There was a black market in false papers in the camp. Sometimes passports had been falsified several times over. An old man from Sudan felt that his time was near and that he would never leave the camp alive. He gave me his passport on the condition that I go to a church or mosque or temple once a month and think of him for exactly one minute. That was what he wanted in return, a reminder of his existence even though he had long ago left the land he came from. I had a photograph of myself that I had kept safe in waterproof waxed paper. With the help of a Malaysian refugee who was very good at falsifying stamps and seals although he had almost no tools, he removed the old man’s photograph and affixed mine in its place. The name was changed to Florence. It was like a holy ritual to give the passport with a dying man’s picture a new life. I blew my soul into the passport and helped the soul of the old man to free itself. I will never forget the moment the passport changed. It was one of the most important turns my life has taken.
I found Sweden on an old and torn map from a Moroccan man who was fleeing to Europe for the ninth time, trying to get to his brother who lived somewhere in northern Germany. I realised it would be a long journey, but I never understood how long. Or perhaps I realised but did not want to accept it. I don’t know. Since I never let my expectations get the better of me I decided simply to concentrate on getting out of the camp.
I made friends with some young men from Iraq. In secret they had been constructing a ladder made of bits of rope, branches and plastic that they tore off from the tables in the camp mess hall. When I sought them out they did not at first allow me to join them in their escape attempt since they were worried that a black girl would not manage very well on a flight through Spain. But my loneliness must have touched them because they gave me permission to use their ladder if I waited one hour after they had gone.
