The Great Migration into Europe Saturday, September 5th

NOTE:  This is the shortened version of my original entry.  I strongly urge you

               all to read Nadia Ficara's entry at http://www.ushmm.org/

If anyone had told me when I arrived over a year ago that Hungary would be at the center of a refugee crisis, I would have scoffed.   But the nightly news showed a growing influx of people from the Middle East, South Asia and North Africa. Most of them stopped at Keleti pályaudvar, Budapest’s eastern station.   One of the teachers at my school told me about Migration Aid, a loosey-goosey volunteer group in Budapest that collects clothing, baby food, diapers, and groceries.  When I texted one volunteer, she said “Just come down and start handing out things or just play with the kids,” but I doubted I was capable of doing anything useful.

It’s hard for me not to empathize with Hungary – high school classes heavily stress the invasions throughout their history, especially the Ottoman invasion and occupation.  They are noticeable tense about the incoming Muslim migrants.   The government ordered a wall up near the Serbian border.  The irony that Hungary, the first country to take down its Cold War era fence, was now putting one up, was lost on no one.   

I went to a toy store and bought bubbles, coloring books, crayons and a soccer ball.  An hour later, exiting the Metro into Keleti, I could see that, compared to the previous week, there were fewer refugees, but a lot rubbish.   Cleaning crews were hosing down the area where about ten port-o-potties had been used by hundreds of migrants.   Migration Aid handed out clothing donated by many Hungarians – the sort of kindness that isn’t printed in the press. 

An art class for migrant children was led on the pavement and I showed one of the woman what I had and she said just go, find some others.  Soon I found a family of boys picking through clothing donations.  They lit up as I handed them a soccer ball and began to play in the same area where frustrated protestors had earlier denounced Victor Orban’s halt of migration.  Another family with two sons and a daughter told me they were from Iran.  I used the phrases that I knew in Farsi, and received smiles, one hug and a “Tank Yew”.  Their mother was relieved to have coloring books and crayons -- a distraction for her children.  A family of Iraqis and two boys from Afghanistan got the rest.  One boy in the middle of a station overpowered by the smell of body odor and urine, delightedly showed me he could blow bubbles again and again.

New arrivals came downstairs to get information and help.  We all were aware that next week the government would pass laws to crack down on further immigration.  Their actions the week before had had international consequences.  A train filled with refugees who thought they were going to Germany through Austria went "missing". The rail cars were decoupled in Bicske – a town where several of my students live and commute from (Hungary’s government had forgotten that we have a long memory about events when people are put on trains and disappear!).   Police tried to force them to disembark and register at a local camp.  If they were fingerprinted and registered in Bicske and then tried to move on to Germany, EU rules might compel them to be returned to Hungary, far less welcoming with far fewer opportunities.  Furious that they were tricked, the refugees protested and led a hunger strike.  Finally a massive march from Keleti to the border ensued, leaving behind a trail of refuse and things they were too tired to carry. 

I walked through the filth of the area many refugees slept in, amazed at the garbage piled next to the donations and few belongings they had brought with them.  Hungary itself has a problem with alcoholics and teens tossing plastic and glass bottles on the ground.  I am always picking up in my neighborhood and saying “Keep Hungary beautiful.”  Now Keleti was a mess.  Statements like “these new people are filthy” would confirm prejudices.

I found an open grocery store and bought some garbage bags – good heavy shiny black ones.  Focusing on family groups that had nothing to carry belongings in, I handed out one bag for their belongings and another to clean up the area around their children.  These people were idle.  They needed something to do during the long, frightening wait.  Amazingly, it worked.  Everyone wanted to keep their area clean or knew someone who needed help.   I chatted with those who spoke English, comforted and encouraged others, and laughed with those who had a black sense of humor like myself.

An Iraqi man asked for a couple of bags.  He was not a refugee, he was just helping.  He had heard my accent and asked me where I was from.  I told him New York, but NOT New York City.  He smiled, said he had lived in Toronto and said “You mean UPSTATE New York?!!”   I wanted to hug him for knowing the difference! 

Then a strong American woman’s voice interrupted to interview him, then she turned to me and apologized for breaking into our conversation.  She took my photo and I told her that I was teaching in Hungary and had just decided to help clean up the unsanitary conditions.   She told me that she worked with the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC.  Apparently, they were witnessing what was happening, who were potential victims, oppressors and helpers in this new world crisis. I was just a little proud.  For two entire seconds I basked in the glory of meeting her until another woman told me she need more bags.

Off I went again, until the part of Keleti I patrolled looked cleaner.  Soon the officials and other volunteers took over, their job made easier just by everything being in orderly piles.  The refugees felt better about having had something to do while they waited. 

I understand Hungarian fears and prejudices, stoked by the fires of the many tragic events in their history.  The world media covers what the government is doing and Hungarians are unfairly all painted with the same brush.  Yes, there are a large number of right wing extremists, but I witnessed so many Hungarians come out of nowhere and helped in Budapest and doubtless many other places, even handing out fruit to immigrants passing by.   The peace was kept -- for a brief moment.  

I returned via my usual train to Tata when it suddenly stopped a long time --  at Bicske.  Police escorted two dozen Asian men onto my car.  I watched the Hungarians blanch.  Even a pastor with his white collar looked uncomfortable.  Despite being intensely stared at, the men were very calm and appropriate.  For awhile I listened.  I knew the language wasn’t Arabic.  I thought they were going to the end of the line, but when my stop arrived, they piled out next to me.  I asked them where they were from.  They told me Bangladesh and I squealed that I have friends from Bangladesh. 

As I tried my Bengali, as bad as my Hungarian, I noticed about twenty policemen surround us.   A young policeman listened and asked me if he had heard correctly that they were Bangladeshis who spoke English.  I chatted until I saw his shoulders relax a bit and offered to pay for their tickets if there was a problem.  The policeman told me no, they had the papers to continue via a connecting train to Munich.  I looked up at the schedule and saw that indeed, the next train was to Germany.  They continued to surround us, watchful.  I said good luck and went up the station stairs.  At the top I hesitated.  I may have uttered a prayer.  I took out my camera and took a photograph of all of them.  The large group of police surrounding the Bengalis.  Just in case . . .

And then I took a breath, ran across the street, and grabbed my usual taxi ride to Tata.