In The Refugee Camp
Four years after entering Austria as refugees, we left Austria as refugees. Not literally, but in officially bureaucratic terms, according to protocol. My family was granted resident status as war refugees to the USA in early 1998, and for the transit process to be executed properly between the two countries, we had to spend a night in the small Austrian town of Traiskirchen.
To most people, there is absolutely nothing memorable about Traiskirchen. It is about as unexceptional as most blue-collar commuter boondocks which dot the Viennese hinterland. Its proximity to Vienna would probably be the only context in which this town would ever be mentioned; a noble honor, some may say, as it can at least boast of being not-quite-in-the-middle-of-nowhere, which is a characteristic that the majority of small, forgettable Austrian towns can’t claim to have.
Despite possessing a plethora of attributes which should allow Traiskirchen to live on peacefully in unremarkable insignificance, the town found itself featured in the Austrian TV evening news quite prominently. The reason for such prominence is that Traiskirchen hosts one of the largest refugee camps in Austria.
To be fair, the vast majority of the news coverage involving Traiskirchen was not about the town per se, but rather about the ‘refugee problem’, which just so inconveniently and involuntarily involved the town. This inconvenience was publicized and debated within the Austrian public and political discourse, from the early 1990s until today. The topic formed the platform for an entire political party: the up-and-coming Freedom Party of Austria (FPÖ). The uproar concerning the ‘foreigner issue’ allowed the fake-tanned and handsome right wing populist demagogue Jörg Haider to ascend to the top of the Austrian political scene. He had the answers to most of Austria’s problems (however imaginary those problems may have been) in the ’90s: immigrants and asylum seekers. Fingers would point at Traiskirchen as the primary example. No, not at the town itself, but rather at the foreigners in the town.
The camp building, which actually looks nothing like a camp, more like a large prison, was initially built as a military complex to educate and train young cadets. It continued as such through World War II, when it was transformed into an elite educational center for the brightest regional Hitler Youths with potential for future Nazi Party leadership. After a period of disuse, it eventually became a safe haven for political refugees from the 1950s onward, mostly for Eastern European dissidents seeking refuge from communist regimes. Through the decades, Traiskirchen would become the temporary residence for an ever-larger variety of political exiles, including Vietnamese, Iranian, Iraqi, even some Chinese and few North Korean refugees, either looking for political asylum within Austria, or as a temporary stop before their final asylum destination. During the 1960s and 1970s, such political refugees were welcomed and embraced, as Western Europe was going through a period of relative liberalization fueled by student protests and anti-imperialist political movements. However, in the late 1980s and through the 1990s, a whole new wave of refugees sought asylum within Austria, such as the Kurds, Afghans, Bosnians, and Rwandans, among others. As Austria started to open its border towards the EU, the political right wing cashed in on the fear and skepticism, taking advantage of the opportunity to sell the idea that Austria will be invaded by hordes of foreigners, who will threaten the very fabric, core, and foundation upon which the Austrian society was built. The strategy worked and the Freedom Party’s electorate grew from just a few percentage points to almost a third of the popular vote, as xenophobic and racist rhetoric gained ever more approval within society.
But I was just in my early teens and wasn’t really aware of the extent to which xenophobia had grown within Austrian society back then. I wasn’t too bothered either by the occasional slur of ‘fucking foreigner’ or ‘dirty foreigner’ yelled by the older kids from a safe distance. Hardly anyone had the courage to say it to my face because a fight would ensue. However, the slurs stopped after a short while because our boxing bouts would usually end prematurely after a few hits. With time, acceptance does eventually come around to a certain degree and as they became more civilized, so did I. Even my identity was shifting into a more domestic shape; I started feeling ‘Austrian’.
Almost every evening, the nightly news show featured reports about the Traiskirchen refugee camp. In German, the camp is called ‘Flüchtlingslager’, which can cynically be translated to mean ‘refugee storage’. As we were told, this storage space spawned many problems within its burdened existence. The fact that it was already overcrowded was not given as much attention as was the alleged drug trade, some even feared human trade, crime-for-hire, ethnic skirmishes, riots, and general unruliness among the ‘stored’. The pictures which accompanied the news reports usually showed a ‘middle-eastern-looking’ person or groups of ‘Africans’ — always nameless and representative of all problems. The issues caused by ‘them’, as pundits would eloquently generalize when questioned, made me wonder if Austria only allowed imbeciles to come and claim asylum. The Austrian public was frightened of people that they never actually encounter in real life. When I found out that my family and I had to spend a night there, I was genuinely frightened too.
As our January departure date drew closer, I tried to substitute my reservations about Traiskrichen with fanciful dreams of America, inspired by my weekly TV diet of ‘Beverly Hills 90210’ and ‘Melrose Place’. The Austrian countryside we called home for the previous four years seemed so bland and dry compared to the sunny beaches of California. My Austrian classmates were jealous and in awe of the possibilities and potential experiences put forth by my pending move. We would list places and events that America is known for and how great it will be to be a student in an American high school. We were lying to each other. Worse, we were lying to ourselves.
Saying good-bye wasn’t easy. My parents made friends with quite a few locals and during the last few weeks in Austria, we had many visitors to our humble 200-year-old country house where we lived thanks to the grace of our small municipality. Quite a few people, including the local Franciscan priest, cried when they bode farewell to us. I was touched by the gestures of warmth and humanity, but above all, happy to finally cement within my psyche the reassurance that the majority of Austrians thankfully did not share the same ideals as Jörg Haider. I didn’t feel too much sadness to be leaving as there was so much excitement to look forward to: a new land, a new language, and an entirely new continent. My atlas-centered day dreams knew no borders now that I was about to conquer an ocean I’d never seen before and wouldn’t yet get to see for a long time.
One of my biggest concerns was whether I should try to smuggle into America some of the Nazi army medallions my brother and I unearthed from the cabinets that were left behind by the Austrian family to whom the house we lived in originally belonged. We knew very little about that family, except that they operated a locally notable horse stable from that property for many decades, before the last family member died at a very old age and the land was handed over to the municipality. Among the medallions were a few pale sepia-toned photographs which provided me a human facade to attach to my vividly imagined persona of a young Wehrmacht soldier during World War II. My imagination concluded that my fictional enemy-friend served in the former Yugoslavia, as quite a few locals had died either there or on the Russian front according to the small war memorial plaque at the town square. How would he feel about a Yugoslavian family living at his home without his permission? I felt the intrusion of a private history would be difficult to justify, so we left the Nazi medallions where we found them; a treasure for someone else to discover.
The death of the last family member was quite a cause of concern to me while we lived in that old, worn-down country house. We knew no details of how he died or where he died. Was it at a hospital or at the house? I was scared of the latter option. If he did indeed die at the house, I didn’t want to believe that it could mean anything or have any effect on us while living there, using his furniture, his beds. Anytime a fuse blew or the water pipes clanked or a strong wind shook the house, I looked behind my shoulder and above my head only to be greeted by a shudder which I would try to diffuse by either turning up the volume on the TV or on the stereo to scare away any potential ghostly visitors. I found comfort in the thought that our town had a very reputable priest, who had blessed us when we moved into the house and once more when we left the house while desperately trying to fight off the tears as he hugged each one of us good bye. Our departure from Austria was decorated like our arrival, with a blessing and a suitcase in our hands.
We were very grateful that a family friend offered to drive us all the way to Traiskirchen. During the five-hour-drive I just stared out of the window at the Austrian countryside, the Danubian hills, towns, abbeys, and churches. The scenery looked particularly beautiful, maybe because I was finally aware that this might well be the last time I would ever get to see it. Feeling such finite novelty about a region which previously ushered familiarity, a touch of melancholy crept in. It was accompanied by a fear of the unknown which was only a few hours away, in the potential gloom of the refugee camp…and the really scary thought that America may not be what I imagined it to be.
The camp building was glaringly obvious as we arrived into Traiskirchen. Four stories of brown and beige blandness towered over what could have otherwise been another quiet small town. This landmark stood out like a swollen bruise on a forgettably ordinary face that would pass by unnoticed, if it wasn’t for the bruise. Ugliness stands out and makes one notice. It had my attention; I couldn’t stop staring at the façade of this brick behemoth. The building was entirely surrounded by a spiked iron barrier with plenty of ‘undesirables’ and ‘unfortunates’ wrapping their non-Austrian hands around the bars, breathing the clean, free world air that they may not enjoy for long. A captive aura surrounded the entire perimeter, as if it all existed just for an exhibition, a zoo. Anyone could come and admire this unique, locked-in diversity from the safe side of the fence, but there was no charlatan to collect a shilling before you are allowed to enter the circus.
At the main gate, one final good-bye to one more friend we haven’t seen ever since. We checked in, armed with a registration number and a room number. I tried not to stare at anyone as I dragged my suitcase beside me through the courtyard and down long, straight grey corridors, although I was tempted to closely examine the faces of nationalities I had never seen before in my life. I was now officially part of the circus.
The only items decorating our tiny room were six military-style metal bunk beds, one small desk and a chair. Unfortunately, there were only three free beds in the room for the four of us, so I volunteered to be the one who will get intimate with the chair and desk. I didn’t expect to be sleeping anyway, as my American day-dreams were running wild and I had my own secret ambitions for the evening.
I waited patiently for my parents and brother to fall asleep and then dared to embark on my own personal adventure through the refugee camp. Having heard so much about this dreaded place, I couldn’t pass up on the opportunity to explore its confines and quench my insatiable curiosity about its haunting specter. Darkness was no deterrent. Many people were still awake, a melange of chatter echoed through the hallways. The open doors provided plenty of light for seamless maneuvering. With deliberately slow steps, I strolled by each open room trying to throw an inconspicuous glance inside, usually accompanied by a friendly head-nod and a half-smile. The gesture was mostly returned in the exact same manner, regardless of who occupied the room.
A few excitable Eritreans even asked me to join in on their fast-paced card game played on the room floor, while the women in the room looked at me silently for a moment before resuming their briefly-interrupted activity of either tending to children or knitting. I passed several groups of young Kurdish men, some of whom seemed to enjoy playing refugee camp trivia by greeting me with a “Hello, Russia” before one of them shouted over the others with a “Hello, Bosnia!…Yes? Yes?” He guessed right. I suppose it wasn’t very difficult to figure out that a white person in this building could only be either Bosnian or from one of the disputed Caucasus regions. I wondered how much time they had already spent here. I wondered how they made it this far. I wondered what was to become of them. Will they be allowed to stay and live outside the fence, as I had, or will they be rejected and sent back to their/someone else’s country.
They tried enthusiastically to communicate with me but with little success. Our mutually limited knowledge of broken English was quickly exhausted and reduced to a choir of stuttering gestures. Despite our arthritic miming, I understood that they had the same questions about me as I did about them. We mirrored each other.
The courtyard was brightly lit. A few men were out in the cold, silently smoking cigarettes while leaning on the iron barrier for support. Engulfed in smoke clouds which hung around them in the freezing still air, they exhaled every puff onto the other side of the fence, presumably wishing that their entire body, not just their breath, could freely make it over without worrying about curfews and police checks. At least that is what I wished for them. I really hated the idea of that fence, so divisive, degrading, and humiliating. Little did I know that in America some people voluntarily built iron fences and walls around their homes.
I was still searching for remnants of the post-apocalyptic human wasteland that this camp was supposed to be. I thought at the very least, someone would offer to sell me hard drugs or maybe even offer a prostitute. Not that I had any money for either. Where were the inter-ethnic gang brawls, the scars of battles, and the smell of blood in the air? Where was the freak show?
It wasn’t there. The only battle that raged was one of desperate human survival; the struggle to reach one more day, one more country.
I returned to the room where my chair and desk awaited. Even though it was late, one bed was still unoccupied despite being officially claimed. I sat down on it and tried to decipher the scribbling on the back wall. It was a love poem written by a Kurdish man who had to leave Austria, forcing him to end his relationship with a local woman he fell in love with. His terrible handwriting and the simplicity of his atrocious German grammar effectively illustrated his anguish; the agony of being in love, of being an immigrant, of being forced to leave his original home, and now his desired home. I read and re-read his spillage of vocabulary, expressing his sadness over the punishment this life has gifted him, as if god played a mean joke on him by handing him this particular fate.
Life as punishment…my energy started to fade and eyes began to close as I pondered this theme of existential doom. I tried to position my head on the pillow but felt an unusual discomfort from underneath. It was a chunk of dry bread. I moved it to other side of the pillow and fell asleep.
Glad not to be face-down on the desk, I should have known that my moment of luxury would be short-lived. I was rattled awake by a man’s silhouette, which uttered something I couldn’t understand, but the meaning was quite clear. I got up and the man claimed his bed, reaching his hand underneath the pillow, feeling for the bread. Satisfied with his search, he laid down without any more concerns and closed his eyes. As was destined, my butt and my face became friends with the chair and the desk for a few hours of rather uncomfortable slumber. But I didn’t mind, I dreamt of America.
The next morning we were gone. To a ‘dream land’ that remains just a dream. Traiskirchen is still in the evening news, ‘Beverly Hills’ is still on TV. I watch neither.
