I have left my mother country. I will call it „mother country” because I don’t have a father. I haven’t left because I wanted a better life but because life wanted a better me. Where I come from, people are (slightly) different than the people I have met in the surrogate country. I will call it „surrogate country” because it’s a substitute country, it takes the place and function of the original but it still feels dissimilar. My people are not better or worse, they are just (slightly) different.
Leaving my country has always chased me like some kind of a guilt feeling. Not leaving wouldn’t have made my country better. That’s not where the guilt comes from. The guilt comes from an incapacity of telling the surrogate country who I really am, who my people really are.
I watched an European Championship today on TV. And a 16 year old girl from my mother country won the gold medal. A young girl, dressed in a yellow gymnast suit, doing all kinds of artistic magical movements. 16 and so self confident, facing the whole world and showing everybody that she was the best. And she only needed one minute and a half to do that. One minute and a half hiding years of hard work and broken bones and feelings. She had probably given up her childhood for that one minute and a half. And what I saw on TV was not only that girl with yellow flames on her suit. It was the most pure image of my people, the image I have never been able to describe to the people I have met in the surrogate country. The self confidence, the sacrifice, the broken bones and feelings, the courage to face the world and dare to change its history.
The world has seen that one minute and a half, I have seen the broken bones. And that’s who we are, fighters who always get killed in their fight. Not by their competitors but by their desire to change the history.