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Nolan Yuma's avatar

A riddle: What has four walls, can’t move, but be in three different countries?

A house in Chernivtsi.

Half of my partner’s family is from Chernivtsi. Her grandmother’s home was part of Romania, The Soviet Union, and Ukraine, which gave her the right to request Romanian citizenship. Even though there is crippling racism towards Romanians in Spain and throughout Europe, it was still a better option for my partner to try and obtain her Romanian passport than to live with her Ukrainian one.

All she had to do was: Learn Romanian, pay for four lawyers (two from Romania, one from Ukraine, and one from Ukraine who became Romanian), fly to Bucharest and the consulate in Ukraine two times, and spend five years emailing back and forth with Romanian bureaucrats in Spain.

The original checklist included an official translation of her birth certificate, Spanish residency, and an invitation letter for the Romanian oath. However, they didn’t like the official translation (exact reasons still unknown), and by the time they told her they didn’t like the translation, several months had passed, and her residency card had expired. So, she had to start the whole process over again. But this was nothing compared to her mother, who, after going through a similar process, had her citizenship certificate ripped in front of her and everyone else there to give their oath. It turned out the bureaucrat didn’t find her dialect Romanian enough.

By dating a Ukrainian, I saw how systemic racism not only oppresses people of colour but those born in the “wrong” country as well. As a Ukrainian without a solid income, she’s been living a bureaucratic nightmare for the past five years. The Spanish funcionario’s work schedule—or lack of one—definitely played a role, but not as much as her birthplace... Continue reading https://open.substack.com/pub/bornwithoutborders/p/a-country-funded-by-an-insurance?r=1qf7m9&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web

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Switter’s World's avatar

Thanks Nolan, you made me famousish. And here, after all these years of thinking it was just me pushing my cart sideways through life and trying to hold two watermelons in one hand (thanks to my staff in Baku for those two descriptions of our in-house KGB informer), you are telling me the Vogons really did takeover earth’s bureaucracies?

Over at Switter’s World, I did a three part series on a few of the times I innocently, mostly, became an illegal immigrant. I also describe the time at Schipol airport when I decided to sit until the queue at departure gate security cleared. When I finally presented myself, an official asked why I was the last person in line. “Because it is the nature of a queue to have a beginning and end. I am that end person in the queue,” and thus began a Kafkaesque discussion of geometry that expanded to include a suspicious review of my itinerary to Amsterdam via Khartoum>Cairo>Damascus>Larnica. Why should that arouse any suspicion? They finally eased up when I lied and told them my mother-in-law chose my itinerary. I assumed that their sympathy arose out of personal experience. I don’t know; are Dutch mothers-in-law that bad? I did make my flight, but was existentially befuddled.

Or the Plumtree border crossing from Zimbabwe to Botswana where a banner behind the immigration counter advised “Do not insult the crocodile until you have crossed the river.” Good advice, and free.

Once, after head-wagging assurances from a Syrian embassy official in some God-forsaken backwater that yes, it was indeed possible to get a visa at the Damascus airport, when I arrived at the Damascus airport, I was told I could only get a visa in town at immigration headquarters, but since I didn’t have a visa, I couldn’t get a visa. Everyone was surprisingly sympathetic and one kindhearted immigration officer said he would secure my visa for me, so off he went with my passport. Apparently there is a predictable lull in afternoon flights, so the immigration guys plopped themselves down on benches for naps and invited me to join them. When the kindhearted guy arrived three or four hours later, I felt unexpectedly refreshed and relaxed. For some reason, the universe almost always throws in with me.

I could go on, but it’s best not to get me started. I do have one final pro tip: if you need to get through Managua quickly, slip in behind a presidente motorcade. I can’t guarantee it will always work, but it did that one time.

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