He will never know the realities we have to face. The fear, tension, terror. The humiliation. But we can’t complain. We asked for it, didn’t we? This journey. And at the end of it … what kind of enlightenment? Will we find it in a cell when we’re arrested and locked up? And even if we manage to find safe passage, what about the attacks of the neo-Nazis we’ll have to face? There was the case of two youths, neo-Nazis, who were responsible for killing a Turkish woman and two of her grand daughters by fire bombing their house in Mölln. Yes, we’ll have to face the neo-Nazis too. They are the same although they have other names. Skinheads and Rightists. Everywhere the minorities will face such dangers. Ironically enough, I’ll become the minority here, in this country. Not only will I have to relinquish my identity but also the power attached to it in my own country. We are newcomers here; the Turkish woman Bahide Arslan and her grand daughters Geliz and Ayse, two little girls, were long established residents—yet their houses had been torched. Reminds me of what happened in our island in ‘83. The torching of the houses and the business places, the killings. History will always question these facts. My parents gave shelter to Tamil families during that time. I understood their fear. Is that the fear I must now feel?

Once more we get off the truck. We have to cross afield. We crawl through mud and slush. We’re caked with it. Our clothes stiffen and grate against the skin. When was the last time we had a good wash? A hot bath? It seems like ages and ages ago. We reach a township. Turkish music comes from the cafés. We see people drinking foaming beer, eating off steaming platters of food. A cooked meal. Cups of hot coffee.

Where to wash off the mud and slush? There’s a fountain in the heart of the city. We wash ourselves thoroughly in it. The water is icy but fresh.

The guide leaves us.

‘Another guide will come to lead you,’ he says and disappears.

We’re alone. Abandoned. He never turns up. We move out of the city, walk endlessly along a gravel road. No one to be seen. No dwellings. No habitations. Walking into the countryside, only the woods on either side. Silent trees. No birdsong. Scrunch of gravel underfoot.

Suddenly patrol cars drive up.

‘Police, police,’ someone calls out.

No escape for us.

‘Aliens. Aliens. Asylum seekers.’ We understand what they are saying.

‘Passports. Show. Where passports?’

We have no identities any longer.

‘Inside. Inside. Get in.’

Car doors open and we’re bundled in. Doors slam shut. We’re driven off. Taken into the city. Berlin—we’re here at last.