#3: Racism on The Refugee Trail

The one where I see that the world is not all kind

You know how you hear stories from travellers about how strangers everywhere in the world are so kind that it warms their heart. My travels are full of these stories too, but my experiences while cycling through some politically charged lands taught me that this kindness is a privilege that not all people get¹.

The Turkey-Iran Border

I left Iran in a great hurry. I had tried and failed to get a second visa extension in Tabriz, and took a cab to the border.

The officer at immigration took a look at my passport, and took me to the side to talk to his superior officer, who was smiling and talking to a lady. She smiled at me as she took her passport from him. “Good luck,” she told me and left.

His smile vanished in an instant as he turned to me and asked for my visa. I gave the printout of the e-visa to him and he motioned for me to move to a chair near the door.

And there, on the same chair, was where I sat for the next five hours. My passport went through scanners, phone calls were made with glances at me. No one asked if I needed the toilet or wanted water. They shushed me if I tried to ask them anything. Once, I put my right leg over my left, and the officer clicked his fingers at me and pointed that both feet should be on the ground.

I can see that this may not sound scary, but you can excuse that to bad writing. I had no idea then what, if anything, was wrong or what they were verifying. If something was wrong, what would happen? Where would I go — jail? Even more scary: what would happen to my cycle?!

At 5:00 PM, I was let out, again without a word. The officer who had told me to sit was nowhere to be found, and the guard who led me to the final security check ignored my questions as I rushed behind him, pushing my cycle.

The first words anyone spoke to me was when they were shining a light into the seat tube of my cycle looking for drugs. “You should take a shower”, he said.

The Bus from Van to Ankara

My father was going to meet me in Istanbul to spend a few days traveling around Turkey. Instead of zooming through the country on the cycle to reach at the same time as him, I decided to take a bus to Ankara from Van, the closest big town to the Iran border in Turkey.

The bus was full of locals except me and three guys who were huddled together in the last row.

At a security checkpost, a soldier came into the bus and asked to see everyone’s IDs. He was giving each ID a quick glance and returning it, till he came to me. He leafed through my passport carefully and motioned for me to step down from the bus.

I was joined by the three backseat guys, and we were taken to a wooden cabin, which was about 2 square metres in size.

That cabin on the right was where it all went down

I was the tallest one there. Maybe that’s why the soldier looked at me first.

“Where are you from?”, he asked.

“India”, I said.

“Hindu?”

“Yes”.

“No eating cow?”, he laughed for a moment, and before I could react kicked me on the thigh.

“You are from India?!”, this time he shouted and raised his hand. He tried to slap me, but missed and his hand flashed past in front of my eyes.

“Tourist,” I said, not knowing what else to say. He pointed at my torn pants and laughed. I cursed myself for not wearing my not-torn pair.

“Biciclet [Bicycle] tourist!”, I exclaimed, not knowing what else to say.

His attitude instantly changed. He had probably seen the bicycle when they had opened the luggage compartment.

He asked the other three for identification. They each gave him a card and he examined it carefully and returned them in turn.

When he returned the last card, he slapped its owner. This time, he didn’t miss, and I learned that slaps can be loud. The guy who got slapped remained expressionless.

He motioned for us to get back into the bus, and later he came inside to do a final check.

“Bye, Hindu”, he said with a smirk as he passed me.

Croatia

A few weeks later, I was cycling with John, an Australian-Asian cyclist. We had been cycling together almost a week through Serbia, and had crossed the border into Croatia.

Ten minutes into the European Union, a police officer pulled up and asked for our documents. He examined my passport, and asked me where the visa was. I showed him, and he examined that in great detail and then let us go.

A few kilometres later, we were stopped again. Same drill. Passport, visa, thank you, go.

In two hours, we were stopped a total of five times. Each time, I gave them my passport, they checked it thoroughly (one guy even noted the dates of my previous stamps), and let us go. John was not as patient as me.

"Why aren't you stopping these guys?". John pointed at two white cyclists who were passing us at that very moment.

The policeman shrugged.

We had planned to cycle together through Croatia into Slovenia. But John decided to go to Hungary.

"I don't want to stay in a country where I'll keep getting judged for the colour of my skin".

I camped in this Hunter’s Cabin one night. I was scared of wild boars and policemen

Slovenia 1

A few weeks later, I was in Slovenia and volunteering on a farm. Greenery, organic vegetables, and nice people: it was a good life.

One day, Ania, another volunteer on the farm (who I am now engaged to, FYI), and I decided to walk to the highway gas station to get some beer. Repko, the farm dog who really liked me, came along without being asked.

We were scared that he would get run over by car while crossing the highway, so I told Ania to go get the beers, while I sat down by the side of the road with Repko.

A girl who was out on a run turned into the street and stopped when she saw me. She hesitated for a moment, and then went into the house on the corner.

I assumed it was her house, but a few minutes later, she came out with a guy who was holding a cereal box in his left hand. I remember being amused at why he had a cereal box in his hand, but...maybe inside it was a gun?

"What are you doing here?", the guy asked.

"I am waiting for my friend", I said.

"No. What are you doing here in Slovenia?"

I told them I was volunteering on a farm nearby. They seemed to recognize the name of the farm and left.

Ania was angry when I told her the story. "No no. It wasn't racism", I said. "Maybe she was scared that I was a guy on the street and she was alone."

"No way," Ania replied. "If you were white, there is no chance this would have happened."

Slovenia 2

Two or three weeks later, a few of us volunteers were walking to the next town. It started raining, so We decided to get a ride. No one stopped. In four years of travel, this was the first time I was failing at hitchhiking.

We stopped for shelter under the balcony of an empty house. There was a cherry tree, so I ate a few cherries. As we were eating and chatting (or complaining about the rain, I don't remember), a police car pulled up.

"Down! Down!", the policeman shouted and pointed at the ground at our feet. A solider came in behind him and stood pointing a big gun at us as we cowered down.

We all had different interpretations of what the word "Down" meant due to our inexperience with these kinds of situations. I was in a squat. One of us prostrated himself, more in fear than in respect. Others were sitting on the ground like they were meditating.

"Documents", the policeman said, looking at me. The soldier stared at us, saying nothing. I explained that my documents were at the farm, and told him that we were volunteers there.

After a brief conversation about what we were doing in the country and on the road, he seemed satisfied and motioned for us to get up from the ground.

"I understand", he said. "Just be careful, there are refugees from Syria, Afghanistan, and Pakistan in these areas. You should not hitchhike. There is a bus stop just down the road."

The soldier and his big gun continued staring at us, both saying nothing.

The Other Side

Ania and I decided to make an official complaint to the police. "I know it probably won't make any difference, but we can't do nothing", she said.

At the police station, we were welcomed by a nice officer who heard our story patiently. He apologized for what we had experienced, and told us that the only reason they sent an army person was that a local had called the police saying that it was a possible refugee situation.

I wonder what would have happened if I was alone rather than with five white people?

We asked him if this is how refugees are always treated, and he said that they treat them with great care, and that there are checks and balances at every step of the way. Things sometimes get out of hand because both the police and the army are under-equipped for this new responsibility that is heaped on them on top of everything else they were handling before. "Everyone asks about the refugees, no one asks about us," he said.

In that air conditioned police station where this inspector with the full force of the European Union behind him was talking to us, we asked him about how the police are doing.

He said that there is psychological help available to the police, but because of their ego, no one goes till it's too late. He told us stories of refugees stealing food from local farms, staying illegally in a locals' home when they were on vacation, and so on.

To him, it was reasonable that you would send in the army when someone was eating lettuce in a farm. To him, it was reasonable to hunt people like animals in the forest because they were looking for shelter and asylum. To him, it was reasonable to call the police because one person in a group "looked like a refugee because of their skin colour".

To him, he was doing his job: protecting his community from what he saw as a threat. To us, it was racist and unfair. "It's against human rights", Ania said.

He shook his head and informed us that Amnesty International was involved in the whole process of dealing with refugees, though "there might be lapses due in high stress situations".

"Like that of six people taking shelter from the rain?", we asked him.

He apologized again for the way we were treated, and hoped we would understand that it was "necessary".

At the time, I thought this was a very cool artistic depiction of racism

We didn't (and don't) understand, but we did leave. He probably went back to his office and job with pride, while I decided that hitchhiking in Europe is not for me because I was afraid of what would happen.

Conclusion

Yes, all this happened to me. But think of the refugees for whom this is only Monday morning. They don't have the luxury of anger. They are judged not by their actions or their stories or where they are running from, but simply the fact that they are refugees. The word "refugee" has taken on a meaning it never had. Before, it was someone that needed protection, now it's someone to fear.

1. You don’t have to look far to realize this. Look how migrant labourers who walked across India back home during the lockdown were treated by their government and policemen. For them, the kindness that they did see was the exception rather than the rule.