Cultural Migration in AutobiographyLifelong Learning Programme

Grundtvig

Learning Partnership

2009-2011

Project coordinator: Reinhard NowakEditor: Andreea Mitruţi

EDITURA MIRTONTimişoara, 2011

This project has been funded with support from the European Commission. This publication reflects the views only of the author, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any use which may be made of the information contained therein.

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Content

Introduction 5

Germany 6Reinhard Nowak 7 Eva Christina Zeller 8Annabella Akcal 10Emine Beyer 12Colette Eisenhuth 14Helga Klein 16Anđelka Križanović 18Janez Travner 20

Italy 22Maria Scolaro and Heide Wilm Guerrini 24Bouchra Ait Azou 26Parimal Bhattacherjee 28Adriana Cela 30Mariana Cova 32Omar Giama 34Larysa Godovanets 36Amissăo Lima 38Jeannette Mikuela 40Sumaiya Sykes 42

Latvia 44Līvija Mukāne 46Māra Bilzena 48Ineta Endele 50Andris Kaņepējs 52

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Dzinta Krastina 54Leongina Krūmiņa 56Mārīte Nīgrande 58Ina Turkina 60Olga Volosatova 62

Portugal 64Maria Antonieta Costa 66Carlos Santos 70Laurinda Silva 72

Romania 74Gabriela Tucan 76Jorge Gonzales 78Ahmed Rashidi Hassan 80Natalie Lazăr 82Daniele Pantaleoni 84Edwina Vochoţ 86

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„Cultural migration in autobiography“Grundtvig-Project 2009-2011

Reinhard Nowak

The Project „Cultural migration in autobiography“is financed by the European Commission within the Lifelong learning programme. The partners of the Project are from six European countries: Germany, Italy, Latvia, Poland, Portugal, Romania. The history and quantity of migration differs very much in these countries. Immigration happens because of economic reasons and there are also refugees and expatriates; migrants belong to first, second or third generation. The partner‘s institutions are: Gmünder VHS, Schwäbisch Gmünd, Germany (coordination) Libera Universita per Adulti, Faenza, Italy (design) Krakowska Szkola Zarzadzania i Administracji, Krakow, Poland (homepage) Institutul Roman de Educatie a Adultilor, Timisoara, Romania (editing and publication of booklet) Escola Secondaria D. Sancho I, V. N. Famalicao, Portugal Malpils Pagasta Padome, Malpils, Latvia The project extended over two years and there have been four transnational meetings in this period: 2009 Schwäbisch Gmünd, 2010 Faenza, Malpils, 2011 Famalicao. In every institution, there existed a group of writers with a tutor specialised in creative writing.Goals Autobiographies are an important medium to understand migration and the changing between different cultures.Europe learns through autobiographies about its present situation and the citizens of Europe learn themselves about the diverse cultures within the continent and gain respect towards them. Exchange between the groups of writers will help to gain a professional view on cross-cultural creative writing and to foster the awareness of cultural differences. ProductsThe publication contains more than thirty stories and it can be found at http://cma.internetdsl.pl

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The Writer’s group in Schwäbisch Gmünd, Germany

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Reinhard Nowak

The Writer’s group in Schwäbisch Gmünd is associated with the local

Volkshochschule. The group met regularly, once a month, from October 2009 to July 2011.

The group’s tutor, Eva Christina Zeller, is a well known author of poems, stories and of

drama. She had a lot of experience with tutoring creative writing when she started in our

project.

The group started with more than ten members. Then it became smaller and more

professional. The photo shows the writer’s group at the end of the project (from the left):

Janez Travner, borne 1938 in Slovenia. He lives in Germany since 1963. Emine Beyer,

borne in 1968 in Turkey. She moved to Germany with her family in 1974. Helga Klein was

borne in 1959 in Schäßburg, Siebenbürgen (Romania). She moved to Germany with her

husband and two children in 1985. Annabella Akcal, borne in 1970 in Schwä-bisch Gmünd.

Her family comes from Istanbul. Andelka Krizanovic emigrated at the age of 9 years as

refugee of civil war from Bosnia-Herzegovina. Colette Eisenhuth was borne in Belgium in

1962. She worked for several years in Tanzania, then moved to Germany, went back to

Africa and returned to Europe to stay in Schwäbisch Gmünd with her family. Reinhard

Nowak is coordinating the project. Der Geschmack meiner Heimat oder Alle Erinnerung ist Gegenwart

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Eva Christina Zeller

Wie geht es Migranten und Migrantinnen, wenn sie ihre eigene Geschichte

aufschreiben wollen?

Nicht anders als Nicht-Migranten auch: Vor dem weißen Papier sind alle Schreibenden

Anfänger, jeden Tag von Neuem.

Wir sitzen also, wenn wir schreiben, alle in einem Boot; genauer gesagt in der VHS in

Schwäbisch Gmünd. Wir sehen draußen das tröstliche und Schutz gewährende Dach des

Gmünder Münsters. Wir sehen alle das gleiche Dach. Und doch sind unsere Erfahrungen

von Häusern und Geborgenheit ganz andere. Um diese Unterschiede geht es in den Texten.

Woher kommen wir? Wohin gehen wir? Was ist der Geschmack unserer Heimat?

Wie können wir den beschreiben?

Damit fängt alles an. Mit dem Sprechen und Schreiben lernen. Mit dem vorsichtigen

Buchstabieren von Erfahrungen, mit dem Zähmen des eigenen Schmerzes.

Er muss ein wenig gezähmt werden, damit er bereit ist, sich auf einem weißen Blatt

niederzulassen.

Wie haben wir das gemacht? Wir haben Briefe geschrieben und uns an den Ausgangspunkt

der Reise zurück phantasiert. Wir haben uns gegenseitig erzählt und befragt. Wir haben mit

Clustern und Schreibspielen den Schmerz und die Freude umgarnt, wir haben alte

Fotografien betrachtet und den Hintergrund, das im Schatten liegende und Verschattete mit

Worten gebannt.

Wir sitzen alle in einem Boot und kommen doch von anderen Ufern. Alle Teilnehmenden

haben sich auf eine Rückreise begeben, getreu dem Motto, das von Novalis stammt: „Alle

Erinnerung ist Gegenwart.“ Die Autoren haben Worte und Sätze und Geschichten ans Licht

geholt und sie festgehalten. Sehnsucht und Heimweh, Ängste, Wut und Widerstand saßen

mit im Nachen.

Aber was geangelt wurde, kann sich sehen lassen.

The Taste of Home, or Every Memory is the Present Eva Christina Zeller

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How do immigrants feel when they want to write their own stories?

No different than non- immigrants do: when confronted with a blank sheet of white paper, all

writers are beginners and that each day anew.

When we write we´re all in the same boat, or to put it more exactly, in the VHS in

Schwäbisch Gmünd. When we look outside we see the comforting and protective roof of

Gmünd`s cathedral. We all see the same roof. And yet our experiences of houses and

security are totally different. These differences are dealt with in the texts. Where are we

from? Where are we going? What does my home taste like? How can we describe it?

That’s how it all begins. With learning to speak and write. With the careful spelling out of

experiences, with taming our own pain.

It has to be tamed to a certain degree, so that it´s ready to set itself down on a white sheet

of paper. How did we accomplish this ? We wrote letters and fantasized back in time to

point of departure. We mutually narrated and questioned. Through word clusters and writing

games, we ensnared the pain and joy; we looked at old photographs and captured in words

their shaded and shadowy backgrounds.

We´re all in the same boat, and yet we come from different shores. All participants exposed

themselves on a journey into the past, faithful to Novalis´ words: “ Every memory is the

present.” The authors have brought words and sentences and stories to light, and recorded

them. Longing and homesickness, fear, anger and resistance were breathing down their

necks.

But what has been captured is worth reading.

Wie Tuna die Nadelstiche bekamAnnabella Akcal

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Tuna hat meine Mutter beschumpfen. Das macht man nicht, mit sieben Jahren, die

Mutter beschimpfen, macht man nicht. Ich hab mich so etwas noch nicht getraut.

Ich habe immer nur vor mich her oder in mich hinein geschumpfen. Meine Mutter jagt meine

kleine Schwester mit Geschrei durch die Wohnung. Sie flucht. Sie verflucht meine kleine

Schwester.

Aytül und ich kümmern uns nicht darum. Wir sitzen in unserem Zimmer und machen unsere

Hausaufgaben. Aber in mir ist es ganz heiß. Die Wohnung riecht noch nach Lahmacun.

Das hatten wir zu Mittag. Aytül und ich haben uns gleich, nachdem wir aus der Schule

kamen, die Hände gewaschen, und haben beim Backen mithelfen müssen. „Damit ihr, wenn

ihr mal einen Mann habt, ihm Lahmacun machen könnt,“ hat meine Mutter gemeint. Tuna

hat nicht mitgeholfen, und dann hat meine Mutter gebrüllt, dass alle ihre Töchter Lahmacun

machen können müssen.

Und Tuna hat „ağsina sicim“ zu ihr gesagt. Tuna darf alles, wir haben so viel nicht dürfen,

was Tuna alles darf. Dann hat Tuna doch mitgeholfen. Aytül hat das Geschirr gespült, ich

habe abgetrocknet und das Geschirr weggeräumt und wir haben gegessen.

Jetzt wird eben mal Tuna durch die Wohnung gejagt. Morgen bin es wieder ich, oder meine

ältere Schwester. Tuna wird selten durch die Wohnung gejagt. Ich kann meine

Hausaufgaben nicht machen, weil es so laut ist. In mir ist es immer noch ganz heiß.

Vom Esszimmer, über das Wohnzimmer, in den Flur, in die orange-farbene Küche, die mein

Vater selbst gebaut hat, wieder ins Esszimmer – ein Rundgang, eine Rundjagd.

Es dauert eine Weile, bis meine Mutter sie kriegt. Tuna lacht, es hat ihr Spaß gemacht.

Meine Mutter schleppt meine Schwester ins Bad. Sie ruft Aytül und mich zur Hilfe. Wir

stehen von unseren Tischen auf und gehen ins Bad. Meine Mutter hält Tunas Hände fest,

sie hat die Kleine auf den Boden niedergedrückt und stemmt ihr rechtes Knie gegen ihren

kleinen Körper. Tuna wehrt sich.

Sie lacht nicht mehr, sondern hat jetzt Angst.

Wie Tuna die Nadelstiche bekommt Annabella Akcal

Tuna swore at my mother. You don’t do that when you’re seven, swear at mother,

you don’t do it. I never dared to do such a thing.

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I always only swore to myself or suppressed it, swore at my mother into myself.

Screaming, my mother chases my sister through the apartment. She curses. She curses my

little sister. Aytül and I don’t bother ourselves with it. We sit in our room and do our

homework. But I feel hot inside. The apartment still smells of lahmacun.

That’s what we had for lunch. After we came from school Aytül und I immediately washed

our hands and had to help with the baking. „So one day when you have a husband, you can

make him lahmacun,“ my mother believed. Tuna didn’t help, and that’s when my mother

bellowed that all her daughters must be able to make lahmacun.

And Tuna said „Agsina sicim“ to her. Tuna could get away with everything. We weren’t

allowed to do as much as she was. But then Tuna helped. Aytül washed the dishes and I

dried and put them away and we ate lunch.

Now this time Tuna is going to get chased through the apartment. Tomorrow it’ll be my turn

or my older sister’s. Tuna seldom gets chased. I can’t do my homework because of the

noise. I still feel so hot inside. From the dining room across the living room, into the hallway,

into the orange-colored kitchen that my father built himself, back to the dining room – a

roundtrip, a roundchase. Tuna it‘s like playing „Tag“ on the field, but my mother is furious,

even I can gather that from my desk.

It takes a while until my mother catches her. Tuna laughs, it was fun. My mother drags my

sister to the bathroom in the hallway that had been extended and to the right of our

bedroom. She calls for Aytül and me to help. We get up from our table and go into the

bathroom. My mother is holding Tuna’s hands tightly, she’s pushed the little one onto the

floor and is pressing her right knee against the tiny body. Tuna fights back. She no longer

laughs, she’s afraid now.

Bislang hatte ich keine Angst. Die Angst kam später.Emine Beyer

Unser Dorf besteht aus zwei Teilen, im unteren Dorfteil wohnen Familienclans, die

sich für was Besseres halten und im oberen Dorf, wo die Mehrheit der Menschen sich

zusammengefunden hat , spielt sich das eigentliche tägliche Dorfleben ab.

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Ahmet, der Cousin meiner Mutter, der vierte von sieben Söhnen des Onkels Haci Mustafa,

mein Großcousin, heiratete seine Cousine Hacer, die zweitjüngste Tochter von elf Töchtern

der Tante Zeynep. Selbstverständlich waren wir, die Verwandten aus Deutschland, die

Almanci, nicht nur als Gäste eingeladen, sondern es war unsere größte Pflicht dort zu

erscheinen. Natürlich sollten wir die größten und schönsten Geschenke aus Deutschland,

Almanya, mitbringen, natürlich war es ein Radio, eine Motorsäge, oder wenigstens ein

Bügeleisen; aber die Krönung wäre ein Fleischwolf gewesen.

Unter freiem Himmel tanzte ich mit meinen Cousinen , auch mit der Braut. Der Tisch war

bedeckt mit einem selbstgehäkelten Tischtuch in einem filigranen Blumenmuster. In der

Mitte ein Arrangement aus roten Plastikrosen mit etwas grünem Efeu aufgelockert.

Plastikefeu. Mit meiner Zunge fuhr ich mir über die Lippen und schmeckte noch den Rest

Serbet. Rosenwasser, geröstete Pinienkerne und ein dickflüssiger Zuckersirup. Die schwere

Süße vertrieb mir die Müdigkeit nach dem vielen Tanzen mit meinen Cousinen, die ich drei

oder vier Jahre nicht gesehen hatte.

Ich bin auf dem Weg zur Toilette und es ist ein weiter Weg, den ich zurücklegen muss.

„ Psst, kiz, Emine!“ Zehra tritt aus der Dunkelheit einem Djinn gleich auf mich zu. „ Du hast

mich zu Tode erschreckt. Zehra was soll das?“ Zehra legt ihre strammen Arme um meine

Schultern und küsst mich mit einem wahnwitzigen Lachen auf die Stirn! Ich werde von ihren

dicken Brüsten fast erschlagen. „ Geh mit mir ein Stück des Weges. Ich will mit Dir etwas

bereden.“ Meine Leichtigkeit, meine Unbeschwertheit, sie verließen in diesem Moment

meinen Körper. Kaleidoskopartig sah ich die Bilder meiner Verlobung an mir vorüberziehen.

Ich fühlte mich gelähmt. Etwas stimmte nicht .

I wasn’t afraid before. The fear came laterEmine Beyer

Our village consists of two camps, in the lower part of the village live the family

clans who consider themselves to be somewhat better. And in the upper village, where the

majority has congregated the actual village daily life takes place.

Ahmet, my mother’s cousin and the fourth of Uncle Haci Mustafa’s seven sons, my second

cousin, married his cousin Hacer, the second youngest of Aunt Zeynep’s eleven daughters.

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Obviously, being the relatives from Germany ,“the Almanci”, we weren’t only invited as

guests, but rather it was our duty to attend. Of course we were expected to bring the biggest

and nicest gifts from Germany, Almanya. Of course this should be a radio, motorized saw, or

at least an electric iron; but the ultimate present would be a meat grinder.

I danced the Misket outside with my cousins, the joyful dance of our reunion. We seldom

danced with the bride. The wedding table was covered with a hand-crocheted tablecloth of a

delicate floral pattern. In the middle was an arrangement of red plastic roses, complemen-

ted with a bit of green plastic ivy. Plastic ivy!

I’m on my way to the toilet. A long way.

“Psst, Kiz, Emine!” Zehra approaches out of the darkness like a “djinn”. “You’ve frightened

me half to death! What is it?” Zehra puts her sturdy arms around my shoulders and with a

maniacal laugh kisses my forehead. Her heavy breasts almost crush me. “Walk with me. I

want to talk something over”, she whispers. My easy-going attitude and carefree nature

vanished at this moment. Pictures of my betrothal flashed by, as if seen through a

kaleidescope. She is, afterall, his sister-in-law flashed through my mind, his brother

Ibrahim’s wife. Back when I had called off our engagement, Hassan was not in agreement

and neither was his sister-in-law along with all the other kinsmen. I felt paralyzed.

Something wasn’t right. I sensed it clearly.

Then one incident follows another. I see Hassan in the semi-darkness, standing by the

house corner. He’s smoking. Zehra grabs me by the upper arm, pulls me in his direction.

Die Sehnsucht nach der FerneColette Eisenhuth

Dass ich in Belgien aufgewachsen bin, ist im Grunde genommen der pure Zufall: Dort bin

ich geboren und es gab für die Familie keinen Grund auszuwandern. Warum wollte ich es

aber tun? Warum habe ich es dann gewagt?

Die Sehnsucht, mein Kind,

die Sehnsucht nach der Ferne,

- würde der Wagemut flüstern:

Wenn die Anziehungskraft der Weite einmal größer wird

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Als die stumpfe Bequemlichkeit, im Vertrauten zu verharren,

dann musst du deinen Rucksack packen

und durch die Welt und das Leben wandern,

fremd, als Gast…

bis du dich irgendwann, irgendwo, selbst gefunden hast.

Mit sechs Jahren, erweiterte sich meine Kinderwelt über den Familienkreis hinaus: Schule

wurde angesagt. Im Klassenzimmer lernten wir Lesen, Schreiben und Rechnen, und noch

Geschichte und Erdkunde dazu. Aber es ist auf dem Pausenhof und in der Nachbarschaft,

wo ich, mit meinem Kinderverstand entdeckte, was Europa bedeutete. Und, um das

europäische Flair zu erleben, brauchten wir Kinder nicht viel zu reisen. Das konnten wir im

Alltag erleben…

Also, gab es für mich keinen Grund auszuwandern… Oder doch?

… Anscheinend bedarf es manchmal nur wenig, um das Rad des Lebens so oder so zu

drehen. Ja, wären nicht diese Briefe meines Cousins Manu gewesen, die seine spannenden

Begegnungen in den Regionen Afrikas, in denen er als Missionar tätig war, schilderten…

Seine Erzählungen raubten mir den Atem, beflügelten meine Träume. Dort war Leben und

ich wollte es erleben…

The longing for faraway placesColette Eisenhuth

That I grew up in Belgium is basically a matter of chance. I am simply born there and my

family had no reason to leave.

So why did I want to? Why then did I dare to?

The longing, my child, the longing for faraway places,

- the bold daring whispers:

When the attracting power of that which is distant

becomes stronger than dull rationalization,

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then you just have to pack your rucksack

and wander through the world and life,

as a stranger, as a guest …

until you somewhere, at some time find yourself.

For the first time, at the age of six, my child’s world expanded beyond the family circle: I

went to school. I learned reading, writing and arithmetic, as well as history and geography.

But it is out in the schoolyard and in the neighbourhood that I discovered, with a child’s

understanding, what “We in Europe” means. And in order to experience European flair, I

didn’t need to travel a lot. We children could experience that daily …

And so, for me there was no reason to leave … Or ?

… Apparently, it sometimes requires only a little to steer the wheel of life this way or that.

Yes, if it hadn’t been for my cousin’s letters. They told of his suspenseful encounters in the

regions of Africa where he did missionary work.

These tales reflected the people’s philosophy of life and their hopes. That’s where life was

and I wanted to experience it for myself…

Maria und Josef, WeihnachtsgeschichteHelga Klein

Es war vor Weihnachten, am 22. Dezember 1985, sehr frostig, eine dünne Schicht

Neuschnee hatte das dunkle Braun von Staub und Schmutz und das Elend zugedeckt. Wir

wanderten von Rumänien nach Deutschland aus.Wir hatten uns einen Schlafwagen bis

Budapest geleistet, um ein wenig zu Ruhe zu kommen. Die letzten Tage vor der Abreise

waren heftig, aufreibend, schlaflos. Alles musste weg aus der Wohnung, man durfte keinen

Besitz mehr haben vor der Ausreise. Das Klavier bereitete ein großes Geheule. Klein Ralph

wollte es nicht hergeben. Sein Kinderbett mit den bunten Holzstäben und vor allem mit dem

Spielzeug und der Jungenpuppe “Nözi“ wurde am Nachmittag abgeholt. Als letztes haben

wir noch Ralphs Holzschlitten einem Nachbarjungen gebracht.Tak tak ... tak tak der Zug

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rollte langsam an. Alle Freunde und einige Anverwandte waren am fast unbeleuchteten

Bahnhof von Schäßburg zurückgeblieben. Wir fuhren voller Mut und Zuversicht in eine neue

Welt. Jetzt hätten wir schlafen können, wir waren allein im Abteil, eine Kleinfamilie auf

weiter Reise in eine bessere Zukunft. Ralph kroch auf allen Vieren wieselflink über die

Schlaflager und fragte nach jedem Schalter, nach allem. Plötzlich Dunkelheit. Mein Mann

sagte, vielleicht ein Tunnel und Ralphs Kommentar: „Ceausescu hat das Licht genommen“.

Wir sofort „Pscht“, man könnte es hören, das wäre gefährlich.

Tak tak ... tak tak kaum war das Baby an meiner Brust eingeschla-fen, wurde die Tür des

Abteils aufgerissen – Zollkontrolle – Licht, blendend hell. Sie sahen sich um, nahmen

unsere beiden Pelzjacken vom Haken und sagten, darauf hätten wir kein Recht…

Tak tak ... tak tak, der Zug fuhr weiter, nach einem trüben Tag mit Schneetreiben wurde es

langsam wieder dunkel. In Erinnerung geblieben sind beleuchtete Tannenbäume,

angestrahlte Kirchen, alles weihnachtlich erhellt. Ich war geblendet, kannte solche Bilder nur

von Weihnachtskarten aus Deutschland. Wir kamen aus der vollkommenen Dunkelheit. Im

Sozialismus wurde gespart. Dieses viele Licht war, wunderbar! Weihnachten hatte

begonnen.

Maria and Josef, a Christmas storyHelga Klein

It was before Christmas the twenty-second of December 1985, very cold, a thin

layer of fresh snow covered the dark brown of dust and filth and misery. We emigrated from

Romania to Germany. We treated ourselves to a sleeping-car on the train to Budapest in

order to have some peace and quiet.

The final days before our departure were intense, exhausting, sleep-less. Everything had to

be out of the flat, you weren´t allowed to have any possessions before leaving. The piano

created a great deal of howling. Little Ralph, didn´t want to give it up. In the afternoon of

departure his bed was taken, the one with the colorful wooden bars and the toys and the

boy-doll “Nötzi”. Lastly, we brought Ralphs wooden sled to a neighbor´s boy.

Tak tak … tak tak the train rolled slowly on. All our friends and some relatives were left

behind at the practically unlit train station in Schäß-burg. We traveled, full of courage and

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confidence to a new world. Now we could be able to sleep, we were alone in the

compartment, a small family on a journey into a better future. Ralph crept on all fours over

the berth, as nimble as a weasel, and asked about everything. Suddenly, there was

darkness. Probably a tunnel, my husband said and Ralph`s comment: “Ceausescu took the

light”. We immediately said, “Ssssh”, someone might hear and that would be dangerous.

Tak tak … tak tak the baby was scarcely asleep at my breast when the compartment door

was thrown open - customs inspection - light, blindingly bright. They looked around and took

both our fur jackets off the hooks, saying it wasn´t within our rights to have them. They had

to be in the packing crates and declared along with our household…

Tak tak … tak tak, the train went onward. It slowly got darker after a sunless day and a

journey through driving snow. What has stuck in my memory are the litup Christmas trees in

front of many houses, the radiant churches, everything so Christmas-like bright. I was

blinded. I´d only known pictures like that from German Christmas cards. We came from total

darkness. Under socialism, everything was conserved. All this light now was unbelievable,

wonderful! I just couldn´t get enough of it! For me, Christmas had begun.

Verregnet, aber solideAnđelka Križanović

Als ich neunjährig an diesem verregneten Stuttgarter Busbahnhof ausstieg, hatte

ich bereits alle Angstreserven angezapft und aufgebraucht. Bis dahin war ich recht

verschwenderisch mit der Angst umgegangen, ob sie nun begründet, staatlich angeordnet

oder völliger Mumpitz war.

In Friedenszeiten leisteten wir uns den Luxus, uns vor völlig unsinnigen Dingen zu fürchten.

Ich hatte Angst vor wild gewordenen Muttersäuen, meine Mutter hatte Angst vor Pudeln und

ein Cousin hatte Angst, dass man ihm den Blinddarm vielleicht noch ein zweites Mal heraus

nimmt. Dann hatten wir Angst vor Wölfen, Füchsen und ominösen Todeswespen, die einem

nach dem dritten Einstich den sicheren Tod brachten.

Und dann gab es da noch die von oberster Stelle verordnete Angst. So erzählte uns unser

gütiger Landesvater, dass wir uns vor der ganzen Welt, vor allem vor den Italienern,

Österreichern und Bul-garen, nicht aber vor den Russen fürchten sollten. Nur die Kanonen

unserer siegreichen Volksarmee stünden zwischen uns und den hungrigen,

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zähnefletschenden Horden, die praktisch jederzeit in unser Land einfallen könnten. Gerade

Deutsche galten in unseren Schulbüchern als notorische Unruhestifter. Zudem hatten sie

bleiche Gesichter, blutunterlaufene Augen und sie schauten immer so böse.

Ich aber fürchtete mich am meisten vor der Polizei, die mich oder meine Eltern oder meine

Schwester eines Tages holen könnte. Später hatte ich Angst vor Uniformen und

Sondernachrichten im Fernsehen, die vielleicht berichten könnten, dass man unsere Stadt

eingenommen hat. Dann hatte ich Angst vor dem Sirenengeheul, das einen nachts aus dem

Bett jagte und durch die kalte, nasse Nacht in den Bunker rennen ließ.

Als ich also neunjährig an diesem verregneten Stuttgarter Busbahn-hof ausstieg, war da

keine Angst mehr übrig, die ich hätte haben können. Ich war ein neunjähriger Gallier, dem

nur noch der Himmel auf den Kopf fallen konnte. Und der Himmel über Deutschland war

zwar verregnet, aber solide. Die Angst eines ganzen Menschenalters in neun Jahren

aufgebraucht, konnte ich nur noch staunen.

Rainy, but solidAnđelka Križanović

That rainy day I arrived in Germany. I was nine and I was fearless. Fear is like any other

resource, like money or gold, you put reserves on a bank account and you draw the fear out

whenever you need it or you think it's appropriate or you're told to. And I had used up all my

fear.

The government occasionally reminded us to be afraid and instantly I would turn into a

fearful and obedient citizen, at the age of seven or eight or nine. Sometimes fear was a

natural thing, because dangerous things actually happened. But most of the time we were

afraid of stupid stuff. My mother was afraid of poodles. A cousin was afraid he'd have to

have his appendix removed for the second time. I for my part was afraid of wild and

furious...sows. I was afraid of mad wolves and foxes and particularly murderous wasps that

could kill you in an instant.

Our president told us stories like only a father would do. „Be afraid of Italians, Austrians and

Bulgarians. Don't fear the Russians...“- „Only the cannons of our victorious army are

standing between us and the bloodthirsty hordes who can at any moment invade our

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country...“ Germans were particularly nasty people. They were notorious troublemakers in

our school books. They were pale, had bloodshot eyes and an evil look.

Soon I was afraid of the police and that they might get my parents and my sister one day.

How convenient for my uncle to pick up the phone and pretend to make a report to the

police when I was misbehaving. Later I was afraid of uniforms and special news reports

saying our city will soon be occupied. I was afraid of sirens that made us jump out of our

beds in pyjamas and run to the bunker through the cold, wet night.

So when I got off at that bus terminal in Stuttgart 18 years ago, I had seen it all. Used up all

my fear. Overdrawn the account. I was a nine-year-old Asterix and now only the sky could

fall on my head. And the sky over Germany was rainy, but solid. What else could possibly

bother me? With the fear of a lifetime gone in nine years, I was standing there, in

amazement.

Eine ErinnerungJanez Travner

Janka, meine Cousine war damals erst knapp zwei Jahre alt. Sie konnte noch nicht

laufen. Es war Krieg. Ihre Knochen waren möglich-erweise leicht rachitisch aber sie kam

auch mit dem Krabbeln gut zu recht. Man hatte den Eindruck, sie konnte fast überall

gleichzeitig zur Stelle sein.

Es war ein kriegsgrauer Morgen. Unsere Mütter waren gerade mit Mahlzeiten richten

beschäftigt, auf die kleinen Kinder musste man nicht sonderlich Acht geben. Meistens haben

sie mit uns etwas größeren Kindern gespielt. Die Gefahr kam nicht vom Hof. Die Ställe

waren schon seit längerem leer geplündert und die Pferde von den Weiden geholt. Die

wenigen Handwerker im Dorf sind Krieger geworden. Janka aber traute dieser mit

krachender Spannung über-ladenden Idylle wohl nicht ganz. Fast immer, wenn sich im Dorf

etwas verändert hat, etwas unsichtbares, wurde sie nervös und krabbelte los.

Über die Kleider der Janka konnte man nicht reden, es war eine große Windel, eine kleine

Windel und irgend ein selbst genähtes Hemdchen darüber. Füße sowie Hände waren nicht

bekleidet. Das Haupt schmückte eine Babymütze.

19

Die Straße die sich so geheimnisvoll durch unser kleines Dorf schlängelte, haben die

Dorfbewohner die Weißestrasse genannt. Dank weißen Staubwolken, die sich immer wieder

erhoben, wenn sich irgendetwas auf der Fahrbahn abspielte.

Nicht so an diesem sonst so viel versprechenden sonnigen Tag. Ich selbst war mit wichtigen

Dingen beschäftigt. Wir aus der größeren Kindergruppe waren gerade dabei, die von den

Fliegern gestreute „Lamettas“ aufzusammeln. Plötzlich wurde es um uns herum

ungewöhnlich still, die Spannung steigerte sich von Sekunde zu Sekunde, Niemand konnte

sich recht vorstellen was kommen wird. Es hing etwas Bedrohliches über uns allen, die Luft

vibrierte. Die grölenden Bomber waren nicht mehr hörbar.

Allen Dorfbewohnern erstarrte das Blut in den Adern, keiner mehr war bewegungsfähig,

niemand wusste sich zu helfen, die Angst war zu gewaltig. Die ersten stählernen

Ungeheuer wurden sichtbar.

A MemoryJanez Travner

My cousin Janka was barely two years old at the time. She couldn’t walk yet.There

was war. Her bones were probably a bit rachitic, and she did just fine with crawling. You had

the impression she could be everywhere at the same time.

It was a grey wartorne morning. Our mothers were busy preparing the meals, you didn´t

have to pay any special attention to the small children. Most of the time, they played with us

older kids. The danger didn´t come from the farmyard. The stalls, long since plundered,

stood empty and the horses had been taken from the fields. The few workmen in the village

had become soldiers. Janka however didn´t completely trust this noisy tension laden idyll.

Almost always, whenever something in the village changed, something invisible, the little girl

not nervous and crawled off.

As for Janka´s clothes, there isn`t much to say. They consisted of a big diaper, a small

diaper and some sort of homemade shirt over that. Feet as well as hands were naked. A

baby hat decorated her head.

The street which wove its way so mysteriously through our little village, was called the White

Street by the villagers. Thanks to the white couds of dust that rose from it whenever any

action occurred there.

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Not so on this otherwise promising, sunny day. I was busy with important things. Those of us

older children were just now collecting “tinsel” scattered from the warplanes. Suddenly, it

became unusually still around us. The tension mounted from one second to the next.

Nobody could imagine what was going to happen. Something threatening hung over us all,

the air vibrated. The roaring bombers could no longer be heard.

All the villagers` blood froze in their veins. No one was able to move, nobody knew to help,

the fear was too over-powering. The first steely monster appeared, the earth trembled. On

its heavy steel chains, as if controlled by magic, a tremendous mass of iron pushed itself

onward, armed with man-killing equipment. Soldiers sat behind. They probably saw nothing;

they had failed to see us, the little girl and me.

21

22

Il gruppo italianoCoordinatore Heide Wilm Guerrini

Tutor Maria Scolaro

23

All’inizio, Heide ed io eravamo un po’ preoccupate e il futuro ci sembrava pieno di

incognite. Invece, fortunatamente abbiamo incontrato una manciata di belle persone,

interessate e disponibili. Però non eravamo ‘un gruppo’, e lavorare con tante, diverse

mentalità poteva rivelarsi problematico. Abbiamo previsto percuò incontri il cui scopo primo

era creare un ambiente confortevole in tutti i sensi, un posto virtuale dove ciascuno potesse

sentirsi accolto, mai giudicato e libero di esprimersi. Ho scelto, quindi, alcune parole da cui

partire, parole significative che potessero aiutarci a trovare una visione più chiara di noi

stessi e di chi ci sta accanto. Identità, e poi Destino, Nostalgia di casa, Religione (difficile

accostarvisi…), Integrazione, Pregiudizio. Questi sono problemi solo per gli immigrati? Oggi

crediamo di poter dire che ogni essere umano ha nel profondo del cuore questi temi che ci

interrogano, solo che spesso siamo troppo occupati per accorgercene fino a quando le

circostanze non ci costringono a prenderci del tempo e a cercare di capire. La maggior parte

dei nostri brani tratta dei sentimenti, delle emozioni e delle opinioni scaturite nei nostri

incontri. Solo raramente abbiamo ‘letto ad alta voce’ quello che veniva scritto, più spesso

abbiamo avuto proficui e interessanti ‘scambi’ orali. I testi sono stati scritti in italiano, solo

occasionalmente corretti per grammatica o lessico e poi tradotti in inglese.

Essere un gruppo si è rivelata una parte importante del nostro progetto, e l’abbiamo

incoraggiata organizzando cene aperte a tutti e cercando di farci coinvolgere in qualunque

evento, specialmente pubblico, che avesse relazione con gli immigrati e la loro-nostra vita.

Pensiamo e speriamo che questo ci permetterà di continuare a lavorare insieme e creare

una sorta di ‘laboratorio’ permanente, che ci guidi verso una migliore comprensione

reciproca e una maggiore coesione sociale.

Alcuni scrittori hanno lasciato il gruppo per eventi imprevedibili; una scrittrice ha chiesto di

non essere pubblicata, decisione che noi abbiamo accettata e rispettata.

E’ stata una bellissima avventura, per la quale mi sento grata verso tutti quelli che l’hanno

resa possibile.

The Italian Group

Coordinator Heide Wilm Guerrini Tutor Maria Scolaro

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When all this started, Heide and I were a bit worried and the future seemed full of

uncertainties. We were lucky, though, and met a handful of very nice and cooperative

people. Yet we were not a group and working with so many different mentalities could have

proved puzzling. So, together with Heide, we planned a series of meetings, whose chief

purpose was to create a comfortable environment, a virtual place where everybody would

have the opportunity to feel welcomed and absolutely not judged, free to express

themselves. I chose a few words to start with, but words which could help us have a clearer

vision of ourselves and the others around. Identity, first of all, and then Destiny,

Homesickness, Religion (hard to deal with…), Integration, Prejudice. Were they only an

immigrant’s matter? Today we can state that every human being has got these powerful

issues deep in their heart, except that we are often too busy to decipher them till

circumstances compel us to take time and try to understand. Most autobiographical

passages deal actually with the feelings, emotions or opinions arisen during our meetings.

Very seldom we ‘read aloud’ what had been written, more often we had intriguing oral

exchanges. The texts were written in Italian and only occasionally corrected as for grammar

rules or lexis. They were finally translated into English.

Being a group slowly became an important part of our project, which we encouraged

organizing dinner parties with ‘writers’, their families and friends, of whatever nationality; in

addition we tried to get involved in any event, especially public, related to immigrants and

their-our life. We feel this approach will give us the chance to go on working aiming at the

creation of a permanent ‘workshop’ for a better mutual understanding and social cohesion.

A few writers abandoned the group due to family reasons or unpredictable events, while one

of them asked us not to publish her autobiography, a decision we decided to accept and

respect.

It has been a wonderful adventure, for which I feel grateful to all the people who made I

possible.

Bismillah Rahmani RahiveBouchra Ait Azou

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Così cominciano i racconti nella cultura araba, islamica, e vuol dire “IN NOME DI

ALLAH MISERICORDIOSO”.

E’ il 15 settembre 2009 a Faenza ma a casa mia sarebbe il 27 Kida 1430 dell’anno islamico,

ch inizia con il viaggio di Mohammad, il profeta di Allah, verso Al Medina, la città in Arabia

Saudita dove il profeta ha cominciato a comunicare il suo messaggio.

Casa dolce casa!

Si trova immersa in un quartiere popolare della città di Rabat, la capitale del Marocco; è una

casa a tre piani e la terrazza sembrava un giardino, piena di piante curate dalla mamma; al

secondo piano si trova una camera da letto con tre letti ma non sono letti come qui, sono

divani arabi, molto colorati, come la terrazza della mamma; il mio si trova sotto la finestra.

Sono le sei del mattino, da fuori arriva una voce che rompe il silenzio del vicolino dove abito,

una voce stanca, un po’ vecchia “WAANAA” Menta Fresca…mia sorella Amina, che è più

grande di me, borbottava “Uffa! Ma questo non muore mai?!” E’ l’uomo che vende la menta

fresca, con il suo asino affaticato con gli occhi semichiusi…ecco che sento i passi della mia

mamma, che sta scendendo le scale quasi carezzandole…per forza, la mamma è ‘di

città’,della città di Fez, la città della raffinatezza e dell’etiquette…Era così fine anche nel

modo di parlare, di chiedere le cose, aveva sempre un sorriso sereno disegnato sulle sue

labbra piccolissime, con il vestito a mano e il foulard abbinato…

Adesso che sto scrivendo di lei, mi sembra di vedere le sue belle mani, sempre curate con

l’henné e i suoi braccialetti d’argento… Ecco che arriva il profumo del tè verde con la menta

fresca che ha comprato la mamma dall’ uomo della menta, ma non solo menta anche latte

fresco per fare il caffélatte per me perché ancora adesso, ci vivo la mattina col caffélatte.

Sento la voce di mamma e la sentirò sempre…

Bouchra Ait Azou è nata a Rabat, in Marocco, nel 1967. Vive a Faenza, è sposata e ha tre

figli.

Bismillah Rahmani RahiveBouchra Ait Azou

So begin tales in my country and in Arabic it means “ In the name of The All-

Compassionate”

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It’s Nov 15, at home, here in Faenza, but it’d be Kida 27th 1430 of the Muslim Calendar,

which begins with the journey of Mohammed, Allah’s Prophet, to Medina, where he first

announced his message.

“Home sweet Home”

My home is immersed in a popular area of Rabat, the capital city of Morocco. It’s on three

floors, with a flat roof, as nice as a garden, full of plants, lovingly looked after by Mum. A bed

room on the second floor, with three beds, not real beds actually, I mean not similar to the

ones I have now. They’re couches, colourful Arabic couches, all-coloured and fanciful as

Mum’s garden. My bed is below the window…it’s 6 in the morning and a voice from the

outside breaks the silence of the lane where I live. A tired voice, an old person’s voice:

”Waanaa!…..Fresh Mint!…”. Amina, my older sister gets annoyed, starts snorting…he’s

always here…It’s a man who sells fresh mint, with his donkey, poor old donkey, the eyes

half-closed, so tired…And here’s Mum,.

Mum…I can still hear her going down the stairs, softly as if caressing the steps. This is

typical of Mum; of course it is: she was born in a town, Fes, the realm of refinement and

etiquette. She was like this, she was always like this: the way she spoke, the way she

cooked, the way she asked for something…she always had a calm smile on her tiny lips…

her hand-embroidered dress and the matching scarf…I’m writing about her now as I were

looking at her, at her hands, with nice henna decorations and her silver bangles…

She goes down for some fresh mint, early in the morning, caressing the step of our three-

storey house. And here it is , the smell of green tea and fresh mint mum has just bought

from the mint-man, but non only mint, raw milk too to prepare white coffee for me …you

know, even now,

I can hear mum’s voice, I always will…

Bouchra Ait Azou was born in Rabat, Morocco, in 1967: She lives in Faenza, is married and

has got three sons.Destino

Parimal Bhattacherjee

Proverbio bengalese:

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Tre cose dipendono dal Destinola nascita – la morte – il matrimonio

Pensando a come sono andate le cose, mi sembra proprio che è stato il mio destino a farmi

incontrare mio marito. Non era programmato né previsto, semplicemente è successo. Il mio

destino ha deciso che dovevo vivere in Italia e non in India. In questo grande cambiamento,

oltre a mio marito mi ha aiutato molto la mia cultura indiana, quella che ho respirato nella

mia giovinezza. Perché già da piccola ero abituata alla presenza delle altre culture e delle

altre religioni: per me, l’esistenza dell’altro è sempre stata più che naturale. L’induismo del

novecento, l’induismo di Gandhi e Tagore, insegna che tutte le religioni sono uguali e

predica la massima tolleranza. Gandhi dà un messaggio di armonia tra le diverse

componenti, mentre la profonda spiritualità di Tagore lo portò a cercare un punto di incontro

fra India e occidente. Sento molto anche l’insegnamento di Sri Ramakrishna, per cui tutte le

religioni sono valide per arrivare alla meta suprema. Come egli dice: “Quante sono le fedi

tante sono le vie”.Per questo è stato molto difficile per me accettare l’idea che solamente

una religione ha l’esclusiva per la salvezza dell’anima. Poi, non posso negare che mi è

sempre mancata la mia famiglia di origine, specialmente i miei fratelli; ho ancora negli occhi

e addosso il sole, i colori, gli odori, sapori e profumi d’India. Una notte di luna piena mi fa

ricordare quando mi sdraiavo sul terrazzo di casa a guardare le nuvole bianche e leggere,

che passavano sopra di me, e la mia fantasia creava strani animaletti. Le spezie, il loro

profumo, la dolce melodia di una musica lontana… ma il tempo non si ferma per nessuno.

Indietro non si può tornare. Ho fatto quello che ritenevo giusto in quel momento, ma era

scritto nel mio destino, in quel pezzo di carta e con quella penna che i genitori mettevano,

una volta, nella camera da letto di ogni neonato affinché il Dio Destino potesse scriverci

quello che, chissà dove e chissà quando, è stato deciso per ciascuno di noi.

Così racconta una credenza popolare del mio paese. E così è stato.

Parimal Bhattacherjee è nata a Howrah, In India, nel 1948. Vive a Faenza e ha una figlia.Destiny

Parimal Bhattacherjee

Bengali proverb.

Three things depend on destiny: Birth – Death – Marriage

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Going back in time, I can definitely say my destiny was my husband. It hadn’t been

planned, it simply happened. My Destiny decided I had to live in Italy not in India. A really

big change for me; I got the help and support of my husband but an important part was my

Indian culture, the one I breathed during my youth as, since I was a kid, I got used to other

cultures, to other religions: I’ve always been conscious of the presence of the ‘Other’, I’ve

always thought it was a natural part of life. Hinduism, especially in the 20th century, through

the words of Gandhi and Tagore, teaches that all religions are one and good and preaches

the utmost form of tolerance. Gandhi message tells us of harmony among all aspects of life,

while it was a very deep spirituality that brought Tagore to seek a bridge between India and

the western world. Very strong was the influence of Sri Ramakrishna, who says that all the

religions are good to get to the supreme destination. As his words go ”So many faiths so

many paths”. That’s why it was so difficult for me to accept the idea that an only religion is

the one which can assure the salvation of our souls. Moreover I can’t deny I missed my

Indian family, my brothers…I still have in my eyes and on my body the sunshine, the

colours, smells, tastes and perfumes of India. A night by the moonlight reminds me of past

times when I used to lie down on the terrace, there in my faraway house, me, a fanciful kid,

who looked at airy clouds and created magic little pets. Spices, perfumes, a sweet melody in

the distance…but Time never stop. It never will. You can’t go back.

What I did was the right thing, but it was written in my Destiny, on the small piece of paper

and with the pen that, according to an old Bengali tradition, parents used to put in the room

of every newborn baby for the God of destiny to write the baby’s DESTINY.

Parimal Bhattacherjee was born in Howrah, India. She lives in Faenza and has got one

daughter.

La mia mezza melaAdriana Cela

Quella lunga notte d'inverno abbiamo progettato la nostra vita insieme. Ci serviva

poco: un lavoro per lui, una casa in affitto e pochi soldi, soldi che nessuno aveva. Lui è

ritornato in Italia per mettere da parte quello che ci serviva. Io invece avevo un lavoro che mi

piaceva ma poi… “Mi vuoi raggiungere?” Ho pensato a mille cose: genitori, amici, il mio

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lavoro, il mio mondo…ma la sua voce commossa era più importante. “Si!”-ho detto!..........Lui

dormiva accanto a me mentre viaggiavamo verso la nostra casa, che avevo sognata e che

avrei arredata come mi piaceva. Ci saremmo divertiti, tutta la notte fuori senza nessuno ad

aspettarci sveglio, ma essere insieme era la cosa più importante perché io senza di lui non

sapevo vivere, era quello che mi mancava, quello che m’integrava, “l’altra metà della mela”.

Ora dormiva accanto a me, e io stavo male, mi mancava l’aria, volevo urlare “Basta”! Ma

cosa? Cosa non andava e mi faceva perdere lacrime amare? Era tutto come previsto, come

sognato, ma qualcosa non calcolato mi faceva star male. Lui non era “la metà della mela”, io

e lui eravamo la metà, l’altra metà era rimasta indietro nel paese delle mele e io mi sentivo

un quarto di mela buttata nel paese delle pere, del quale non sapevo niente. Per la prima

volta ho capito il vero significato della parola “straniera”. Per la prima volta e non l’ultima mi

sono sentita straniera. Quando conoscevo qualcuno, una domanda era sempre presente, e

mi sembrava di vederla scritta sulla faccia dell’altro prima che lui me la chiedesse; mi

sorrideva, mi salutava e qualche secondo dopo…fatto! Non ne avevo mai colto il significato,

ma non mi piaceva. Ricordo una signora: ” Ma suo marito è UNO DI NOI, vero?!” “No, viene

dallo spazio, è un alieno come me!”- ho risposto (ma solo dentro di me). Ma perché tutti

speravano che io avessi un uomo “di qua”? Forse cosi sarei cambiata, avrei dimenticato le

mie tradizioni, la mia famiglia non sarebbe “cosi straniera”, lo sarebbe solo a metà…Perché

non ci volevano accettare cosi come eravamo, con le nostre diversità, perché dobbiamo

essere uguali a tutti i costi? Anche se pensarci bene la diversità non c’è!

Adriana Cela è nata a Lushnje, Albania, nel 1982. Vive a Castelbolognese, è sposata e ha

una figlia.

My better halfAdriana Cela

On that long winter night we planned our life together: We didn’t need so much, just

a job for him, a house to rent and some money. So he went back to Italy, to work and save.

As for me, I did have a job which I liked very much…but and one night: “Do you want to join

me?” I went frantic, thinking of parents, friends, my job, all my world, but his moving, tender

voice was more important than everything else. “Yes!” I said……..Now he was sleeping next

to me, while traveling towards our home, the long desired home I would furnish and

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embellish as I wished. We would have a wonderful time together, we would spend all the

night out and nobody would be waiting for us. HE was what I missed, what made me

complete, ‘my better half’! My better half was now sleeping next to me and I felt bad, I felt

very bad, I wanted to shout: “ Stop!”. Why ‘stop’? What was wrong? What made me cry so

painfully? Everything was as I had planned it, as I had dreamt of, but something,

unpredictable, was hurting me. He was NOT my better half, he and me were one half, while

the other had been left behind, in the country of the apples, and I saw myself as a quarter of

an apple marooned in the country of pears. And then came for me the time to understand

the meaning of the word ‘foreigner’. For the first time but not the last I felt I was a foreigner.

Almost any time I met somebody the question was always the same. I could read that

question on the very face of people, even before he asked me…he was there, smiling,

greeting me and a few seconds later…done! I didn’t know the exact meaning but I didn’t like

it, it was not a real question. I remember a lady: ”Your husband IS ONE OF US, isn’t he?”

“NNOOO, he comes from the outer space, like me, I’m an alien!”, I answered ( silently to

myself…). I couldn’t stand it! Why everybody seemed to think, to hope, that my husband

were ‘from here’? Maybe, if so, I could change, and forget my traditions and my family

wouldn’t be ‘foreigner’, maybe only ‘half-foreigner’…Why couldn’t they accept us the way we

were and are. But there are so many differences?

Adriana Cela was born in Lushnje, Albania, in 1982. She lives in Castelbolognese, She is

married and has a daughter.

Canzone per mio padreMariana Cova

Sono nata in Argentina, nella provincia di Córdoba, in una città dallo stesso nome,

Córdoba, in un quartiere meraviglioso pieno di alberi, frutteti, spazi verdi e aria pura e

delicata, pieno di bambini per giocare e socializzare. Adoravo i miei genitori, guardavo la

mia mamma con rispetto e a volte paura, avevo invece un eccellente rapporto con il mio

babbo che mi riempiva di attenzioni e amore. Mi raccontava, anziché favole, della sua Italia,

della gente, degli amici, dei parenti e della gioia nella sua famiglia e della tristezza della

guerra. Io attenta ascoltavo e sognavo un giorno di riuscire a conoscere il paese dei suoi

ricordi. La Scuola elementare l’ho frequentata in una scuola di suore, gentili e affettuose, le

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medie e superiori nello stesso collegio, una delle parti migliori della mia vita: illusioni,

speranza, progetti, la vera amicizia e l’innamorarsi. Ma sempre pensavo all’Italia, i posti

della famiglia, degli amici, i luoghi di mio padre. L’università si è dimostrata fantastica;

studiavo, lavoravo, ma già avevo scoperto il mio vero amore, la musica: abbiamo formato un

gruppo musicale, cantavamo a quattro voci.! I ricordi, le persone conosciute in quel periodo

e i momenti vissuti mi basterebbero per essere felice durante tutta la mia vita .E pensavo

sempre all’Italia. La mia vita di artista ebbe il suo massimo splendore quando dopo un

concorso entrai nel coro lirico della provincia di Córdoba. Cantare opere, recitare e

guadagnarmi da vivere con la musica era il massimo! Però sempre il mio cuore e i miei

pensieri volavano al paese del mio babbo. Finalmente le circostanze, il mio spirito

avventuriero e i ricordi di mio padre mi portarono in Italia a sperimentare quello che aveva

sperimentato lui, conoscere la sua famiglia che era anche la mia, i suoi amici e i suoi luoghi,

conoscere la gioia, la serenità e l’amore che mi raccontava anche se tutto ciò non mi è mai

mancato in Argentina.

Mariana Cova è nata a Cordoba, Argentina, nel 1959. E’ sposata e vive a Faenza.

Song for my fatherMariana Cova

I was born in Argentina, in the province of Cordoba, in a town with the same name,

Cordoba, in a wonderful district full of trees, orchards, green open areas, clean air and lots

of children to play with. I deeply loved my parents, looked at Mom respectfully, sometimes

almost fearing her, but my relationship with Dad was wonderful. He used to pamper me, told

me stories, but not fairy tales…tales about Italy, the people there, relatives, friends, about

life there, happy moments and how sad war had been. I was fascinated and dreamt of being

able to see the country of his memories one day. I attended Primary School in a school run

by Nuns, kind and tender, actually. Secondary School was in the same Boarding School,

one of the best periods in my life: ambitions, true friends, delusions, singing, dancing, plans

for the future, falling in love….and love for music, too, but somewhere deep in my heart I

32

kept on dreaming of Italy, of my family’s places. And success as a singer and university…

and wonderful friends….but Italy stood there. University time was brilliant. I studied, had a

part-time job but, very important, I discovered my true passion: music. We formed a band, a

quartet of four singers.The memories of what we did, the people we met, the wonderful

moments together …I think I could live on memories and be happy with them! At last

circumstances, need for adventures, my dad’s memories took me to Italy. I wanted to live

what he had lived, meet his family, experiment the happiness, joy, love Dad used to talk

about even if all this had never be lacking in Argentina. It was Italy I longed for.

Mariana Cova was born in Cordoba, Argentina, in 1959. She lives in Faenza and she is

married.

L’uomo della medicinaOmar Giama

Sembra incredibile! L’uomo che ho davanti a me, un medico di successo, in giacca

e camicia, una leggera barba che sta ingrigendo e che nei neri fa tanto Nelson Mandela e li

fa somigliare a ‘vecchi saggi’, quest’uomo una volta correva nella savana: E ora mi sta

raccontando una storia singolare, più che una storia un crocevia di identità, di famiglie perse

e ritrovate, una storia che si mescola con la Storia, quella insegnata nei libri occidentali e

quella tramandata oralmente dai padri africani ai loro figli e ai figli dei figli, cosicché tutti

sono poi capaci di snocciolare i nomi di almeno una dozzina di antenati…cosa che, se io ci

provo, mi fermo al bisnonno…E’ la storia di Omar Mohamud Giama, italiano, la cui

discendenza, italiana, un giorno ha compiuto il percorso a ritroso e ha ritrovato, in Tanzania,

il tassello mancante della propria mulatta e unica identità.

Omar era nato nel sud della Somalia nel 1957, in un villaggio chiamato Bulo Yak, abitato

dalla tribù dei Wasigua, una minoranza bantù di origine tanzaniana, deportata in Somalia

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nell’800 dai mercanti arabi come forza lavoro agricola. I cinquecento uomini che riuscirono a

fuggire si insediarono più a sud nei pressi del fiume Giuba e qui nacque Omar, figlio del

capo tribù Mohamud Giama. Fu terzo di nove fratelli e fu chiamato come il secondo ‘Califfo

Ben Guidato’ della religione islamica, a cui la famiglia si era convertita pur conservando

tradizioni animiste e antichi rituali. E gli imperscrutabili disegni celesti hanno voluto che

Omar ‘il sapiente’, figlio di uno stimato guaritore, sia poi diventato un medico.

“Nel 1966 una terribile carestia prostrò il mio villaggio. I ‘saggi’ si riunirono per discutere

incoraggiati da un prete missionario: chi si poteva mandare in Italia, a chi si poteva offrire

una diversa opportunità di vita? Certamente non il figlio primogenito del capo e, per

scaramanzia, neanche il secondo. E se fosse stato il terzo? Sì, si poteva fare un tentativo. E

così fu, nonostante le lacrime di mia madre. Io stesso non posso dire di essere stato

contento, anzi scappai nella foresta verso un villaggio vicino. Naturalmente mi ripescarono

presto. “Perché sei scappato? Starai bene lontano da qui.” “Se è così…perché la mamma

piange?” “ Le donne non sanno fare niente, piangono e basta!”

Omar Giama è nato in Somalia nel 1957. Vive a Faenza, è sposato e ha due figlie.A ‘Medicine Man’

Omar Giama

Incredible! The man in front of me, a successful doctor wearing jacket and shirt, a light

grayish shadow, kind of Nelson Mandela, which makes black people look like old wise men,

well, he used to run in the savannah one day. And this man is telling me a very singular

story, more than a story a crossroads of identities, of families lost and regained a story

which mixes up with History taught in western books and the History orally handed down

from African fathers to sons and the sons of sons. So this is the story of Omar Mohamud

Giama, an Italian citizen, whose Italian descendants decided one day to go back and retrace

to the root of their mixed up, unique identity.

Omar was born in southern Somalia in 1957, in a village called Bulo Yak, inhabited by the

Wasigua, a Bantu minority tribe of Tanzanian origin, deported to Somalia as farm laborers in

the 19th century. Five hundred people managed to break free and settled down along the

river Jubba. That’s where Omar was born, the son of the tribal chief Mohamud Giama. He

was the third of nine brothers, named Omar after the second of the four ‘Rightly Guided

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Caliphs’ of Islamism, to which the family had converted even if retaining animistic traditions

and ancient rituals. And the unfathomable divine plans decided for Omar “the wise man”,

son of a ‘medicine man’, to become a doctor himself. - In 1966 a terrible famine prostrated

my village Bulo Yak. The wise old men of my tribes gathered to discuss, encouraged by a

missionary priest: who should be sent to Italy, who should be offered a different opportunity?

Certainly not the first-born of the tribal chief and not the second born…to avoid bad luck!

What about the third? Yes, they could make an attempt. And so they did, careless of my

Mum crying. I can’t say I myself agreed with all this. I fled away into the forest towards a

nearby village. I was easily found out: ‘Why did you flee away? You’ll be much better in the

place you’re going to’.

‘If so… why’s Mum crying?” “ Women can’t do anything good. They just cry” –

Omar Giama was born in Bulo Yak, Somalia, in 1957. He lives in Faenza, is married and

has got two daughters.

Questa è la mia casa, per ora.Larysa Godovanets

Cosa è una casa? Un posto dove incontrare parenti e amici, rilassarsi, discutere,

prendere decisioni, dormire e mangiare, in poche parole ‘vivere’. Pure nella vita succedono

delle cose e per una ragione o l’altra devi lasciare la tua casa: può essere bella da uscire di

testa, confortevole, carina, piccola, grande, lussuosa, anche solo una capanna di legno, è

sempre un posto dove ti senti protetta, al sicuro, un’isola di pace e tranquillità, lontano dalla

vita caotica che viviamo di solito.

Non mi sarei mai aspettato di lasciare anch’io la mia casa, per cambiare la mia vita con la

speranza di migliorare le cose che mi sono capitate, soprattutto per cambiare lo stato

d’animo, per scappare dai problemi sentimentali (anche all’estero, per cambiare mentalità,

modo di vivere), per aprire nuovi orizzonti, prospettive, opportunità, avventure, per provare

qualcosa di diverso. Ero pronta per farlo, sicura di me, lo sapevo! Ma dubbi e paure erano

presenti sempre: la più difficile era la decisione di allontanarsi dalla casa, dove era tutta la

mia vita. Mi è capitato un viaggio in Italia. Perché Italia? Ci sono persone che quando

parlano dell’Italia o sentono gli altri si trasformano completamente: gli occhi diventano lucidi,

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si riempiono di entusiasmo e ammirazione, il fiato si interrompe dalle emozioni. Tutte queste

persone amano Italia non conoscendola realmente, perché hanno letto, ne hanno sentito

parlare, hanno studiato a scuola, hanno visto film o famose opere d’arte e sperano che il

loro desiderio in qualche modo sarà realizzato. E quando succede, arrivano alle condizioni

di follia. Non sanno spiegare, non riescono a capire perché gli altri non condividono i loro

sentimenti. E’ qualcosa nel sangue? Io sono una di loro. E forse è per questo che sono qua.

Certamente la realtà è molto diversa, non quella che si presenta ai turisti che godono della

bellezza delle città d’arte, non quella che dà la gioia per rilassarsi su fantastiche spiagge.

La vita di un italiano comune trascorre purtroppo non cosi, la realtà è un po’ diversa. Qui

comunque adesso trascorre la mia vita quotidiana con le sue passioni e preoccupazioni, con

le gioie e offese, con realizzazioni e fallimenti. In questa vita io sono arrivata e per il

momento posso dire che questa è la mia casa.

Larysa Godovanets è nata a Lugansk, Ucraina, nel 1974. Vive a Faenza.This is my home, as for now.

Larysa Godovanets

What is a home? A place where to meet relatives and friends, where to relax,

tdiscuss problems, take decisions, where you can sleep and have meals, in short it’s where

you live. Yet things happen in life and for one reason or another we must leave our home: it

may be gorgeous and comfortable, nice or just cosy, small or large, or maybe luxurious; or

even a simple wooden hut, it is always a place where we feel protected, safe, a haven of

peace and relax, far from the chaotic life we usually live.

I would have never dreamt of leaving home myself, one day! But I did, ‘cause I wanted to

change my life following the hope for a better life ( abroad? why? different mentality, different

way of life!), to leave behind love problems as far as you can, to open up new horizons, new

opportunities and adventures, to experiment something new. I felt I had to do it, I was ready,

but doubts and fears were always with me: the most difficult decision was to leave home, all

my world.

But things happen. And so Italy. Why Italy? Simply somebody offered me the opportunity to

come to Italy. People in my country love Italy very much; you can see them, their shining

eyes, their enthusiasm!! But they don’t actually know Italy: They heard about it, saw films o

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works of art, they maybe studied something at school. They wish to live as the Italians do

and if they can make this dream come true they get crazy with joy. They can’t explain this

fascination, don’t understand why other people are not prey of it, it’s in their genes?? I’m

one of them. So I’m here now. Real life was different of course, not only art cities or

wonderful beaches but ordinary life, the life of common people.

My life now is here, my daily routine flows away with its passions and its worries, happiness

and injuries, when you win and when you loose.

Here I came and this is my home, as for now.

Larysa Godovanets was born in Lugansk, Ukraine, in 1974 and lives in Faenza.

I colori della mia vitaAmissăo Lima

NeroQuanti episodi di diversi aspetti possono essere determinati dalla diversità del colore della

pelle? Tanti! Ma per il momento ne cito uno che mi sembra divertente o piacevole da sentire,

soprattutto se i protagonisti del fatto sono i bambini ( una fase di età in cui l’essere umano è

così sincero, naturale o trasparente). Nell’anno 1987 mi trovai a Gravina di Puglia per la mia

prima personale di pittura, grazie all’invito di alcuni amici pugliesi. Durante il mio soggiorno

sul posto fui invitato a pranzo da una famiglia (parente di quella che mi ospitava), Entrando

in casa incontrai due gemelline di circa tre anni di età. Dopo aver salutato i genitori, diedi la

mano anche a loro. Ognuno guardava la propria mano poi si sono guardate tra di loro ma

non dissero nulla. Mi fecero accomodare nella sala da pranzo. Dopo qualche istante la

padrona di casa iniziò a portare i cibi in tavola. E siccome di abitudine si lavano le mani

prima di mangiare, le gemelline mi mostrarono il bagno. Presi il sapone, aprii il rubinetto e

iniziai a lavarmi le mani. Loro guardavano attentamente quello che facevo. Conclusa la

pulizia, si sono guardate di nuovo e hanno scooso la testa. Allora, incuriosito dal gesto

chiesi il motivo di ciò. Una di loro mi rispose che le mie mani sono rimaste nere anche dopo

che le avevo lavate. Essendo piccole ho creduto fosse doveroso spiegare loro il perché…

ma questa è un’altra storia!

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Amissăo Lima è nato a Calequisse, in Guinea Bissau, nel 1958. Vive a Faenza, è sposato e

ha tre figli.

The Colours of my lifeAmissăo Lima

Black How many stories can be written about the different colours oh human skin? So

many! I just want to tell you one today, a very funny and nice story to listen to, above all

because the main characters are children!. What an innocent age! Human beings are

sincere, almost transparent at that age!

It was 1987, anyway, and I had been invited to dinner by some relatives of the family I was

staying with in Gravina di Puglia, southern Italy. I was there for my first solo exhibition, well

I’m a painter actually…Two wonderful twins, aged 3, welcomed me together with their

parents. I shook hands with them all, the two kids as well, of course. Well, they started

watching their own hands, then exchanging strange glances but no words at all. They

showed me to the dining-room and dinner was about to start. So it was time to wash hands

and the twins asked me to go with them to the bathroom. Same strange glances, no words,

again. I took the soap, opened the tap and started washing my hands. They intently followed

my movements, then pensively shook their heads. I was curious now and asked for

explanations,

“Before washing them your hands were black and they still are! They are black!” So young,

so innocent! I had to tell them the reason for my strange black hands and that’s what I did…

but this is another story!

.Amissăo Lima was born in Calequisse, Guinea Bissau, in 1958. He lives in Faenza, is

married and has got three sons.

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Sono una cittadina del mondoJeannette Mikuela

Non è facile per me parlare di migrazioni, perché io non sono mai uscita dal mio

paese.

Sono nata in Costa d’Avorio, ad Abidjan, dove sono cresciuta insieme ai miei genitori e

fratelli fino ai 12 anni. I ricordi della mia infanzia sono legati alle palme della costa, al sapore

del pesce dell’oceano e ai grattacieli di questa grande capitale. Poi siamo rientrati in Burkina

Faso, nel piccolo villaggio di Tangaye. Ho proseguito quindi gli studi a Fadà e poi nella

capitale, Ouagadougou.

A 21 anni ho conosciuto mio marito e dopo sette mesi ero già qua a Faenza, dove ho

lavorato e mi sono diplomata. A dire il vero, ho avuto un bambino mentre ero ancora a

scuola; tutti sono stati molto gentili e di grande aiuto, i miei suoceri, mio marito, i miei

compagni di classe e anche i miei professori. Quando è venuto il momento, mi hanno

lasciato usare la Sala Insegnanti per allattare il mio bambino!

Ora studio all’Università di Modena e lavoro a Forlì. In questi anni sono stata in vacanza in

Francia, in Svizzera, a Praga…Ho dovuto fare visti, passaporto, un sacco di documenti per

spostarmi da una parte all’altra. Eppure, lo ripeto, non sono mai uscita dal mio paese.

SONO CITTADINA DEL MONDO.

Jeannette è nata ad Abidjan, in Burkina Faso. Vive a Faenza, è sposata e ha due bambini.

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I am a world citizenJeannette Mikuela

It is not easy for me to speak about migration. I’ve never actually gone out of my

country.

I was born in Cote d’Ivoire, in Abidjan, where I grew up together with may parents and

brothers till I was 12. The memories of my childhood are tied to palm-trees, to the flavour

and taste of fish from the Ocean and to the skyscrapers of this huge capital town. Then we

went back to Burkina Faso, to a small village called Tangaye; later on I studied in Fadà and

then in the capital Ouagadougou. I was 12 when I met my husband and 7 months later I

already was here in Faenza, where I started working and where I got my diploma. I actually

had a baby while I still attended school. Everybody was very kind to me and helpful, my

parents-in-law, my husband, my class-mates and even my teachers. When the time came I

was allowed to use the Teachers’ Room to feed my baby!

Now I’m studying at Modena University and working in Forlì. I’ve travelled to France,

Switzerland, Prague. I needed visas, documents to move from one place to another. Yet, I’ll

say it again, I’ve never gone out of my county : I AM A WORLD CITIZEN.

Jeannette Mikuela was born in Abidjan, Burkina Faso, in 1978. She lives in Faenza, is

married and has got two children.

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DestinoSumaiya Sykes

La mia storia è diversa da quella di molti latri immigranti africani in Europa. Sono

venuta in Italia, con la mia famiglia: mio padre era ambasciatore tanzaniano in Italia e siamo

arrivati a Roma nell’ottobre 1980, tre giorni prima del mio diciassettesimo compleanno. Nel

1987 sono venuta a Faenza a studiare ceramica, visto che non volevo più fare Scienze

Politiche all’Università americana di Roma. Ignoravo allora che quella mia decisione era

destinata a perseguitarmi per molti anni a venire. La mia famiglia è ritornata in Africa nel

1991 ed io son rimasta a completare i mie studi per poi tornare a Zanzibar ( Tanzania), ma il

mio destino era un altro. Mi sono sposata con un italiano, abbiamo due figlie e viviamo a

Faenza. La ma vita è stata un lungo viaggio e a volte guardando indietro mi chiedo come

sarebbe stata se non fossi venuta in Europa. Molte volte mi chiedono se mi sento italiana?!

La mia riposta è ‘No’, ma l’Italia è la mia casa, perché qui sta la mia famiglia. Sono stata

accettata con rispetto e tolleranza. Sono un’ immigrata? ‘Sì per il momento’. Lo dico perché

non sono stata costretta ad allontanarmi dal mio paese per ragioni gravi come la guerra o la

povertà. E ho intenzione di tornare. Quando sono arrivata nella piccola città di Faenza mi

sono sentita come un pesce fuor d’acqua, ma tanti stranieri hanno avuto difficoltà serie a

causa della loro razza. Ma si impara ad adattarsi, per integrarsi nella società in cui ci si

trova. In alcune occasioni ho dovuto lavorare ancora più duramente per dimostrare che i

pregiudizi sugli africani erano sbagliati. Io sono stata educata a rispettare gli altri e a essere

consapevole che io stessa ero la persona più importante. E talvolta è stata una vera sfida

perché non tutti erano disposti ad accettare le differenze! Venti anni più tardi, con tanti

immigrati in più, si può forse dire che la popolazione faentina abbia accettato di vivere

insieme agli immigrati. I miei figli vanno a scuola, si sono integrati bene, ma hanno ed

avranno sempre paura dell’ignoto. Io credo che il razzismo sia in tutti noi; lo dico perché a

tutti capita di sperimentare nella vita un sentimento di intolleranza verso un'altra persona.

L’aspetto positivo è che abbiamo la possibilità di controllare quel sentimento imparando a

conoscere le persone diverse da noi.

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Sumaiya Sykes è nata a Zanzibar, Tanzania, nel 1963. Vive a Faenza, è sposata e ha 3

figlie.Destiny

Sumaiya SykesMy story is different from that of an African immigrant. I came to Italy, almost 30

years ago, with my family. My father was a Tanzanian ambassador in Italy; we arrived in

Rome in October 1998, 3 days before my 17th birthday. In 1999 I came to Faenza to study

ceramics as I did not want to do political science at an American University in Rome. Little

did I know that decision was gong to haunt me for many years to follow! In 1991 my family

left for Africa and I remained to complete my studies. My intention was to finish and go back

to Zanzibar. But my destiny was different. I got married to an Italian man, we have two

daughters of mixed race and we live in Faenza.

Sometimes I look back and wonder what it would have been like if I did not come to Europe.

I have been asked many a times if I feel Italian!? My response is no, but Italy is my home

because my family is here. I have been accepted with respect and tolerance. Am I an

immigrant? …yes, for the time being. I say that because I was not forced out of my country

for inconvenient reasons, such as poverty or war. And I intend to go back.

I must say living here has not been easy. Anyway, when I arrived in Faenza, I felt like a fish

out of the water! I have heard of foreigners who had difficulties in renting homes, getting

good jobs and so on because of their race. But one learns to adapt in order to integrate into

the society. In some cases I had to work harder to prove people wrong from whatever

prejudice they had over Africans. I was brought to respect others. Twenty years later with a

lot more immigrants, one could say Faenza has accepted the fact of living with immigrants.

My children go to school here, they have integrated well. But they will always be afraid of the

unknown. I believe racism is in all of us. And we often experience the feeling of intolerance

towards another being. Fortunately we have the capacity to reverse the feeling by learning

about people that are different from us.

Sumaiya Sykes was born in Zanzibar, Tanzania, in 1963. She lives in Faenza and has got

three daughters.

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No izaicinājuma līdz lieliskai pieredzeiLīvija Mukāne

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Katras projekts ir kā mūžizglītības mācībstunda tā dalībniekiem un projekta

komandai. Tas attiecas arī uz projektu „Kultūru migrācija autobiogrāfijās”. Mēs daudz

uzzinājām viens par otru, par mūsu visu tik dažādajām un tik interesantajām kultūras

tradīcijām, par to, kā dzīvo cilvēki dažādās pasaules malās. Mēs atklājām sev dažādu valstu

un pat kontinentu cilvēku dzīvesstāstus – brīžiem jautrus, bet brīžiem arī dramatiskus un

sāpīgus.

Par mūsu darbu šeit, Mālpilī. 2009.gada oktobrī avīzē „Mālpils Vēstis” publicējām

informāciju ar uzaicinājumu pieteikties dalībai projektā, uzaicinājām angļu valodas skolotāju

Enviju Svikšu uzņemties biogrāfiju rakstītāju grupas konsultēšanu. Projektā un biogrāfiju

rakstītāju grupā tika aicināti piedalīties cilvēki, kas bija gatavi pielietot un pilnveidot savas

angļu valodas zināšanas, komunicēt ar partneriem starptautisko sanāksmju laikā. Lai

pilnveidotu rakstītāju komunikatīvās iemaņas, tika organizētas angļu valodas sarunu kluba

nodarbības skolotājas Inas Turkinas vadībā. Vēlāk viņa pievienojās arī rakstītāju grupai.

Tikšanās angļu valodas sarunu klubā notika vienreiz nedēļā. Tā nekādā ziņā nebija slēgta

sabiedrība – jauni dalībnieki varēja pievienoties katrā nodarbībā. Tas pats attiecas uz

datorapmācības pamatiemaņu kursiem, kas tika piedāvāti projekta dalībniekiem, lai viņi

varētu veiksmīgāk noformēt tekstus un sagatavot prezentācijas. Tādēļ varam teikt, ka

ieguvēji no šī projekta bija ne tikai tiešie tā dalībnieki –rakstītāji, skolotāji, projekta komanda,

bet arī Mālpils sabiedrība kopumā.

Taču ne tikai biogrāfiju rakstīšanu, angļu valodas un datorkursus mēs atcerēsimies pēc šī

projekta. Tie ir mūsu jaunie kolēģi un draugi, ko satikām starptautisko sanāksmju laikā, viņu

viesmīlība, smaidi, draudzīgums, radošums ir tas, ko varējām baudīt šajos divos gados.

Mūsu projekta komandas vārdā vēlos teikt sirsnīgu paldies visiem partneriem par veiksmīgo

un radošo sadarbību. Tiksimies nākamajos projektos!

From a challenge to a great experienceLivija Mukane

Every project is like a life long learning lesson for all participants and every project

team. It relates also with the „Cultural Migration in Autobiographies” project. We all could

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learn a lot about each other, about our –so different and very interesting – cultural traditions,

about the life style in many places of the world. We discovered many life stories of people

from different countries and continents –sometimes funny, but sometimes also dramatic and

painful.

What we did in Malpils? In October 2009 we published an announcement about this project

in our local newspaper „Mālpils Vēstis”, invited our English teacher Envija Sviksa to be a

tutor of the writer’s group. All people were ready to use and improve their English

knowledge, to communicate with other partners during the international project meetings,

were invited into the writer’s group.

In order to improve writer’s communicative skills we organized an English Speaking Club,

leaded by English teacher Ina Turkina who decided also to join the writer’s group. The

meetings of the English Speaking Club participants have been held once a week. It was not

a closed society – everybody could join the group at every lesson. Also computer basic skills

course had been offered to our writers for their more successful work at the texts,

presentations etc. Therefore we can say that this project has a positive impact not only to its

direct participants –writers, teachers, project team, but also to wider local community.

But of course not only biographies writing, English and computer courses are events we’ll

remember after the project. There are our new colleagues and friends from 5 countries we

met during all international meetings, their hospitality, smiles, friendship, creativity that we

could enjoy during these 2 years. On behalf on our Project team I would like to say thank

you very much all our partners for the successful and creative cooperation. See you in the

next projects!

Paldies par kultūru varavīksniMāra Bilzena

Man ‘jau no bērnības interesē svešas zemes ar to atšķirīgajām kultūrām –

dziesmām, dejām, tērpiem un tradīcijām. Lai to izzinātu, nepieciešamas angļu valodas

zināšanas. Kad Mālpils kultūras namā darbu sāka Tautskola, pieteicos nekavējoši. Un, kad

izlasīju Mālpils avīzē piedāvājumu iesaistīties projektā ‘’Kultūru migrācija autobiogrāfijās’’,

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nolēmu tur piedalīties kopā ar citām angļu valodas kursu apmeklētājām, lai liktu lietā un

nostiprinātu savas angļu valodas zināšanas.

Es esmu ceļojusi pa dažādām valstīm – PSRS, Bulgāriju, Vāciju, Portugāli, Indiju. Bet mana

dzimtā vieta ir Latvija un dzīvojusi esmu tikai Latvijā. Tādēļ nolēmu uzrakstīt par savu

dzīvokļa kaimiņieni Jadvigu Jureviču, kura darba meklējumos 70.tajos gados ieceļoja Latvijā

no Baltkrievijas. Vairākus vakarus tikāmies pie Jadvigas, kura labprāt stāstīja par savu

bērnību un jaunības gadiem. Tas bija interesanti mums abām. Arī viņas meitai Tatjanai un

mazbērniem Andrejam un Simonai Jadvigas stāstījums bija jauks un interesants ceļojums

pagātnē.

Esmu ļoti pateicīga šim projektam par iespēju tikties ar dažādu nacionalitāšu brīnišķīgiem

cilvēkiem no Vācijas, Itālijas, Portugāles, Polijas, Rumānijas, un paviesoties tik skaistās

valstīs, kā Itālija un Portugāle un baudīt iedzīvotāju viesmīlību. Liels pagodinājums un

gandarījums bija viesu uzņemšana Mālpilī. Vakars bija tik interesants un sirsnīgs – ar

citzemju nacionālo ēdienu baudīšanu, tautisko deju soļu apgūšanu.Un galvenais, katra

dalībnieka stāsts emocionāli aizkustināja un bagātināja. .Radās personīgi kontakti. Es ticu,

ka draudzība, kas sākusies projekta laikā, turpināsies.

Thanks for the rainbow of the culturesMara Bilzena

From childhood I was interested in foreign countries with different cultures: songs,

dances, clothes, and traditions. To learn it I had to know English. When folksschool started

to work in Malpils culture club, I signed on immediately. Before long I read in Malpils

newspaper about the project ‘’ Cultural Migration in Autobiographics ‘’ I decided to take part

in it as other students from English language coursies, in order to make use of English

language and to steady knowledges of it. I had to travel much to different countries such as

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Bulgaria, Germany, Portugal, India and all 15 Republics of Soviet Union. But my native

country is Latvia and I always have lived only in Latvia. Therefore I decided to write about

my neighbour Jadviga Jurevicha who arrived in Latvia from Byalorussia in 70 - tieth

searching of job. Many evenings we met together. With pleasure she told me about her

childhood and jouth. It was very interesting for us both. And it was interesting travel in the

past for her daughter and grandchildren.I’m very grateful to this Project for possibility to

meet different nationalities many beautiful and interesting people from Germany, Italy,

Portugal, Poland Romania and to visit such nice countries as Italy and Portugal and enjoy

inhabitants kindness.

Grate honour and satisfaction was reception of guests in Malpils Farewell party was very

warmhearted and interesting with possibility to taste other countries national dishes and to

learn folk dancies steps. And the most important – the story of every participant moved and

enriched me. There arose new personal contacts and I believe that friendship started during

Project will continue.

Mana pieredze

Ineta Endele

Piedalīšanās projektā „Kulturālā migrācija autobiogrāfijās”. bija darbs ar

personiskajiem dokumentiem, kas ietver nostāstus, dienasgrāmatas, vēstules, fotogrāfijas

un ģimenes vēsturi. Vecākās paaudzes cilvēku dzīvesstāsti ir nozīmīgs, interesants un arī

grūts materiāls biogrāfiskiem pētījumiem vairāku iemeslu dēļ. Vecākās paaudzes cilvēki ir

piedzīvojuši visus pasaules 20. gadsimta vēsturē svarīgākos notikumus –abus pasaules

karus, padomju okupāciju un Latvijas Republikas atjaunošanu. Viņiem ir nācies sadzīvot ar

pārmaiņām, ko nesa šie notikumi. Manas stāsta varones liecības parāda zināmu notikumu

detaļas un dod iespēju skatīt vēsturisko notikumu attīstību caur cilvēku pieredzi un ikdienas

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rīcību. Sieviete, kuras biogrāfiju es rakstīju, ir mana bijusī darba kolēģe. Kopā strādājot viņa

daudz stāstīja par savu dzīvi, bērnību un jaunību. Tagad viņa ir pensijā, darbā mēs

nesastopamies, tādēļ sarunas par viņas dzīvi notika pie viņas mājās. Sākumā viņas

stāstījums bija ļoti īss. Palūdzu viņai parādīt man bildes no viņas fotoalbūma. Skatoties

vecās fotogrāfijas, sāka raisīties atmiņas. Fotogrāfijas, kuras man parādīja, bija vecas. Tās

bija skatītas daudzas reizes, tādēļ bija nobružātas un nedaudz saburzītas. Katrai fotogrāfijai

bija savs stāsts. Stāstījums ilga daudzus vakarus. Pēc katras sarunas es no ieraksta

diktofonā pierakstīju faktus un savas sajūtas. Pēc pierakstiem man radās arvien vairāk

jautājumi. Pēc uzdotajiem jautājumiem, man stāsta varone juta, ka man ir patiesa interese

par viņas dzīves stāstu. Stāstījumi palika garāki, sīkāki un interesantāki. Šis dzīvesstāsts

sniedza man ieskatu viņas ikdienas dzīves vēsturē, parādot, kā cilvēki pielāgojās krasajām

pārmaiņām dzīves laikā.Vislielākais ieguvums no šī projekta bija iespēja iepazīties un

veiksmīgi sadarboties ar dažādiem cilvēkiem no visas pasaules, kuru pašreizējā dzīvesvieta

ir Eiropa. Šī pieredze mani iedrošina turpināt savu mūžizglītību. Es pateicos Novāka

kungam un mūsu projekta koordinatorēm par šo nenovērtējamo pieredzi.

My experienceIneta Endele

Thanks to our active coordinators, I had the opportunity to participate in the project

"Cultural Migration in Autobiography ". It was a work with personal documents, including

stories, diaries, letters, photos and family history. The older generation people life stories are

important, interesting and also difficult material for biographical researches, for several

reasons. The older people have experience of all the most 20th century important events -

the both World Wars, Soviet occupation and the restoration of Latvian Republic. They have

had to live with changes brought by these events. My characters of the story reveals a

certain testimony and details of events that makes it possible to see historical events

through the development of the human experience and everyday practice. Woman, whose

biography I wrote, is my former colleague. When we worked together, she talked a lot about

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her life, childhood and adolescence. Now she is retired, and we do not meet each other

every day therefore, we talked about her life at home. At first, her story was very short. I

asked her to show me pictures of her life. Looking at old photographs conversation was

more lively and began memories. Photos that she showed me were very old. They were

seen many times, therefore looked a little worn out and crumpled up. Each photo had its

own story. After each conversation I wrote down from the microphone recording the facts

and my feelings. After conversation I had more questions. After the questions, I felt that my

story hero thought, I am really interested in her life. Stories became more detailed and

interesting. The life story gave me view into her everyday life’s history, showing how people

adapted to radical changes during their lives.The biggest benefit of this project was to meet

and successfully cooperate with different people around the world, whose current residence

is in Europe. This experience encouraged me to continue my life-long learning. I am grateful

to Mr. Nowak and our project coordinators for this invaluable experience

Pārdomas par projektuAndris Kaņepējs

Fakts, ka mans tēvs ir dzimis Vācijā, mūsu ģimenē nekad netika apspriests. Tie bija

„padomju laiki”’, un tā perioda izpratnē – vairāk problēma, nekā interesants biogrāfisks fakts.

Sākumā bija šaubas. Vai mans stāsts atbilst projekta idejai un mērķiem ? Stāsta galvenais

varonis ir mans tēvs, Mārtiņš Kaņepējs. Notikumi, kurus aprakstu, pārsvarā risinājušies tālā

pagātnē. Kuru tas varētu interesēt ? Tomēr uzskatu , ja mēs necienīsim vēsturi, tad mums

nebūs nākotnes. Laiks, kad vēl var saņemt atbildes uz jautājumu: „Kā tad tur īsti bija?”’,

paskrien ātri. Tāpēc nolēmu piedalīties projektā.

Projekta ietvaros manas sajūtas ir mainījušās. Tas ir bijis pārdomu laiks. Mēs ar tēvu

tiekamies reti. Daudz kas paliek neizrunāts, atlikts uz nākotni... Šī bija iespēja atgriezties pie

dzimtas „saknēm”. Apmeklēju vietas, kuras saistītas ar tēva bērnību un jaunību. Arī manējo.

Redzētais radīja nostaļģiju un skumjas. Laiki ir mainījušies. Liekas , ka arī manī notikušas

izmaiņas. Ceļojums laikā ir licis man izvērtēt arī savu devumu dzimtas turpinājumā.

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Projekta lielākā vērtība ir cilvēki – tā veidotāji, dalībnieki, atbalstītāji. Gribu pateikties visiem,

kuri ļāvuši man justies brīnišķīgi dalībnieku tikšanās reizēs. Jūtos lepns, ka varēju, kaut

nedaudz, parādīt savas tautas vēstures un kultūras bagātības. Šī projekta ietvaros esmu

kļuvis garīgi un informatīvi bagātāks. Saticis daudz jauku cilvēku, ieguvis draugus. Esmu arī

ieskatījies savas valsts nākotnē...

Manā zemē sabiedrība ilgi ir dzīvojusi noslēgti un, savā ziņā, izolēti no pārējās pasaules.

Divdesmit neatkarības gadi pēc PSRS sabrukšanas ir īss laika periods. Mums nav

pieredzes dzīvošanai multikulturālā sabiedrībā, un ir vēl daudz jāmācās...Pasaule ir tieši tik

liela vai maza, cik plašas ir mūsu dvēseles. Ideja par kultūru migrāciju, integrāciju un

līdzāspastāvēšanu vienmēr būs aktuāla... lai mums visiem pietiktu vietas.

A few contemplations about the projectAndris Kanepejs

The fact that my father was born in Germany had never been discussed in my

family. We had never spoken about that. That was the Soviet`s time and in the meaning of

that period, it was more like problem, not like an interesting fact of biography. In the

beginning there was a question.. Does my story fit with the concept and target of the

project? The main person of the story is my father Mārtiņš Kaņepējs. who have lived in

Latvia since he was one year old, and facts which were in the deep past. Who is interested

in? However, I think without respecting the past there won`t be any future. The time when it

is possible to answer the question: „How was it?”, runs very fast, that why I decided to take

part. During the project my feelings have changed. It was time of reflection. I meet my father

rarely. A lot of things stay unsaid and put off for future. This was an opportunity to turn to my

family`s roots. I visited places which are conected with my fathers childhood and youth. The

things what I saw made nostalgia and sadness. The time has changed. It seems, that I have

changed too. The travel through the time made me appraise my contribution to family`s

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continuation.The biggest value of the project are people who made it, took part and

supported.

Many thanks for everybody who let me feel wonderful in the member`s meeting places. I am

proud that I had chance to prove my nation`s cultural values. In this project I have gained

my informative and mental richness. I have met many nice people and looked in my

country`s future. In my country community had lived locked and sequestered from other

world. Twenty years of liberty after USSR`s dectruction are very short time. We have not any

experience in living in a multicultural society. We must learn a lot.The world is as big or

small as it is in our souls. This idea about cultures` migration, integration and peaceful

coexistence is immortal... for place for all of us to live.

Uzdrošināties atvērt sevī kādas durvisDzinta Krastina

Mālpils Tautskolas projektos esmu iesaistījusies jau vairakkārt. Tie vienmēr ir bijuši

interesanti un, pateicoties vadītājai Līvijai Mukānei, labi noorganizēti. Projekts par

autobiogrāfiju rakstīšanu šķita interesants tāpēc, ka migrācijas problēmas kā daudzus mūsu

valstī ir skārušas arī mūsu ģimeni. Šis projekts mani motivēja apmeklēt angļu valodas

apmācības nodarbības, jo valodas zināšanas, ak, cik nepieciešamas lai, tiekoties ar citu

tautību pārstāvjiem, varētu runāt, saprast un sekot līdzi projekta norisēm.

Tiekoties ar projekta dalībniekiem Itālijā, iepazinu dažādu tautību, valstu pārstāvjus. Man

šķita ļoti interesanti saskatīt tieši to atšķirīgo ikdienas paradumos, ģimenes attiecībās,

ģērbšanās stilā, kā arī iepazīt dažādas nacionālās virtuves. Dzirdēju interesantus dzīves

stāstus un iepazinu dažādu pieredzi par spēju vai nespēju iedzīvoties citā valstī.

Autobiogrāfijas bija ļoti interesantas – ar vecāsmātes ceptas kūkas smaržu, ar bērnības

zemes apciemojuma smeldzi, diemžēl arī ar kara draudu un posta sajūtām.

Pie mums Latvijā – Mālpilī, jau tikāmies kā paziņas. Otrā tikšanās ļāva vienam otru iepazīt

vēl labāk. Noderīgas bija arī jaunās zināšanas par autobiogrāfiju rakstīšanas veidiem. Īsajā

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tikšanās laikā centāmies projekta dalībniekus iepazīstināt ar mūsu dzimto Mālpili, Rīgu, kā

arī uzzināt vairāk par latviešu kultūru un dzīves tradīcijām.

Priecājos par iespēju vēl reizi tikties ar projekta dalībniekiem Portugālē. Tas ļaus uzzināt

vairāk par šo valsti un cilvēkiem, satikt projekta dalībniekus un apkampt viņus kā labus

paziņas, uzdodot jautājumu – Kā tev klājas?

Mēs dzīvojam vienā lielā pasaulē, esam tik dažādi un reizē vienādi. Iepazīstot vienam otru,

labāk varam saprast citu domas, priekus un skumjas. Pavērt sevī kādas durvis un

uzdrošināties pa tām ielaist citādo – tas ir tiešām forši!

Break the monotony of your lifeDzinta Krastina

In Malpil’s Folk school projects I have been taking part already few times before.

They are always interesting and well organized thanks to project leader Livija Mukane.

Autobiography theme seemed very interesting, the same as many people in Latvia migration

problem has affected my family too. This project also motivated me to attend the English

language curse. I do understand just how important it is to know the language when you

meet with people from other countries, so you can understand, communicate and follow the

course of the project.

In Italy, we met many people from different countries. It was very interesting to compare

different cultures and traditions, habits, family relationships, dress styles and traditional

foods. We got to hear very interesting life stories and how easy or hard it was for other

people to settle in other countries.

When the group members came to Latvia, we felt like old friends. But of course one more

meeting gave us a chance to get to know each other more closely. And the knowledge of the

new autobiography writing skills was very useful. We were glad for opportunity to tell about

our country.

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I am very glad that we will have another chance to meet everybody – this time in Portugal. I

have never been there so it is very exciting to find out more about this country and its

people, and I can’t wait to catch up with my friends.

We all live in a one big world; we are the same in many ways but at the same time so

different. When you get to know someone closer you can understand their way of thinking,

understand what makes them happy and what makes them sad. When you are brave

enough to notice a new door of opportunity and not scared to open it and break the

monotony of your life– that’s awesome!

Mana draudzeneLeongina Krūmiņa

Drīz būs divi gadi, kopš aizsākās mūsu projekts Kādi bija pirmie tā soļi un tās

izjūtas? Interesanti, ka par tādu es neko nezināju. Pierakstījos uz angļu valodas kursiem, un

tad kādu dienu mana draudzene pateica, ka Mālpils avīzē bija sludinājums par šo projektu,

un todien arī bija pirmā tikšanās reize. Tā arī es aizgāju, draudzenes pamudināta. Visgrūtāk

man bija izvēlēties cilvēku, par kuru rakstīt. Domāju par dažādiem variantiem, jo ne visi

vēlējās stāstīt par sevi un savu dzīvi. Tad atcerējos par savu bijušo kaimiņieni Nadeždu, ar

kuru mēs daudzas reizes esam runājušas par savu dzīvi, saviem bērniem( viņas meita

mācījās vienā klasē ar manu dēlu), par skaistajiem un ne tik skaistajiem dzīves mirkļiem, par

bērnību un pirmo mīlestību... Kad Nadezda pazaudēja darbu, tad viņa kopā ar mani brauca

uz Rīgu uz mašīnizšūšanas kursiem. Tad šie kursi un kopīgie braucieni uz galvaspilsētu,

vēlāk arī savu izšūto darbu rādīšana, mūs vēl vairāk satuvināja un padarīja mūs atklātākas

viena pret otru. Un rakstot projektu, man vajadzēja izvēlēties to interesantāko no viņas

biogrāfijas: ka mīlestības dēļ viņa atbrauca uz Latviju, apprecējās, iemācījās latviešu valodu

un ka grūtās dzīves situācijās viņa vienmēr meklēja izeju un atrada to.Es apbrīnoju viņas

uzņēmību, centību, nenokārt degunu grūtību priekšā, bet redzēt savu dzīves mērķi un

virzīties uz to. Tas bija galvenais, kas mani saistīja viņas biogrāfijā un ar ko vēlējos

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padalīties ar citiem. Projekts man ļoti patika, iepazinos ar interesantiem cilvēkiem, bet

vislielāko paldies gribu teikt Leandro, Lucianai un Marko par sirsnīgo uzņemšanu Faenzā.

My friendLeongina Krumina

Almost two years has passed since we started the project. What was the first of its

steps and its feelings? It is interesting that from the beginning I knew nothing. At the start I

signed up for English courses, and then one day my girlfriend said that Malpils newspaper

had announcement for this project, and on the same day there was also the first meeting.

So I went to it, thanks to my friend. The most difficult was to choose people for whom to

write. Think about the different options, because not everyone wants to talk about

themselves and their lives. Then I remembered about my former neighbor Nadezhda, with

whom we have spoken many times about our lives, our children (her daughter was studying

in one class with my son), a beautiful and not so beautiful moments of our childhood and

first love ... When Nadezhda lost a job, and then two of us went to Riga for machine

embroidery courses. Then these courses and joint trips to the capital, later in those

embroidered creations, we were further brought together and made us more open to each

other. And to write for the project, I had to choose the most interesting of her biography:

about love, arrival to Latvia, marriage, learning of Latvian language and the difficult living

situations, she always looked for a way out and found. I admire her entrepreneurial spirit,

dedication, and successful when faced with difficulties. I was inspired about her biography

and decided to tell about it to share with others, to tell that there are always solutions for

everything and everyone. I really liked the project, met with interesting people, but the most I

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want to thank Leandro, Luciana and Marko for hearty, beautiful, graceful reception in

Faenza.

Jaunas zināšanas un iespaidiMārīte Nīgrande

Mans tēvs bija lietuvietis, māte latviete. Mēs dzīvojām mazā latviešu ciemā pie

robežas, kur ap 30 % iedzīvotāju bija lietuvieši. Kad es biju maza meitene, es mīlēju

skatīties fotogrāfijas mātes albūmā un klausīties viņas stāstos par dažādiem notikumiem un

cilvēkiem. Man arī patika klausīties radio pārraides lietuviski kopā ar tēvu un tādējādi apgūt

šo valodu. Es guvu daudz jaunu iespaidu, kad mēs apciemojām viņa radus Lietuvā. Vēlāk

mana aizraušanās bija lasīt grāmatas par dažādu profesiju un tautību ievērojamiem

cilvēkiem. Man bija izdevība ņemt dalību tautas skaitīšanā Latvijā 1979. un 2000.gadā.

Tagad mans darbs ir kā turpinājums iepriekšējam. Es esmu iedzīvotāju reģistra speciāliste

Mālpils novada pašvaldībā.

Kad es nolēmu ņemt dalību Gruntvig projektā „Kultūru migrācija autobiogrāfijās”, es cerēju,

ka tā būs iespēja gūt jaunas zināšanas un iespaidus par citu valstu un tautību cilvēkiem,

viņu raksturiem. Domās atcerējos daudz dažādu ģimeņu stāstus un cilvēku biogrāfijas. Tā

es uzrakstīju stāstu par savu labu kaimiņu un uzņēmīgu ukraiņu vīru Jaroslavu Basarabu.

Viņš dzīvo Latvijā no 1969. gada un runā latviski. Es uzskatu, ka Jaroslava dzīves mīlestība

un mīlestība pret ģimeni staro cauri ikvienam viņa darbam.

Projekta dalībnieku tikšanās Faencā un Mālpili man deva daudz jaunu un spēcīgu emociju.

Tagad es ar citu skatījumu vēroju DISCOVERY kanālu un TV ziņas. Laiks, kas lasīju

grāmatu „Zem Toskānas saules”, bija kā jauns ceļojums uz Itāliju un es atkal sajutu

Antonellas mīlestību, kura mani izmitināja savās mājās Faencā. Savukārt, notikumi

Ziemeļāfrikā 2011 gadā ir iemesls, kāpēc es ik pa laikam domāju par mūsu projekta

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dalībniekiem. Mēs esam tik dažādi, bet reizē tik līdzīgi. Mēs gribam būt laimīgi un veseli un

mēs vēlamiem just mīlestību un dzīvot miera apstākļos.

New knowledge and impressionsMarite Nigrande

My father was Lithuanian, my mother was Latvian. We lived in the small Latvian

village near the border, where about 30 % inhabitants were Lithuanians. When I was a little

girl, I liked to look at my mother’s photos in album and to listen her stories about various

events and people. I also liked to listen radio relayings in Lithuanian with my father and so

learned this language.I got many new impressions, when we visited his relatives in

Lithuania. Later I liked to read books about most important peoples of diferent nationalities. I

was glad to take part in census in Latvia in 1979 and 2000. Now my job is like continuation

of this. I am inhabitants registrar at Malpils local government.

When I decided to take part in Grundtvig Learning Partnership „Cultural Migration in

Autobiography”, I believed that it will be a possibility to get new knowledge and impressions

about national character of men and women from other countries. I brought into my mind

many stories of various families, many biographies and wrote a story about my good

neighbor and enterprising Ukrain man Jaroslav Basarab. He has lived in Latvia since 1969

and speaks Latvian. I think Jaroslav’s love of life and his family brightens his every work.

The meetings in Faenza and Malpils gave many new and great emotions for me. Now I

watch Discovery Chanal and TV news with different point of view. The time, when I was

reading a book „Under the Toscan sun”, was as a new travelling to Italy and I again felt

love of Antonella, who was my „mother” in Faenza. But events in North Africa at 2011 is

reason why I thinki about all participants of our meetings time after time. We are so

different but also so similar. We want to be happy, healthy and we want to feel love and live

in peace.

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Solis plašajā pasaulēIna Turkina

Salīdzinoši nesen mēs ieguvām iespēju izkļūt no mūsu „mazās” pasaules,

ierobežotas vienā valstī, brīvi pārvietoties „lielajā” pasaulē, ar savām acīm redzēt to, par ko,

iespējams, ir tikai lasīts vai dzirdēts, satikties ar dažādu tautu un kultūru cilvēkiem. Pārejot

pāri šīs pasaules slieksnim, mēs sajutām jo lielāku augošu vajadzību būt par daļu no šīs

„lielās” pasaules.

Svešvalodu zināšanas ir viens no galvenajiem nosacījumiem, lai veiksmīgi iepazītos un

sadarbotos ar šo pasauli. Katru gadu arvien vairāk dažāda vecuma cilvēku nāk uz angļu

valodas kursiem Mālpils tautskolā. Man kā angļu valodas pasniedzējam tā ir iespēja iegūt

lielu pieredzi, paaugstināt savu līmeni ne tikai profesionāli, bet arī dažādās dzīves sfērās.

Mani studenti ir pieauguši cilvēki vecumā no 30 līdz 60 gadiem ar saviem uzskatiem,

principiem un pieredzi. Mūsu nodarbības vairāk bija līdzīgas ,, sarunām par pašu dzīvi pie

virtuves galda’’ ērtā ģimenes atmosfērā. Mūsu sarunu tēmas ir reālas dzīves situācijas,

kuras apspriežot, mēs vairāk uzzinām viens par otru, saņemam pieredzi viens no otra,

dalāmies ar iespaidiem, jaunumiem.

Sakarā ar to, ka liela daļa manu studentu bija aizņemta projektā „Kultūru migrācija

autobiogrāfijās”, biogrāfijas rakstīšana bija viena no pamata tēmām nodarbībās. Lai labāk

izprastu, ar kādām problēmām satikās autori rakstīšanas laikā un lai viņiem palīdzētu, man

likās laba ideja pašai uzrakstīt biogrāfiju. Un vēl, tā bija iespēja apmeklēt citas valstis un

sadarboties ar cilvēkiem no šīm valstīm. Man nebija problēmu ar informācijas un dokumentu

meklēšanu, tā kā rakstīju biogrāfiju par tuvu savas ģimenes locekli. Mūsu atmiņas atgrieza

mūs pagātnē, ļāva vēlreiz izdzīvot gan priecīgus, gan bēdīgus mirkļus.

Piedalīšanās projektā deva iespēju paskatīties savādāk uz daudzām lietām, lauzt

stereotipus un atļāva saprast to, ka mēs neesam tik dažādi, ka mūs apvieno kopīgas

vajadzības un jūtas.

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Chance to step in the worldIna Turkina

Rather recently we have had an opportunity to step from our ,,small’’ world within

one country, to the ,,big’’ world, personally to see what, probably, only have read or heard

about, to meet people of different cultures and traditions. Just having stepped onto a

threshold of this world, we have felt more and more growing necessity to become a part of

the ,,big’’ world.

The knowledge of foreign languages is one of the main conditions of successful

acquaintance and cooperation with this world. Every year more and more people of different

age are coming to our Malpils Folk School on English language courses. For me as an

English teacher, it is possibility to get a wide experience, to raise the level not only in

professional, but also in the vital plan. My students are adult people aged 30-60 with their

certain views, principles and experience. And our classes resemble more ,,talks about life at

a kitchen table’’ in cosy family atmosphere. The topics of our classes are real life situations,

discussing which, we learn more about each other, we adopt experience, we share

impressions, news.

Because the most students of my group had been involved in the project “Cultural Migration

in Autobiography” the theme of writing biographies was one of the main ones at the classes.

In order to better understand what problems the authors could face in the course of writing

and to help them, it seemed to be an interesting idea to try writing the biography myself.

Besides, it was also possibility to visit other countries, and to cooperate with people from

these countries. I didn`t have any problems with gathering the information and documents,

as was writing the biography of a close member of my family. Our memories returned us to

the past, allowed to experience once again both the happy and sad moments.

The participation in the project has given the chance to look at many things in a new way, to

challenge the stereotypes that might be held by different parties and has brought to the most

valuable learning that we are not completely different and we share so many common needs

and feelings.

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Pasaule ir mums atvērtaOlga Volosatova

Par iespēju piedalīties projektā „ Kultūru migrācijas biogrāfijās” uzzināju no

projekta koordinatores Līvijas, pēc tam bija informācija pašvaldības informatīvajā izdevumā,

kā arī mājas lapā. Iespēja piedalīties starptautiskā un multikultūru projektā bija saistoša gan

ar biogrāfijas rakstīšanu, gan ar iespēju papildināt angļu valodas zināšanas. Gandrīz katram

Latvijas iedzīvotājam ir pazīstami cilvēki, kuru etniskā dzimtene nav Latvija. Pirmajā

tikšanās reizē vienojāmies, ka rakstīsim biogrāfijas par kādu no Mālpils novadā dzīvojošiem

cittautībniekiem.

Izvēlēties varoni bija ļoti viegli. Polina Deguma bija mana dēla auklīte. Es zināju, ka Latvijā

viņa ir atbraukusi no Krievijas, jo bija apprecējusies ar karavīru no Latvijas. Polina ir tik

sirsnīga un atvērta, ka sarunāties ar viņu vienmēr ir patīkami. Polina labprāt piekrita, ka es

rakstīšu viņas biogrāfiju, un veltīja man vairākas brīvdienas. Mēs daudz laika pavadījām

sarunās, kā arī skatoties fotogrāfijas. Sarunājāmies par dzīvi svešumā, par laulību ar

Zigurdu (viņas vīru), par viņas meitām un mazbērniem, kas atraduši savu vietu dzīvē, par

darba gaitām, par cilvēkiem, kas bijuši svarīgi viņas dzīvē, par citu cilvēku attieksmi pret

viņu. Vissvarīgākais, ko es sajutu no sarunām ar Polinu, ka viņa ir laimīga šeit Latvijā.

Mēs bieži tikāmies darba grupā ar projekta dalībniekiem, pārrunājām, kādus akcentus

izvēlēties, rakstot biogrāfiju.

Rakstot biogrāfiju, mēs vēl nezinājām, kuri no „rakstniekiem „ brauks uz pirmo lasījumu

Faenzā, Itālijā. Iespēja aizbraukt uz Itāliju un iepazīties ar citiem projekta dalībniekiem bija

liels pārdzīvojums. Sapratām to, ka pasaule mums ir atvērta, ka varam satikties un dalīties

ar savām pārdomām, ka esam uzklausīti.

Faenzā man bija liels prieks uzturēties Renatas Rondelli ģimenē. Viņa bija tikpat sirsnīga un

mīļa, kā mana biogrāfijas varone Polina.

The world is open for usOlga Volosatova

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First information about the opportunity to participate in the Grundtvig Learning

Partnership project „Cultural Migration in Autobiography” I heard from the project coordinator

Livija. Then was information on the Municipality local monthly newspaper, as well as in the

Municipality website. Opportunity to participate in international and multi-cultural project

seemed interesting writing the biography, although the possibility to use English language

skills. Every Latvian citizen knows people whose ethnic homeland is not Latvia. In the 1st

meeting of the working group we agreed to choose people who live in Malpils and whose

native language isn’t Latvian.

Choosing a hero was very easy. Polina Deguma was my son nanny. I knew that she came

to Latvia from Russia. She was married with Latvian soldier. Always was nice to talk with

her. Polina is so hearty and good – natured. She agreed to tell me about her life with

pleasure. We met many holidays. We spent a lot of time talking and looking photos. We

talked about her life abroad, about her marriage with Zigurd (her husband), about her

daughters and grandchildren, who found their place in life, about her work and hobbies,

about people, who was important in her life, about other people relation. The most important

message what I understood – Polina is very happy here, in Latvia.We often met in working

group with other writers, we discussed about accents what to choose writing the biography.

Started in this project we didn’t know, who from writers will go to Faenza in Italy. Visiting Italy

and meeting other people from project was great experience. We understood – world is

open for us. We can meet with people from other countries, we can share our reflections, we

are heard out. When we arrived in Faenza, I lived in Renata Rondelli family. She was very

lovely and hearty woman. There was such strong likeness between her and Polina - my

hero from biography.

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62

Não se escrevem autobiografias em vãoMaria Antonieta Costa

A imigração temporária ou permanente é um fenómeno espontâneo que carateriza

a vida da Humanidade. No caso de Portugal, o processo tem sido constante desde os

primórdios da nossa História, com a fixação no nosso território de diversos povos:

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muçulmanos, ciganos, judeus e indígenas. Atualmente, entre as comunidades de imigrantes

em solo português destacam-se os brasileiros, os caboverdianos, os angolanos, os

ucranianos, os romenos e os asiáticos. E falo-vos deste fenómeno, porque foi a sua grande

importância no nosso país que me levou, em 2009, a aceitar a proposta que me foi dirigida

pelo colega alemão Dr. Reinhard Nowak, Diretor da Gmünder Volkshochschule, para

colaborar num interessante projeto Grundtvig denominado Cultural Migration in Autobiography, cujo objetivo era reunir autobiografias de estudantes e/imigrantes.

Convencer os formandos a narrar episódios das suas vidas foi a tarefa mais difícil de

concretizar. Uns, valorizavam-se tão pouco que pensavam que não havia nada que valesse

realmente a pena ser contado. Outros, não queriam tornar públicos factos dolorosos,

controversos ou lamentáveis, ressuscitando mágoas há muito aprisionadas em algum canto

do seu coração sofredor. Outros ainda diziam não saber escrever. Apesar dos obstáculos,

foi possível reunir um pequeno grupo de escritores que, com a minha ajuda, lá iam

recordando ténues fragmentos de tempo: imagens, cheiros, sons e cores de um passado

que, afinal, não estava assim tão longe, tão esquecido. O resultado destas penosas

evocações passou a ter forma, concretizando-se, gradualmente, sobre algumas folhas de

papel, permitindo aos participantes refletir em momentos diversos das suas vidas, os quais,

voluntariamente ou por imposição, habitavam o reino do esquecimento de cada um. Custou

transformar as imagens em palavras, as palavras em frases. Neste processo de

introspeção, o meu papel de auxiliar de memória e de corretora de textos, fez de mim uma

privilegiada ao participar dessa aventura que é deixar as origens, família, amigos e irromper

por comunidades estranhas, onde todos falam uma Língua desconhecida. Para além das

soluções que a imigração possa ter trazido a estas pessoas, todas as histórias falam

sobretudo de cortes. E alguns desses golpes foram tão violentos que provocaram na vítima

a sensação de uma plena amputação física, deixando feridas que ainda hoje sangram!

Eis o testemunho dos escritores portugueses, trazendo até nós fragmentos das suas vidas

de imigrantes, mostrando que a História não é apenas feita de grandes homens, de

poderosos governantes, de ricos empresários, de famosos artistas. Ela também é feita

pelos mais insignificantes personagens, pelo homem que corta a relva nos jardins, pela

padeira que nos vende o pão de todas as manhãs ou pelo imigrante que nos mostra como

se faz no seu país de origem.

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Authors don’t write biographies in vainMaria Antonieta Costa

Temporary or permanent immigration is a spontaneous phenomenon that

characterizes the life of mankind. In Portugal, the process has been constant since the

beginning of our History, with the fixation on the west of Iberian Peninsula of diverse people:

Muslims, Gypsies, Jews and Indians. Currently, among the immigrant communities in

Portuguese soil the highlight goes to the Brazilians, Cape Verdeans, Angolans, Ukrainians,

Romanians and Asians.

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This phenomenon has been such a great importance in our country that took me, in 2009, to

accept the proposal which I was directed by the German colleague Dr. Reinhard Nowak, at

this time Director of the Gmünder Volkshochschule, to collaborate on an interesting

Grundtvig project called Cultural Migration in Autobiography, whose aim was to gather

autobiographies of immigrant students.

Convincing immigrant trainees to narrate episodes of their lives was the most difficult task to

accomplish. Some of them valued so little that thought there was nothing about themselves

that was really worth telling. Another one did not want to make public painful, controversial

or regrettable facts, raising grievances long trapped in a corner of their sufferer heart.

Others still said they could not write.

Despite the obstacles, it was possible to assemble a small group of writers who, with my

help, recalled fragments of time, images, smells, sounds and colors of a past that ultimately

was not so far, so forgotten. The result of these evocations started taking a form, putting up

words, gradually, over a few sheets of paper, allowing participants to reflect on various

moments of their lives, who, voluntarily or forcibly, inhabited the realm of oblivion of each

one. It was difficult to transform images into words, words into phrases.

In this process of introspection, my role as helping their memory and correcting their texts,

gave me the privilege to participate in this adventure of letting their origins, families, friends,

and communities and burst through a strange world, where everyone speaks an unknown

language. In addition to the solutions that immigration may have brought to these people, all

the stories I heard spoke mainly about cuts. And some of those blows were so violent that

provoked in the victim the feeling of a full physical amputation, leaving wounds that still

bleed! Because of this, we commonly agreed to publish only the good memories.

Here is the testimony of Portuguese writers, in their simply words, bringing us fragments of

their lives in times of immigration, showing that history is not only made of great men’s

lives, leaders of powerful, rich businessmen, famous artists. It is also made about most

insignificant characters, such as the man who cuts the grass in the gardens, the baker who

sells bread in every morning or the immigrant who shows us how it's done in his origin

country.

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Deixem-me falar-lhes sobre a minha vida...Carlos Santos

Nasci em S. Tomé e Príncipe, no distrito de Água Grande. A minha família era

pobre mas, naquele tempo, ainda no período colonial, não havia falta de alimentos, embora

o dinheiro não fosse suficiente para muitas roupas e brinquedos. Na quinta Claudino Farro,

longe da cidade, onde o meu pai era capataz, a estrada não era asfaltada: apenas terra

esburacada. Durante a semana, um tractor recolhia o cacau e outros produtos agrícolas.

Para sair de lá, era necessário viajar durante cerca de 12 horas. Às vezes, nadava no rio,

desfrutando de um bom banho e apanhando alguns camarões. Gostava de sentir aquele

cheiro de ar fresco, aquela paisagem verde e virgem! Havia um pequeno jardim à beira da

casa onde se plantava um pouco de tudo para as nossas refeições diárias. Às vezes, nos

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meus pensamentos, ainda vejo o meu pai vestido como um militar da cabeça aos pés. Com

um facão e um gancho nas mãos, constantemente media e supervisionava o trabalho no

mato. Não havia nenhum médico ou hospital na fazenda, mas somente um posto de

primeiros socorros. Estas foram as nossas condições de vida até aos meus seis anos. Por

essa altura, comecei a pedir coisas que, na época, os meus pais não me podiam comprar:

um triciclo, uma bicicleta, brinquedos caros. Ainda hoje me lembro da alegria que senti

quando o meu irmão fez a minha primeira scooter a partir de madeira de amoreira e

rolamentos. Durante a minha ida diária para a escola, frequentemente encontrava carros

danificados e, nesses momentos, para mim, um mecânico era como um cientista. Os

mecânicos eram os homens mais inteligentes do mundo! E foi então que eu me apaixonei

por sistemas mecânicos de automóveis. Agora, trabalho como mecânico, fazendo reparos e

manutenção de motores e sou uma pessoa feliz.

Let me tell you about my life…Carlos Santos

I was born in S. Tome and Principe, Agua Grande district. My family was poor

but, at that time, even in the colonial era, there was no lack of food, although money was not

enough for many clothes and toys.

On the farm Claudino Farro, far from the city, where my father was the foreman, the road

was not asphalted: only rutted dirt. During the week a tractor collected cocoa and other

agricultural products. To go out there, we usually had to travel about a twelve hours’ journey.

Sometimes, I swam in the river, enjoying a good bath and even caught some shrimp. I loved

to feel that smell of fresh air, that green and virgin landscape! There was a small garden on

the edge of the house, where we planted a little of everything for our daily meals.

Sometimes, in my thoughts, I still can see my father dressed as a military from head to toe.

With a machete and a hook in hands, he constantly measured and oversaw the work in the

bush. There was no doctor or hospital in the farm, but only a first aid station. These were our

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living conditions until I was six years. By this time, I started to ask for things that, at the time,

my parents could not afford to buy me: a tricycle, a bicycle, good toys. Even today I can

remember the joy I felt when my brother made my first scooter from mulberry wood and

bearings. During my everyday journey to school, I often found damaged cars and at that

time, for me, a mechanician was like a scientist. Mechanicians were the most intelligent men

in the world! It was then when I fell in love with auto mechanics systems. Now, I work as a

mechanician, doing repairs and maintenance of motors and I’m a happy person.

Viver longe de casa - "Deus aperta, mas não enforca"Laurinda Silva

Puerto Cumarebo, Venezuela, 1983. Marcou-me muito chegar a um país

desconhecido, sem conhecer ninguém, sem saber falar a mesma língua e, mais ainda, ver

como viviam. Crianças e adultos andavam semi-nús, calçando chinelos. A maioria vivia em

casas muito feias, feitas de blocos e folhas de chapa, mas muito limpas.

De manhã, depois do meu marido sair para o trabalho, dirigia-me à praia e deleitava-me a

observar os pescadores artesanais. Via chegar todos aqueles frágeis barcos de madeira,

movidos com a força de um minúsculo motor. Muita gente animada os esperava no cais

para comprar o pescado. Como a carne era cara, recorriam ao peixe para a alimentação

diária. Todos os dias aprendia com eles, a vê-los, a estudar a maneira como procediam. Os

habitantes daquelas regiões marítimas fazem uns rissóis muito grandes com farinha de

milho a que chamam «empanadas», alimento típico do pequeno-almoço. As mães

confeccionavam-nas e as crianças acorriam à praia para as vender, levando dinheiro para

casa. Ao princípio, eu olhava curiosa as velhas panelas de alumínio ou as gastas arcas de

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esferovite para manterem as «empanadas» quentinhas, desconhecendo o que era aquilo.

Os pequenos vendedores rivalizavam para serem os primeiros a abeirarem-se dos barcos

que aportavam! Para mim, pareciam um bando de malandros, mal vestidos e

desgrenhados. Mas com o tempo fui-me habituando e percebi que não eram o que eu

pensava. Eram apenas pobres crianças que, pelo pouco que tinham, se mostravam sempre

felizes.

Ainda tenho na memória os cheiros daquele peixe, das «empanadas», daquele

bando alvoroçado, daquele inesquecível mar do Caribe.

Living far away from home - “God squeezes but does not hang”Laurinda Silva

Puerto Cumarebo, Venezuela, 1983. It was very shocking for me to arrive to an

unknown country without knowing anyone, unable to speak the same language and,

moreover, to see the way that people used to live. Children and adults walked half - naked,

wearing slippers. Most lived in ugly houses, made of blocks and sheets of plate, but very

clean.

In the morning, after my husband left for work, I drove myself to the beach and delighted me

to watch the fishermen. I watched all those flimsy wooden boats reaching the shore,

powered by the strength of a tiny motor. Lots of people were waiting in the bustling docks to

buy fish. Some were merchants, owners of fishmongers; others simply enjoyed the very

fresh fish. As the meat was expensive, they resorted to fish for food daily. Every day I

learned with them, watching them, studying the way they preceded.

The inhabitants of those regions, close to the sea, make very large patties with corn flour

which they call "empanadas", typical food for everyday breakfast. Their mothers cooked

them and children flocked to the beach to sell them, bringing money home. At first, I looked

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curiously those old aluminum pots or the styrofoam chests, used to maintain warm the

“empanadas”, not knowing what it was. And every those small sellers strove to be the first to

draw near to the boats that docked! For me, they just seemed a bunch of crooks, badly

dressed and unkempt. But over time I got used and I realized that it was not what I thought.

They were just poor children. The little they had was enough to let them be always happy.

I still have in memory the smell of that fish, those “empanadas”, that excited gang, that

unforgettable Caribbean Sea.

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72

Timişoara – Scriitori, migraţie şi autobiografiiGabriela Tucan

Mai întâi trebuie să spunem că formarea grupului a necesitat căutări îndelungate şi

amănunţite. Ştiam că ne trebuiau imigranţi doritori să scrie despre ei înşişi şi despre

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experienţa imigrării. Deci, am început să căutăm familii de imigranţi. Oricât de mult ne-am

străduit, n-am putut găsi mai pe nimeni care să se potrivească profilului, şi atunci am

realizat că în România imigraţia înseamnă altceva. Într-adevăr, aici unii „imigranţi” sunt

migranţi cu lucrul, alţii îşi schimbă mereu ţara, iar alţii vin aici să studieze şi se hotărăsc să

rămână. Pentru cei mai mulţi, „imigraţia” sună ciudat şi de necrezut, întrucât nu se văd pe ei

înşişi ca adevăraţi imigranţi. Din fericire, pentru ei migraţia nu este ireversibilă.

Şi aşa l-am găsit pe Bilal Abbas a cărui mamă s-a măritat în Sudan unde au locuit numai

până Abbas a împlinit trei ani. Apoi, l-am găsit pe Ahmed din Egipt care a lucrat trei ani ca

lector de arabă în Republica Moldova şi acum, în Timişoara. Mai apoi, Edwina Vochoţ de

origine cehă care a călătorit mereu din România în Cehia, iar acum studiază în România.

Următorul a fost Daniele Pantaleoni care a studiat română la universitate în Italia, aşa încât

pentru el totul a început cu bursa la Timişoara, după care s-a decis să rămână. Daniele şi

Jorje Gonzales din Spania sunt aici de aproape 15 ani, iar istoriile lor de „imigranţi” sunt

foarte asemănătoare. Pentru ei, decizia de a rămâne aici a venit aproape natural, şi astfel

România a devenit a doua lor casă. O altă scriitoare în grup este Natalie Lazăr al cărei tată

român a părăsit România pentru Germania în anii 70, iar Natalie este acum aici să afle mai

multe despre propria identitate şi despre originea tatălui şi bunicului ei.

Când am format grupul, am început întâlnirile de scriere o dată pe lună. Scriitura lor este o

încercare de a-şi aminti originile şi de a-şi înţelege viaţa în România. Au pus cap la cap

fragmente şi instantanee din experienţa celor două case, din faptul de a fi aici şi acolo, din

amintirea prietenilor şi a familiei de aici şi de acolo. Treptat au devenit din ce în ce mai

obişnuiţi cu tehnici de scriere literară, astfel încât viaţa lor pe hârtie a devenit probabil mai

interesantă şi mult mai plăcută la ascultare. Sperăm că aceste prime fragmente vor fi doar

începutul unei autobiografii despre cele mai preţioase amintiri şi despre cel mai personal

mod de a face faţă imigrării. Timişoara – Writers, Migration and their Autobiographies

Gabriela Tucan

To start with, the group of writers in Timisoara was formed after a long and

thorough search. We knew we should be looking for immigrants willing to write about

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themselves and their experience of immigration. So, we started our search for families of

immigrants. Much as we tried, we could hardly find anyone to match our profile, so then we

realized that here in Romania immigration means something else. Indeed, some

‘immigrants’ here are work migrants, others constantly shift countries, and some others

come to study here and decide to remain. For most of them, ‘immigration’ sounds rather

strange and far-fetched, as they never truly think of themselves as immigrants. Luckily, to

them migration is not irreversible.

And so, we found Bilal Abbas whose Romanian mother got married in Sudan where they

lived but only until Abbas was three-year-old. And then, we got Ahmed from Egypt who has

worked for several years as a lecturer of Arabian language in the Republic of Moldavia and

now in Timisoara. Then, Edwina Vochot of Czech origin who has been always traveling from

Romania to the Czech Republic and now studies in Timisoara. Next, Daniele Pantaleoni

who studied Romanian at university in Italy, and so for him everything started with the

scholarship he got in Timisoara and afterwards he decided to stay. Daniele from Italy and

Jorge Gonzales from Spain have been here for almost fifteen years now and their histories

as ‘immigrants’ are very similar. To them, moving here came almost natural, and so

Romania has become their second home. Another writer is Natalie Lazar whose Romanian

father left Romania for Germany in the 70s and now she is here to learn about her identity

and her father and grandfather’s origins.

When we found the writers, we started our writing sessions once a month. The writing they

produced has been their attempt at remembering their origin and understanding their life in

Romania. They have pieced together fragments and snapshots of the experience of their

two homes, of being here and there, and of remembering friends and families from here and

there. Gradually, they have become more used to literary writing techniques, and so their life

on paper has become probably more exciting and is much worth listening to. We really

hope these first fragments will be just the start of writing about their most precious memories

and most personal way of coping with migration. Tunele din Madrid

Jorge Gonzales

Niciodată ca în acel tunel nu am mai simţit o beznă aşa de perfectă. Mi-era frică să

avansez pentru că intuiam că în orice moment acel gol din faţa mea putea deveni un perete

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neprevăzut şi nici măcar nu aveam sprijinul tactil, pentru că pe pereţii laterali, plini de

murdărie jilavă, nu puteam să mă sprijin întrucât noi ne aruncam în aceste aventuri în

pauzele dintre ore şi nu puteam să ne întoarcem în clasă negri de noroi. În clasa a-IX-a

aveam paisprezece ani şi a fost prima dată când am experimentat libertatea de a încerca

senzaţii noi, fără impedimentele trasate de părinţii mei. Zona între şcoala noastră şi Ciudad

Universitaria era o zonă atât de plină de vegetaţie încât acel prim an de libertate, în care nu

eram obligaţi să rămânem în curtea şcolii în orele libere, a fost pentru mine prima probă că

viaţa nu este o succesiune apatică de evenimente repetate. Doi colegi şi cu mine ne

căţăram pe copaci, escaladam pereţii Muzeului Américii, săream gardurile acolo unde se

putea pentru simpla plăcere de a descoperi ce se ascundea în spatele lor.

Aşa am descoperit tunelele, pe care, după prima tatonare în beznă, le-am explorat cu

lanterne şi brichete, până am ajuns într-o zi la o clădire goală şi semipărăsită a Facultăţii de

Medicină, într-un vechi laborator unde se adunau pe rafturi mostre de organe umane

conservate în borcane de formol. Mai târziu am învăţat că acele tunele constituiseră prima

linie în eroica apărare a Madridului când în 1936 cu Franco la porţile oraşului, madrilenii s-

au încăpăţânat să nu-i cedeze, şi aşa a rămas, hârţuit în mod insuportabil, dar invincibil,

până când, aproape trei ani mai târziu, generalul fascist a trebuit să cucerească restul

Spaniei pentru a obliga capitala să treacă sub puterea lui. Eroii tunelelor nu se luptau, ca şi

mine, cu posibilitatea unui perete care să-i oprească din drumul lor, ci cu un duşman care le-

ar fi curmat vieţile fără milă.

Pentru mine a fost prima confruntare cu necunoscutul, fără a asculta strigătele părinţilor mei

în spate (Jorge, pe acolo nu, e periculos!), experienţa pe care nu am uitat-o niciodată şi de

care îmi amintesc de fiecare dată când intru cu maşina într-o ţară nouă, sau mă aventurez

în explorarea unui oraş neconoscut, cuprins de o panică subtilă şi imperceptibilă, dar

experimentând satisfacţia de a fi obligat să-mi pun la bătaie toate strategiile pentru a simţi

încă o dată palpitaţiile faptului de a fi viu. Tunnels in Madrid

Jorge Gonzalez

Never before that tunnel had I felt such perfect darkness. I was scared to make any

steps ahead because I had the feeling that any moment then that emptiness before me

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could become un unpredictable wall and I could not even hold on anything around me, as

we would undertake such adventures in our school breaks, I could not lean against the dirty

damp side walls and then go back to classes all soiled and muddy. In the ninth grade I was

fourteen year old and it was the first time I had experimented the liberty of trying out new

sensations, without the impediments placed by my parents. The area between our school

and Ciudad Universitaria was a place so rich in vegetation that the first year of liberty, when

we didn’t have to stay within the schoolyard in the breaks, was to me the first sign that life

was more than a boring succession of ordinary facts. I and two schoolmates would go up in

the trees and climb the walls of the American Museum, jump over fences for the simple

pleasure of discovering what was behind them.

So we discovered the tunnels which, after our first examination in complete darkness, we

explored with flashlights and lighters, and so one day we came across an empty and half-

deserted building of the Medical School, in an old lab where they would store on shelves

samples of human organs kept in jars of formol. Later I learnt that those tunnels had been

the first line in the defense of Madrid when in 1936, with Franco at the gates of the city, the

Madrilians refused to surrender to him, and so for the next three years, the general had

been persecuted constantly but remained invincible, and so he had to conquer the rest of

Spain to have the capital under his rule. Unlike me, the heroes of the tunnels did not fight

the possibility of a wall that would stop them from their way, but real enemies that would

murder them mercilessly.

For me that was my first encounter with the unknown, without having to listen to my parents’

cries behind (Jorje, watch out! It’s dangerous!); that experience I have never forgotten and I

always remember it every time I’m driving into a new country or when I’m venturing into a

new city, overwhelmed by an sudden and subtle attack of panic, but enjoying the satisfaction

of having to use up all my strategies to feel once again the anxiety of being alive.

Am Amin şi prăjitura copilărieiAhmed Rashidi Hassan

M–am obişnuit să mă trezesc în weekend devreme cu gândul la prăjitură. Mă

trezesc primul acasă, mă îmbrac foarte repede şi îi cer bani tatălui, şi mă grăbesc la Am

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Amin vânzătorul de prăjituri, întotdeauna aş fi vrut să ajung primul la Am Amin, dar nu

reuşesc din păcate, nu ştiu de ce, mereu îl găsesc înconjurat de mulţi copii. El stă pe o

piatră rotundă să fie mai înalt. Mereu se îmbracă în haine albe, cu un halat şi o pălărie înaltă

albă. De la o distanţă mare aud gălăgia copiilor, voci amestecate, vă rog, Am Amin, eu sunt primul, dati-mi vă rog încă una, - vă rog ...vă rog – eu, vă rog …dati- mi restul, vă rog... mă

apropii puţin atunci, mă atrage mirosul de vanilie ce mă face să zbor şi cad între copii, îmi

aştept rândul cu nerădbare, mă uit la Am Amin prin vitrina rotundă. Îl văd tăind prăjituri din

tava mare, se uită la copii cu ochii-i negri frumoşi şi zâmbeşte. Îi zăresc mai bine tenul creol

şi zâmbetul care îi luminează faţa. Am auzit multe poveşti despre Am Amin; am auzit că s-a

mutat în oraşul nostru de vreo şapte ani din cauza războiului, şi n-are nici copii, de aceea îi

plac copiii foarte mult. Când vede un copil fără bani, îi dă prăjitură gratis. Pe scurt, era un

om plăcut şi ciudat, nimeni nu ştia unde locuia, unde era casa lui. Apărea dimneaţa cu

prăjituri şi dispărea imediat când termina. Nu ştia nimeni unde pregătea prăjiturile, nici unde

se distra seara!

Într-o noapte vara n-am dormit nici un pic, am vrut să fiu primul copil la rând la Am Amin.

Am ieşit din casă devreme la şase şi am fost primul copil pe stradă ...dar nu l-am găsit pe

Am Amin! Mai târziu au venit şi copiii unul după altul, ca picăturile de ploaie. Am aşteptat pe

stradă până după-amiază, dar n-a venit, nu ştiam unde să-l căutăm. După trei zile am aflat

că s-a întors în oraşul de unde era pentru că razboiul s-a terminat.

Am Amin and The Cake of my ChildhoodAhmed Rashidi Hassan

I got used to getting up early at weekends thinking of the cake. I get up first in the

house, get dressed quickly and ask my father for some money, and then hurriedly go out to

meet Am Amin the cake vendor; I always tried to come there first, but unfortunately never

succeeded, I don’t know why, I always find him surrounded by many kids. He stands on a

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round stone so that he may be taller, always dressed in white clothes, with a white coat and

a white tall hat. From a distance I can hear the noise of the children, mixed voices, please, Am Amin, I was the first, please give me one more, please …please – I, please … give me the change, please… then I approach a little, led by the vanilla smell that makes me fly and

land among the children; I impatiently wait for my turn, and look at Am Amin through his

round shop window. I can see him slicing the cake in the big baking plate; he looks to the

children with his beautiful black eyes and smiles. Now I can see better his creole skin and

his smile that seems to lighten his face. I hear many stories about Am Amin; I hear that he

moved in our town about seven years ago because of the war, and he has no kids, that’s

why he loves kids so much. When he sees a penniless child, he gives him cakes for free. In

short, he’s a pleasant but weird man; nobody ever knows his whereabouts. He would just

show up in the morning with his cakes and disappear as soon as he finished. No one knows

where he bakes his cakes, neither where he would have fun in the evening.

One summer night I didn’t sleep a bit, I just wanted to be the first in line at Am Amin. I left

early. I was the only child in the street…but couldn’t find Am Amin. Later on the other

children came one after another, like rain drops. We waited right there in the street until later

that afternoon, but he didn’t show up and we didn’t know where to search for him. After three

days we found out that he returned to his native town as the war was finished.

FugaNatalie Lazăr

Îmi sprijin fruntea de geam. Afară plouă. Când trenul ia viteză, picături de ploaie

cad pe diagonală şi taie peisajul şes în dungi. Azi-dimineață am vrut să fiu undeva departe –

departe de universitate, de părinţi, de toate cele obişnuite. În secret am cumpărat un bilet

„Hamburg - Den Haag”, care era următoarea plecare.

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Trenul frânează. Am ajuns. În faţa gării, mă urc ca în transă în tramvai. Direcţia

„Scheveningen“ spune placa albastră de deasupra şoferului. Stau în picioare. Nu privesc pe

nimeni.

Sunt sigură: se vede un semn pe faţa mea, se simte fuga mea, sunt sigură. Sau de ce toată

lumea îşi holbează ochii?

Cu fiecare staţie tramvaiul se goleşte. Oamenii ajung acasă, la cinci după-amiază.

Ca şi mine: ajung acasă de la universitate, ajung acasă de la şcoală: aşa a fost mereu.

Nimic nu s-a schimbat.

Observ cum şoferul mă priveşte. Sunt convinsă că am un semn pe frunte.

Mă uit prin vagon. Nu ramâne nimeni în tramvai, capăt de linie. Roşesc şi cobor repede. El

mă salută cu capul. Felinarele sclipesc, miroase a alge. Neaşteptat, întâlnirea îmi dă fiori în

tot corpul: Marea Nordului.

Atât de agitată n-am văzut-o niciodată. Mi se face frig, furtuna îmi smulge hainele. Incep să

merg de-a lungul marginii de apă. Simt nisip in ochi. Nu văd. Simt o solitudine imensă.

Acum o lună mă invada senzaţia că pierd ceva, o senzaţia de plictiseală paralizantă,

crescând din zi în zi şi transformându-se într-o solitudine letală.

Cred că aud un pescăruş. Simt ochii lui rapace, cinici.

“Nimic nu e nou, asta e problema!”, îi explic păsării, dintr-o dată cu voce tare, în caz că

zboară lângă mine. Recunosc că nici eu nu ştiu de ce nu sunt mulţumită de viaţa mea.

Talazul urlă mai tare. Aud un strigăt. Să fie pescăruşul, sper.

Brusc, mă opresc din mers: “Decepţionată! Asta e: decepţionată de mine! Că eu n-am putut

să schimb nimic, eu n-am avut curajul să rup rutina.”

Vâjâitul vântului slăbeşte. Caut pescăruşul la orizont, văd numai noaptea care se leagănă

liniştit pe valuri. The Escape

Natalie Lazăr

I lean my forehead against the window. It rains outside. When the train gathers

speed, raindrops fall diagonally and cut the flat landscape into stripes. This morning I

wanted to get to a remote place - far from university, from parents, and all the usual stuff.

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Secretly I bought a ticket Hamburg – Den Haag, the very next departure. The train stops.

We have arrived.

In front of the railway station I get on a tram as in a trance. Next stop Scheveningen says

the blue sign from above the driver. I stand. I don’t look to anyone. I have no doubts about

that: they can see it on my face, they can read my escape. I am positive about that. Why do

they all stare?

After each stop the tram empties. People will get home at five in the afternoon. I am no

exception: I get home from university or from school at the same time. It has always been

that way. Nothing has changed. I notice how the driver watches me. I am positive I’ve got a

sign on my forehead. I look around the carriage. No one stays on the tram. This is a dead

end. I blush and get down fast. The driver greets me nodding.

The street lights glimmer in the remaining grey daylight. It smells of fish or algae.

Unexpectedly, the encounter gives me the shivers: the North Sea. Never before have I seen

it so wild. I get very cold. The storm tears my clothes apart. I start walking along the water

line. I can feel sand in my eyes. I can’t see a thing. An immense solitude overwhelms me.

A month ago the feeling that I was to lose something invaded me; a feeling of paralysing

fear, growing from day to day and turning into lethal solitude.

I think I can hear a seagull. I can feel its rapacious cynical eyes.

“Nothing new under the sun, that’s the problem!,” I suddenly explain to the bird out loud, in

case it is flying next to me. I admit that I myself don’t know why I am disappointed with my

life. The waves cry out even louder. I can hear a scream. Might that be the seagull?! I hope

so. Suddenly I stop walking. “Disappointed! That’s it! Disappointed with me because I could

not change anything, I did not have the guts to break with the routine.”

The blow of the wind weakens. I search for the seagull on the horizon; I can see the night

undulating gently with the waves.Olga

Daniele Pantaleoni

Între camerele situate la parter ale Căminului G4, una avea o faimă deosebită, era

cuibul Doamnei Olga, administratoarea.

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Încăperea puterii era luminată de o lampă din care se împrăştiau nişte raze slabe şi

încărcate cu o nuanţă roşiatică care te făcea să crezi că ai intrat într-un restaurant

chinezesc absurd şi prost amenajat. Camera cuprindea: un birou, o canapea, un frigider, un

televizor color, un reşou, o oglindă. Privirea alunecă aproape automat la dreapta, către

biroul care găzduia un teanc de hîrţoage, nişte poze înrămate, o ceaşcă de nes fierbinte şi

o scrumieră plină ochi cu chiştoace de Snagov. Dincolo de acestă cortină fumigenă se

detaşa o figură umană robustă, cu părul creţ, piept generos şi dinţi consumaţi

precum ţigara care atârna din buzele ei: Doamna Administratoare Olga sau, pe scurt, Şefa!

Înfăţişarea ei era un calc fidel al reputaţiei de care se bucura printre locuitorii din Căminul

G4. Aceştia o considerau un fel de Muma Pădurii a Complexului studenţesc, o fiinţă cu o

înaltă concentraţie de corupţie şi de reflexe securisto-comuniste care avea în mână destinul

cazării multor studenţi şi tinere cadre didactice. Viitorul meu de locuitor al căminului nu

depindea de Olga, deci puteam să am cu dânsa o relaţie puţin mai neserioasă. Când intram

în biroul ei pentru a plăti chiria sau pentru a primi un telefon mi se părea că mă scufundam

într-un film de Kusturica şi, în consecinţă, începeam să recit rolul meu. Mai în glumă, mai în

serios, îi ceream o reducere, să o distrez poceam ceva cuvinte în limba română şi îi lăudam

calităţile cafelei. Olga din când în când mă întreba dacă puteam să-i aduc din Italia lucruri

ciudate precum: parfumuri, pampers pentru nepotul ei, cosmetice. Inevitabil răspundeam

spunând că aveam să plec în Italia abia peste 3-4 luni şi cum s-ar fi descurcat nepoţelul

atâtă vreme fără scutece? Sau dacă între timp dânsa primea o invitaţie la o petrecere, oare

ar fi mers nemachiată? Olga comenta obrăzniciile mele bolborosind ceva şi apoi adăuga:

„Auzi tu ce şmecher este italianul ăsta!”

M-am reîntâlnit cu Olga după câţiva ani, întâmplător, la un supermarket. Eu nu mai locuiam

la G4 de mult. „Daniele, ce mai faci?”, m-a întrebat zâmbind. Din gura ei însă nu mai

apăreau acele negre rămăşiţe stomatologice de odinioară, ci o sclipitoare proteză albă,

rodul unei lungi şi obositoare cariere de Şefă.Olga

Daniele Pantaleoni

One of the rooms on the ground floor of the Hostel G4 was well-known as Madam

Olga’s shelter, the superintendent. The room of the authority was lit by a lamp that shed dim

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reddish light that made you think you stepped into an absurd badly decorated Chinese

restaurant. The room consisted of: a desk, a couch, a fridge, a colored TV set, a heater, a

mirror. Your attention would automatically be drawn to the right, to the desk that was

sheltering a pile of paperwork, some framed photos, a cup with hot instant coffee, and an

ashtray absolutely full of Snagov cigarette butts. Beyond this smoke releasing curtain, a

human figure was looming: well-built, curly haired, full-bosomed, with finished teeth like the

cigarette hanging between her lips: Madam Olga The Superintendent or The Boss, for short!

Her look resembled closely the reputation she was enjoying between the residents of the

Hostel G4. These people thought of her as a sort of Ugly Hag of the Campus, a highly-

corrupted person with the habits of a Communist Security general that ruled over the destiny

of many students and young teachers who were searching for campus accommodation. My

future as a resident in the hostel did not depend on Olga, so I could have a less serious

relationship with her. When I would enter her office to pay the rent or to get a phone call, I

felt as if I was submerging in a film by Kusturica and, as a result, I would start playing my

part. Half joking, I would ask for a rent discount or, to make her laugh, I would mispronounce

Romanian words and compliment her on the high quality of her coffee. At times Olga would

ask me whether I could buy strange things for her from Italy: perfumes, baby nappies for her

grandson, cosmetics. I would always tell her that I was only going to Italy in 3-4 month’s time

and how was her grandson going to do without nappies for so long? Or meanwhile, she

could be invited somewhere to a party, and how could she go without wearing makeup?

Olga would comment on my naughty remarks and then would add: “You listen to this wicked

Italian!”

I ran into Olga in a supermarket several years after that. By then I already left G4. “Daniele,

how are you?” she asked me smiling. I could not see in her mouth the black stomatological

remains of the old days, but some shining white false teeth, the product of a long and

exhausting career as a Boss. Casa familiei mele

Edwina Vochoţ

Când a ajuns pe stradă, şi-a dat seama care era uşa pe care trebuia să intre. Bine

finisată, nezgrunţuroasă, rece si umedă, poarta pe care trebuia să intre nu era departe de

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ea. Când a intrat în hol, şi-a dat seama de ce îi tot spuneam că mama e o gospodina. Uleiul

încins, gemul de căpşuni şi căldura îi înăbuşeau respiraţia. Ştiam că îi voi face o surpriză.

Era prima dată când venea la mine.

Holul i-a plăcut în mod special. Mirosul gogoşilor peste sprayul de cameră o făcea să se

simtă ca acasă. A intrat in camera mea. Lavanda şi vanilia nu erau printre preferatele ei aşa

că a strâmbat un pic din nas şi s-a făcut comodă. Era genul de persoană care studia totul. A

atras-o parfumul meu. Imediat îşi adusese aminte de mătuşa ei. Un miros dulce şi vechi s-a

răspândit în aer. Eram convinsă că nu mai simţea mirosul mobilei proaspăt aduse. S-a

repezit în baie.

Albastrul şi modelele din baie au atras-o. Se simţea mirosul de curăţenie si detergent.

Numai ce scosesem hainele din maşina de spălat. Aveam să cred că uitase de gogoşi.

O servesc cu un ceai în living. Aburul răspândeşte menta din cană. O văd că strâmbă iar din

nas. Simt uşor lavanda şi vanilia. Am coborât în bucătărie. Pe scări, îmi dau seama că tata

doar ce pornise centrala de căldură.

Simt lemnul ars şi fumul de la care mă ustură nasul. Când am intrat în bucătărie, mama

gătea. Gem de căpşuni, ulei încins, fum de la lemne, căldura de la calorifere, supă

proaspătă, morcovii de la bunica, pui la cuptor.

Am reuşit! Adela se simţea ca la ea acasă.

Family HomeEdwina Vochoţ

When she got out in the street, she then realized which door she should have

entered. Well-made, smooth, cold and slightly wet, that gate was just next to her. When she

entered the hallway, she understood why I’d been telling her that mom was an excellent

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cook. The burning oil, the strawberry jam, and the heat made it difficult for her to breathe. I

knew I’d surprise her. It was her first visit to my place.

She really liked the hallway. The smell of doughnuts mixed with the spray chamber made

her feel at home. She got into my room. She was not exactly keen on lavender and vanilla,

so she turned her nose up at the smell and made herself at home. She was very particular

with everything around her. My perfume seemed very appealing to her. It immediately

reminded her of her aunt. A sweet and old-smelling scent was spreading freely about the

room. I knew for sure that she could no longer feel the smell of the newly-bought furniture.

She dashed to the bathroom. She was attracted by the blue patterns on the tiles. You could

feel the smell of a clean place and detergent. Just then I took the laundry out of the washing

machine. Then I thought she had completely forgotten the doughnuts.

I serve her a tea in the living room. The hot steam gives off a mint aroma. I see her turning

her nose again. I can feel a diffuse smell of lavender and vanilla. I get downstairs into the

kitchen. Down the stairs I realize father had just put on the heating.

I can sense burning wood and smoke that gives me a nose itching. When I got into the

kitchen, mom was cooking. Strawberry jam, fresh soup, carrots from grandma, and grilled

chicken.

I’ve made it! Adela was really feeling at home.

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