E-VITA

In the year 1987 I decided to visit some German friends. My trip should go to a city called Erlangen nearby Nuremberg in the south of Germany. By that time it was in did cheaper to go by train instead of taking a plane, so I went on 48hours train trip from Lisbon to Nuremberg with a short stop in Paris. I was 17 and extremely exited about my trip…It was my first time going abroad on my own, and alone. It was Christmas time and the  train was full of Portuguese migrants and their relatives.Before I tell you my story, you should know that Portugal is a country with a long emigrants tradition. In the 50, 60 and 70ies over one Million Portuguese went for working abroad, escaping the economical and political difficulties on a country ruled by a dictator. Portuguese  people were not allowed to live the country…so they had to escape, being illegal emigrants and often also illegal immigrants mainly in France, Germany, Belgium, Switzerland, the reach Europe!

I like a lot to talk to people, and in a train full of Portuguese people it is not difficult to find people to talk with. In addition none of us had the chance to play on a computer or a mobile phone, we could read, sleep or talk. Despite my age, I was already very interested on the life stories of people. And I always liked to listen to stories. I remember a couple, coming from a little village in the north of Portugal. They had left Portugal in the 50ies to work in Paris. The man left first…looking for a better life. In order to go to Paris they gave all their (poor) savings to a "smuggler-gang" that organised the whole trip. I was a cold winter - in the darkness of the winter it was easier to cross the boarders - he had almost no food and the clothes were very light. They went by feed and walked only in the night. Once they crossed the Portuguese-Spanish boarder they continuous their trip on a freight train, they feared being discovered by the Guardia Civil, that collaborate close with the Portuguese government (Franco (the Spanish Dictator) and Salazar (Portuguese dictator) liked and supported each other. They came to a small village close to the Pyrenean and went further by foot. They crossed the mountains wearing "spring clothes". They walked day and night; it was too cold to stop. Once they crossed the boarder they were saved. France smelled like freedom and prosperity. The country where dreams could come true. They drove to Paris on a train. Paris was too big, too unfriendly and too noisy for a simple Portuguese man from a small rural village. But he had a work and a bed in the "migrant’s slum". After two years the wife joined him. They could even afford a little apartment; she had found work as housekeeper. Children were borne. French children for the Portuguese and Portuguese children for the French. C’est la vie. Once a year they came for holidays to Portugal. The best time in the year. They had French money and people in the village respected them a lot. After 30 years working in France they retired, and came back to Portugal, but every Christmas they go on the train to visit their children, because of the “Saudades” and teach Portuguese to the Grandchildren.

I heard many stories about migration on the trip to Nuremberg…twenty years later, I hear a lot of similar stories told by my Turkish neighbours in Germany. It is always about pain, lost of identity, hard living, and being a stranger in-between the cultures. But also about hope. And I learn…

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