they couldn’t clamber fast enough over the fence to the Spanish enclave. You watch it or you zap it away.
But now, in the intimacy of my little car, the tragic scenario suddenly comes to life. The undesirable stranger has a name now, and a face. She’s Maria. She’s beautiful, sweet and honest. I am caught by an urge to embrace her, console and comfort her, give her all the money I carry with me and if possible adopt her daughters all at once. Instead, I ask a question:
“Why did you do it, Maria?”
“For my little ones”
“Only for them?”
Yes Bas, only for them”.
“But why?”
“Bas, please look around you, see how we live. Would you wish that for your children? Or would you, like me, find the strength to accomplish the impossible?”
Maria’s despair pushes her to a bravery that I cannot afford in all my wealth. Money makes you comfortable and that comfort makes courage unaffordable. She is determined, next month she will try again to reach for the other bank of the river; she will again embark upon the unrealistic journey to wealth. Her oldest daughter, who has just turned fifteen, is to watch over the small ones. Daddy’s dead… AIDS.
I do not read any fear in Maria’s eyes, not a grain of envy, not even embitterment. No, Maria shines. She has only one wish and it is the purity of that wish that gives her the wings to fly so elegantly through life, even though life tries hard to keep her down. Maria’s wish is a better existence for her children.
Rich, poor, yellow or black, where did your cradle stand when you were born? Where is the balance between richness and poverty, between man and nature, between the different religions that ought to bring people together, not drive them apart? The equilibrium on our planet is so disturbed, that the world is shaking to its foundations. The European Union and the United States of America, seemingly unassailable fortresses, are burdened by the colossal weight of huge numbers of fortune seekers and, more so, by their own conscience.
Maria and company suffer by far the most from this lack of balance, but they are not the only ones. In the West, we are afraid to lose our jobs, our sense of security seems to be ever more based on an illusion and through modern media and adventure holidays we become painfully aware of the yawning abyss between “them” and us. The Netherlands, Denmark and Australia are rife with racial tensions. Recently, the French set their own country on fire and since 9/11, the Americans are so scared that the entire world trembles with them.
The road toward more balance is within reach, but will we dare to take up the challenge? By far most Africans don’t want to live in The Netherlands; they find it too chilly, too white and too libertine. Maria doesn’t want to walk to America. “I hate that place, the people are so cold”, she shyly confessed to me under her breath.
Maria risks her life for her children, the Africans in their wobbly craft probably do much the same. Colored or white, Catholic, Hindu or Heathen, however different we may seem, virtually all of us have a common denominator. Each of us is on a quest for happiness. He who is happy starts no war and is not after his neighbor’s blood.
By offering each other a fair chance of happiness, we also create a better life for ourselves. By supporting a street child in Honduras today, he doesn’t have to seek safety as an illegal alien in the United States tomorrow. By helping Africans to build an independent existence now, we do no longer have to be anxious that they will climb over the walls in huge numbers to overtake fortress Europe in the future. We can then fearlessly open the doors.
Meanwhile, Maria and Bas bump on in his car, feeling like family. The tall, skinny, white man and the short, colored, cuddly woman. Seemingly all the odds are on his side. He’s a man, he is white, a credit card that always works is burning a hole in his back pocket and he is the owner of a brand new passport that makes borders fade away and opens doors like magic. The woman, she’s only a woman, one with a color on top of that. She doesn’t know of credit cards and her passport reduces her to illegal scum.
But who of the two is most courageous, who has the longest breath? Who, oh tell me who is the strongest of the two? That evening, looking into the mirror while brushing my teeth, I can read the answer in my dejected face.
Tonight, when I sit down for another princely meal, I will savor it without feeling bad. The yoke of guilt I threw off long ago. But I will think of Maria and dare to feel humble for a while. That alone requires quite some bravery from a guy who walks around in a society in which ego plays the first fiddle. Tonight, before I fall asleep, I will think of you Maria. And even though it is forbidden, even though eventually it is no solution, tonight in bed I will vigorously pray that you may reach that other bank of the river, again. For you. For your wondrous four year old daughter.
Give a child a chance and offer the world some balance!
