Un quai de gare, à Offenburg, en Allemagne. Je ne savais même pas que cet endroit existait avant de me retrouver ici, entre deux trains, à attendre ma correspondance.

Je me décharge de mes sacs avec soulagement, et m’assieds sur l’un des rares bancs présents, tout au fond du quai. A côté de moi, il y a un jeune homme dont la couleur de peau trahit l’origine étrangère. Il a l’air perdu dans ses pensées, le regard baissé. Le train ne viendra pas avant une demi-heure, j’engage donc la conversation après quelques minutes, à l’aide d’une plaque de chocolat dans mon sac dont je lui propose un carré. Il me remercie en souriant, j’en profite pour lui demander d’où il vient. Il me répond : « Bangladesh » d’une petite voix. « Le Bangladesh ? Je comptais y aller cette année ! ». Il me sourie encore, avec moins de conviction cette fois, comme s’il se demandait qui pourrait bien avoir envie d’aller là-bas. Ma curiosité est piquée, j’aimerais bien savoir ce qu’il fait là.

Son anglais est maladroit, je ne comprends que péniblement ses réponses murmurées. Toutefois, les bribes que je saisis me permettent petit à petit de reconstituer son parcours : il a vécu en Inde pendant sept ans, il a une sœur au Bangladesh mais ses parents sont morts. Il a 19 ans. Il me parle de la Birmanie, pays que j’ai adoré visité. Il me dit que nous n’avons sûrement pas dû voir la même Birmanie… Lorsqu’il prononce les mots « My people », je commence à comprendre la situation avec stupeur : son peuple, ce sont les Rohingyas. J’en ai beaucoup entendu parler, sans en connaître vraiment beaucoup non plus. Je sais seulement que c’est une minorité musulmane opprimée par le régime birman. Je ne suis pas sûre de moi, et surtout, sur le moment, je n’arrive plus à me souvenir du nom de cette minorité, bien que je l’ai sur le bout de la langue. Alors, à la place, je lui demande s’il est musulman : « Yes. » J’ai ma réponse.

Je comprends donc qu’il fuit les horreurs de son pays. Je sens au son de sa voix que son passé est lourd. Je ne sais trop quoi dire : je ne veux pas remuer le couteau dans la plaie, mais je pense que son histoire mérite d’être entendue, ne serait-ce que pour lui donner un sens. A la place, je lui demande de me parler du voyage qui l’a amené ici, sur ce quai de gare, à Offenburg.

Je découvre ainsi qu’il est parti il y a une semaine, et qu’il a rejoint l’Europe en train. En Grèce, il a embarqué sur un bateau, sur lequel il est resté deux jours ; je n’arriverais pas à avoir plus de détails. Maintenant, il se dirige vers le Danemark. Un homme nous interrompt : il me demande en allemand si nous sommes ensemble. Je lui indique que non, il dit alors à mon nouvel ami de le rejoindre en milieu du train plus tard.

Je suis intriguée, il m’explique qu’il n’a pas de passeport ni de visa, mais une carte d’identité, ce pourquoi il a droit à ce traitement spécial. Il devrait avoir droit à un passeport d’ici un ou deux ans. Je ne connais pas la politique du Danemark en matière d’asile, je lui demande s’il sait où il va loger à son arrivée. Ses réponses sont évasives, je crois qu’il s’inquiète de ce qui l’attend. Un peu désemparée, je lui dis que je n’ai jamais été au Danemark mais que je suis sûre que les gens y sont gentils. J’essaie de lui changer les idées en lui posant des questions sur ce qu’il pense de l’Europe. Il trouve que les gens sont un peu froids. Je me rends compte de l’ampleur de la différence avec son propre pays, je ne peux que lui communiquer doucement mon soutien.

Puis, le silence. Que dit-on à quelqu’un qui vient de laisser toute sa vie derrière lui, qui a sûrement parcouru un trajet horrible pour échapper à un futur sans espoir ? Les mots semblent dérisoires. Alors, je lui parle de ce que je fais. « J’étudie à distance. Je voyage et j’étudie en même temps.» Ce qui me fait réaliser encore plus l’injustice de la situation. Les deux, nous sommes seuls, sur ce quai de gare, à Offenburg, mais les deux, nous avons des raisons bien différentes d’être ici. Une seconde, l’émotion me submerge, mais je me reprends. S’il y a bien un de nous deux qui est en droit d’être triste, ce n’est pas moi.

Nous partagerons encore une heure de trajet, à bord du train, avant de se quitter à Mannheim. Aucun de nous ne sait vraiment ce qui l’attend, mais quelque chose me dit que mon futur à moi est moins inquiétant que le sien. Avant de le quitter, je lui demande son nom : Rubel.

Rubel, je ne manquerai pas de penser à toi, la prochain fois que j’aurai peur de ce que l’avenir me réserve.

A train platform in Offenburg, Germany. I didn’t even know this place existed before I ended up here, waiting for the next train.
I free myself of my bags with relief, and sit on one of the few benches there, at the far end of the plateform. Beside me, there is a young man whose skin color betrays his foreign origin. He looks lost in thought, staring at his feet. The train will arrive in half an hour, so I start the conversation after a few minutes by offering a piece of chocolate from my bag. He thanks me with a smile, I want to ask him where he comes from. He replies: “Bangladesh” in a small voice. “Bangladesh? Oh, I planned to go there this year! “. He smiles at me again, with less conviction this time, as if wondering who would really want to go there. My curiosity is pricked, I would like to know what he’s doing here.

His English is awkward, I only understand a small portion of his whispered answers. However, I take the scraps that allow me to slowly rebuild his story: he has lived in India for seven years, he has a sister in Bangladesh but his parents died. He is 19 years old. He tells me about Burma, a country I loved visiting. He tells me that we have surely not seen the same Burma… When he says the words “My people”, I begin to understand the situation with astonishment: his people are the Rohingyas. I’ve heard a lot about them, without knowing very much either. I only know that it is a Muslim minority oppressed by the Burmese regime. I am not sure of myself, and most of all, in the moment, I can’t remember the name of that minority, although I have it on the tip of the tongue. So instead, I ask him whether he is a Muslim: “Yes. “I have my answer.

So I understand that he fled the horrors of his country. I can feel by the sound of his voice that his past is heavy. I do not know what to say. I do not want to rub salt into the wound, but I think his story deserves to be heard, if only to give it a meaning. Instead, I ask him to tell me about the journey that brought him here, on the station platform, in Offenburg. I discover that he left a week ago, and he joined Europe by train. In Greece, he boarded a ship on which he stayed two days; I would not be able to have more details. Now he’s heading to Denmark. A man stops us: he asks me in German if we are together. I tell him no, so he tells my new friend to join him in the middle of the train later.

I am intrigued, he explains that he has no passport or visa, but an identity card, which is why he is getting this special treatment. He should be entitled to a passport in one to two years. I do not know Denmark’s policy on asylum, I ask him if he knows where he’ll stay on arrival. His answers are evasive, I think he is worried about what lies ahead. Somewhat bewildered, I say I’ve never been to Denmark but I am sure that the people there are nice. I try to change the subject by asking questions about what he thinks of Europe. He finds that people are a little cold. I realize the magnitude of the difference with his own country, I can only provide my support quietly.

Then, silence. What do we say to someone who has just left his life behind him, that has surely gone through a horrible journey to escape a hopeless future? Words seem paltry. So I tell him about what I do. “I’m a distance student. I travel and study at the time.” Which makes me realize even more the injustice of the situation. Both, we are alone, on that station platform, in Offenburg, but we both have very different reasons for being here. For a second, emotion overwhelms me, but I stop myself. If there’s one of us who has the right to be sad, it’s not me.
We still share an hour’s journey on the train, before parting in Mannheim. None of us really knows what to expect, but something tells me that my future is brighter than his. Before leaving, I ask him his name: Rubel.
Rubel, I will certainly think of you the next time I get afraid when thinking of the future.

Has anyone been kind to you today?

A few weeks ago, I had to take a night train from Belgrade to Budapest. Once I got to the train station, after getting lost in the city and counting on the kindness of locals to guide me there, I was confirmed what two friendly guys from my hostel had warned me about: there was some construction on the train tracks at the border, so the journey wouldn’t be a direct one.

The first train was packed, mostly with refugees. The wagon was clearly separated: the “normal” passengers on one side and them in the back. It was like no one wanted to come near them, in fear of catching some mysterious disease or something. After a moment of surprise, I decided to sit on their side. They all looked tired, they all looked like they had gone through a lot, and they all had a hint of sadness in their eyes. I was touched and curious: I wanted to know their stories. But it is delicate to talk about those things, especially with so many people around. So at first, I just smiled and said hello. Some of them looked really surprised, maybe to see a girl there alone, at night, maybe because they were not used to being smiled at by people in these strange lands.
I started an interesting chat with two Syrian brothers, one was 15 years old and the other 18. Their parents were not with them; I didn’t ask why. They looked so young and so brave… I couldn’t imagine what they had must gone through, and yet here they were, smiling at me. They told me a bit about their tough journey, without going into the details, of course. As we were talking, someone sitting behind offered me cookies.
Shortly after, some border control officers appeared and asked everyone for their passports. Two young men on my right started getting agitated; something was wrong. And indeed, when it was their turn, they had no piece of identity to show the man. He took them away. After that, we had to get out of the train and take a bus to cross the border before taking another train, all of this in the middle of the night. That’s where our paths separated: the group of refugees was taken somewhere else, who knows where, and I got on the bus.
I don’t know where these people are now, but I hope they are in a good place, a better one than the one they left. I hope they will meet kind people like themselves, and that those people will help them survive in the harsh society waiting for them.

Unfortunately, I am afraid they’re not. I am not in that society anymore, but I see the reaction of people on social media; I see all the fear, the concerns and sometimes even the hatred towards these people. It terrifies me. I see people make big theories about how only the ones who don’t deserve it come to Europe, how we are welcoming terrorists or how these people are not grateful enough once they are there.
Have these people spoken to one of them, even once? Have they walked in a refugee camp? Have they asked them their story? Do they know what they’ve been through, what they’ve seen, what they’d like to forget but never will? How its feels like to flee from a country in war only to arrive in a place full of ill will towards them?
I bet they haven’t, I bet they don’t. I bet they found all their arguments on some article online, I bet they didn’t even bother to verify its sources. I bet they haven’t tried to imagine what they’ve been through, what they are still going through, because no human being with even the slightest hint of compassion in his or her heart could react so coldly if they did.
Yes, the situation is difficult. We may not have all the right infrastructures and may not be fully prepared for that amount of people arriving all at the same time in our countries. But something we all have is a heart to feel compassion and love with, and a brain we can use all together to find solutions, instead of wanting to push the problem away. While we’re at it, we could try and use it to think about the reasons and causes behind those wars, and maybe realize that we have our role to play in that horrible staging.

What I haven’t said is that, that same evening, I was tired, scared and little bit sad too. Not for the same reasons of course, and certainly not with the same intensity. Travelling, especially alone, isn’t always as easy as one may think. But sharing those conversations, those smiles and those cookies made me feel much better, made me feel happy, made me want to share even more of those conversations and smiles and cookies with everybody else I would meet on my way.
I have been travelling for almost 5 months now. I sometimes arrive in places where I know nobody and have no idea where to go, and in every single case, I have been lucky enough to have crossed the path of many, many kind people who have helped me, who have offered me a smile, a hand, some useful information and sometimes even food and shelter without expecting anything in return. Most of them probably didn’t have much material wealth, but were all incredibly rich anyway. I am in South Korea now, and I’ve been blessed with so much generosity since I am here. I feel so grateful for it every day and I hope to be able to give some back in the near future. My only regret is that this generosity shouldn’t surprise me; it shouldn’t be an exception. Kindness should be the norm, for everyone and everywhere. What does a smile cost?

We are one people, we share one earth. We’re all in this together. We may all have different stories and backgrounds, we still all go through the same emotions and moods in life. We are all animated by the same aspirations: being in a safe place, where we can feel loved and accepted, where we can do what fulfills us. We all have love and kindness in our hearts, along with hatred and fear. Which one you fill yourself with – the choice is yours. I’ve made my decision long ago. You can choose too, you can choose to roll your eyes and think of me as an idealistic and naive person, close this page and go back to whatever you were doing. Or you can stop for a second and think about this story, about what an act of kindness can do. This is not only valid for the refugee crisis. If after reading this, you go out of your house and give a smile to the person with a sad look on her face or reach out to a stranger who looks like he needs a friend, or even think that after all, those people from the middle east asking for shelter are maybe not all the monsters you thought they were but just human beings with the same aspirations as you and me, then my goal will have been achieved.

The situation is bad, and changes have to be made. But the first change happens in our minds. Remember what one brave little girl said once:

“No one has ever become poor by giving.”