Week 31 (2010) Ciao Ciao: Part Five

One day when I was walking in Napoli, it started raining. Nearby was a small footbridge. I moved under it, and saw this Pakistani man with a table next to him. He was slightly plump, moustached, tall enough not to be mistaken as a Bangladeshi; his hair was black but not thick, he wore terricot trousers rather than jeans which immediately put his age in the late forties. The table was full of small items – earrings, hair bands, bracelets, sandalwood, fake jewellery.

“Namaste bhaisaab,” he smiled. “Where are you from? India?”

I explained I was from Bombay. “And you?”

“From Rawalpindi.” His face displayed a cocktail of emotions when he said it. We shook hands.

“Aren’t you feeling cold?” I asked. I was in my jacket and shoes. This man wore just a shirt; though full-sleeve it looked pretty thin. And worn-out sandals without socks.

“I’m now accustomed to this weather. It’s much worse in winter. September is still a few months away. A Pakistani has promised that he’ll give his coat to me, once he buys a new one. Let’s see. Shall I get a cup of chai for you?”

I said no thanks, and asked, “How long have you been here?”

“See... next Friday it’ll be two years.” He paused and repeated. “Two years. I first came at a time like this. Who knew winters would be so nasty here? The agent hadn’t told me.”

It was still pouring. The sky was dark. The wind carried raindrops in whichever direction it blew.

“What agent? Someone brought you here?”

“Yes. We have many in Pakistan. Agents also exist in India and Bangladesh. My agent said life was wonderful in Italy. I’ll be able to make money, get passport and bring my family. I have three children – Mohammed, Nagma and Anwar. You see I never went to school, but I want... I wanted my children to live in a good country. I worked in South Korea for nine years. That agent was good – he didn’t take much money. After working for two years in Korea I had paid off his dues. And then I could save something and send every month to my family. Korea was great. They had vacancies in the factories. I had a regular job, and they paid every month. I would have been happy to work in Korea all my life. But then... America decided to have military bases in South Korea, and they asked the Koreans to drive away all Pakistanis. I was working honestly – for nine years. And one day, my manager said I should go home. You’ve lost this job, and you won’t get another in Korea. You better go home. ”

“So you decided to come to Italy?”

“What to do? Abbajan was telling me - Ameer, beta, you’ve come back. Now stay in Pakistan. But I have parents, and wife and three children. In Rawalpindi, an illiterate like me can’t earn enough to feed so many people. The agent said Italy was a free country – good for my children when I bring them here.”

“How did you get a visa?” I asked Ameer. Pakistan doesn’t have a border with Italy that an illiterate man can cross over in the night.

“The agent arranged that. The Italian embassy gave me a work permit.”

“A work permit?”

“Yes bhaaisaab, a work permit for two months. Very expensive. It costs 12 lakh rupees. I gave away all my savings from Korea and took loans from relatives so I could pay the agent. I also took loans from the local moneylender against my house. You see after coming here, you have to pay 5000 Euros on top.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand this. What’s this 5000 Euros for? For prolonging your work permit?”

Ameer smiled. “Prolonging? We’re not educated like you, bhaisaab. We’re illegals. The Pakistani agent has his man here. He collects 5000 Euros, and submits our papers. Every few years, the Italian government pardons the illegals for whom the agents have filed papers. When that happens, I’ll become legal. After that I’ll get a passport.”

  

“Not so bad, then.” I said. “You’ll get an Italian passport. And your family will get Italian passports after that.”

“The agent had said it would happen in two years. See I’ll complete two years on Friday. After coming here, I heard it can take much longer. Even ten years. Sure you don’t want a cup of chai? I can get for both of us from a nearby shop.”

“Not for me, but you go ahead.” I said, but he didn’t.

“If you are illegal, won’t the police arrest you? They can put you in jail. Or send you back home.”

“I’ve hidden my passport. The agent had told us to hide it. And no matter what, I never tell my true name or the country I came from. Whenever they catch me, I have no name and no country. The Italian police don’t do anything. They just want money. See this....” he pointed to the goodies on the table. “Every few months, they catch me... and take all this. Confiscate. I lost about 200 Euros worth three times.”

Some tourists stopped at the table.

“Excuse me.” Ameer said and started telling them about items – “cinque – dieci – buono buono- prego...non caro”

The women haggled for a long time, and then left without buying anything. The rains had subsided by now. Ameer once again started talking to me.

“These white women don’t understand much – in the Indian stuff. They’ll spend hours, bargaining, but not part with five Euros.”

“How do you manage then? This place is very expensive.”

“Inshalla, so far I’ve survived. Six of us stay in a room that costs 350 Euros a month. I cook two times. Rent and food, that’s all I spend on... and I call my family once a month – one of my roommates has a phone card. I call using his phone. It’s unfortunate I can’t send any money home. There is nothing left.”

“Why don’t you go back to Pakistan?” Surely, I thought, for the weather and the family if nothing else.

“How will I go? How will I buy a ticket? And once I go there, I have to think of giving the money back to everyone from whom I have borrowed. If I’m not there, they’ll not trouble my family for money. They know one day I’ll have a passport and my relatives can hope to come to Europe using my help. Let’s see when the Italian govt opens up the files again. If I go now, the two years I spent here will be a waste.”   

I looked at the skies. They looked clear. The rains had stopped completely.

“Do you have children?” Ameer asked me.

“Yes. My daughter is six-years old.”

He glanced at his table and picked up a hair band.

“Please, this is a gift for her.”

“Oh no, not a gift” I said. That colour wasn’t something I would have bought anyway. I chose another one. “Let me buy this one.”

“No. I can’t take money from you. You talked to me. You spent so much time here. It feels good to talk in Urdu. It feels good to talk to our own people. This is the only time I’m connected to my home. You please take the gift bhaisaab for your daughter.” 

We argued for some time. Reluctantly he took the five Euros that I forcibly thrust in his hands.

“Khuda hafiz.” He said as I started to leave. “Please come again if you have time. I normally sell at this spot every day.”

***

Ameers were everywhere we went – Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples, Pisa... Without a single exception; Bangladeshi, Indian and Pakistani street-sellers whom we met offered us a discount without asking. Even when an item was 3 Euros, they spontaneously reduced one Euro from it. They offered free toys to Devyani. In an Italian restaurant, whether you stand or sit while eating affects the price of what you eat. (More on this next week). A Bangla owner of a restaurant in Florence, as soon as he saw us, said he would charge us standing prices, but we could sit comfortably and eat.

We were their link, however brief, to home.

In Italy, Bangladeshis sell umbrellas, the blacks sell ladies’ purses, the Sri Lankans work as house maids, and Indians and Pakistanis find a variety of lowly paid jobs. The Bangladeshis and the Africans normally have an Italian boss who invests in umbrellas and purses and pays daily wages to these guys.

All of them arrive in Italy by paying 12 lakh rupees or an equivalent amount first, and then 5000 Euros on arrival for a two month work permit, in the hope of becoming legal at an indefinite point in the distant future. They hide or destroy their ID documents, live in cramped places, earn enough for survival (or die) and can’t think of going home to face the lenders from whom they have borrowed money. When the police approach, they run. If caught, they pay all they have as fines. These are the voluntary slaves of the 21^st century.

The embassies and consulates harass the well-educated and well-off applicants. But by sharing loot with agents, the corrupt visa officers gladly give the illiterate Asians a short-term work permit. Discretion is the mother of corruption. And visa sections of embassies are granted discretionary powers. The Roman Empire was infamous for the number it forced or imported into slavery. Modern Italy through its visa sections lure the Asians and Africans who end up as voluntary slaves.

The Venetian Grand Canal, the Vatican churches, the 17-feet David, the crooked Pisa tower, the Colosseum, the Florence Duomo.... near all these places you will find the umbrella-selling Bangladeshis and the purses-selling Blacks. But not a single one of them is in a position to appreciate the beauty of these magnificent artefacts.

The voluntary slaves are busy trying to survive and hoping that one day an Italian bureaucrat will pull out their file.

Ravi