When I was on my way home from Izmir to London, Turkey to England, I was sitting at the airport, in the departure lounge thinking…
I was thinking about the fact that I was about to get on the flight with the only faint glimmer of worry…whether my bag would fit in the overhead locker.
Why then, for someone else, is that freedom not there? Why are other people facing closed borders and police brutality, life in camps, life-threatening boat journeys and loss of dignity to make the same journey?
I’ve been conditioned to understand that it’s because of this little book. Mines kinda purply red, and the Syrian one is blue…other than that they’re pretty much the same no?
But the two people that they belong to are both the same. Both born into this world with no choice as to where.
So how can their rights and opportunities be so different?
The guy who’s passport this was told me how proud he used to be to own a Syrian passport. What an honour it was. He had stamps from all over the world, he’d worked in bars and restaurants in Dubai and Abu Dhabi. He had studied abroad too and spoke perfect English. But now he is stuck, living in a camp, on the outskirts of Izmir…
It made me think that it could so easily be the other way round, that this is just all a matter of circumstance…and how would I want people to act, if the shoe was on the other foot?