The neighbourhood was poor, but the rent was cheap. It also helped that the family who rented us the flat was from Sri Lanka. Having fellow Sri Lankans around made me feel less self-conscious and foolish for having left my home country in search of a better life. In fact, it was mostly Indians and Sri Lankans who lived in the area. A lot of the Indians owned grocery stores and mini-markets there, but I knew that wasn’t something I wanted to do.
Every day I saw gangs of young people who looked just like me hanging out in front of the tube station, smoking cigarettes and shooting the breeze. I was determined to build a different life.
At that time, a person travelling in England on a French passport did not need a visa. But, since I had arrived in London illegally on a fake French passport, I couldn’t apply for asylum. I would be arrested immediately. Therefore, I could not find any work legally.
So once again, I found myself stranded in a country that I could not call home. Had I learned nothing since I’d left home? It should have been obvious to me — especially after all this time and all I’d been through. It is hard for me to explain, hard for me to justify my complete naïveté during this time. I was not stupid. I knew the risks. But I had managed to convince myself to downplay them; the risks, I forced myself to believe, were nothing compared to the rewards to come. Perhaps I knew my dream of a better life for myself and my family was just that, a dream. But what else did I have left? What happens when you abandon a dream? Would I be better off without it? No. The dream was all I had.
I soon found a small private institution in the Wembley area that taught immigrants English. The tuition fee was almost five hundred pounds ($735 U.S.) for three months of lessons, an enormous sum for me at the time. I began working nights in a mini-market, paid in cash under the table. During the overnight shift, I emptied the fridges, wiped them with warm water, and then restocked them with jugs of milk, cheese, and eggs, putting the new items at the back and the older ones in the front. To this day, whenever I go to a supermarket, I always take my items from the back of the shelves.
I started my shift at the store around eleven at night and worked until about seven in the morning. I would then go to my English class straight from work.
Our instructor was a tall, thin Scottish woman with short hair. I had never met anyone from Scotland; I did not even know where Scotland was. She had a beautiful but strange accent. I had not realized there were so many different ways to speak English. She spoke very fast at the beginning, as if we were native English speakers, then she would stop and repeat what she had said very slowly. We spoke very slowly, too.
“Can you tell me how to get to Wembley Station?”
“Can …. you … tell me … how … to get … Wahmbley …”
She was an excellent teacher. At the end of the course, she gave us a test. She handed each of us a piece of paper with the lyrics of “Don’t You Want Me?” on it, a song by the band The Human League. We had to listen to the song and fill in the missing lyrics.
She read off the first line of the song: “You were workin’ as a waitress in a …”
“Cocktail bar!”
“Correct. How about this one? ‘I shook you up and …’”
“Turning around!”
“Turned you around. Very good!”
She danced while playing the music. It was a fun way to learn.
After class, I was usually so tired that I would stagger home in the afternoon and sleep through the evening. I never felt comfortable with my situation, however. Every time I heard a knock at the door, I would seize up with panic, convinced that immigration officers had arrived to arrest me. In fact, Kris thought it very funny to bang on the door and shout “Open up!” It was not funny to me. It was awful. Kris had come to England to study at university and had no idea what it felt like to live as a fugitive.
Kris was very kind otherwise. He never asked me to pay rent, though I bought groceries occasionally, wanting to help out. I was sending most of my minimal pay back to my family in Sri Lanka. I also didn’t know how to cook anything other than chicken curry, so Kris’s brother would do the cooking most of the time.
I had been in London for six months. It had been fourteen months since I’d left Sri Lanka.
I was not satisfied with my life and was worried every single day. I had fled Sri Lanka determined to make my mark and start a new life, but what had I actually accomplished? My dream seemed further away than ever.
My illegal passport was due to expire in three months, and there was no chance it could be renewed, of course. And, in any case, I could not risk returning to Paris.
It was frustrating and depressing wanting to work and earn a decent amount of money but not having the opportunity. I wanted something more than just scraping by, living day to day, scared of every knock at the door. But most of all, I wanted my identity back. Although I had lived under my own name as a refugee in Germany and France, in England, I had assumed a false identity. But no matter who I was or who I pretended to be, I was still stuck and heading nowhere.
My instincts kept telling me that England was not the place for me to succeed and achieve my goals: to rebuild the life that I had before and to see my mother and siblings again. I had left my mother alone with my father, and I had no idea whether they were able to get enough food to feed my brother and sisters. I did not know if my family was safe in Sri Lanka, with the war, riots, and curfews. I felt guilty.
I thought, If I don’t try to leave now, I may get stuck in England forever. I may never see my mother again. I kept analyzing the situation in my head. I had survived thus far, I told myself, so I had to give it another shot. I always regained my strength when I thought about my mother.
Without much real forethought — something that was becoming a habit — I decided my only remaining option was to try again to make it to Canada. I knew virtually nothing about Canada or why life should be any better there than anywhere else. After all, I had once been convinced Germany was the answer to all my problems! Still, I had learned from others that Canada was home to a large number of Tamil exiles. And from what I had been able to piece together, it sounded like a nice place.
A few days later, I booked a one-way ticket to Montreal. It was, I realize now, yet another rash and foolish action. But residing in England as an illegal immigrant for six months had been very stressful and I had to leave. As the date of my departure approached, I became increasingly anxious. The fear of getting caught and going to prison again was intolerable, and fear was my worst enemy. The day of my flight, Kris drove me out to London’s Heathrow Airport and wished me all the best. I waited outside the terminal until the last possible minute, just before the airline closed the check-in counter. I had planned this so that the immigration officers wouldn’t have enough time to ask me a lot of questions — or so I thought.
When I reached the counter, the agent scanned my passport, looked up at me, then turned and picked up a phone. I knew enough English by then to understand that she was talking to immigration; she wanted to verify my identity. She put the phone down, smiled, and asked me to wait just a minute. “It won’t be long,” she said pleasantly.
Very soon I saw from the corner of my eye an immigration officer walking quickly toward me. The two employees greeted each other and the agent handed over my passport. I did my best to remain calm.
The immigration officer flipped through my passport page by page, scrutinizing it carefully. At the same time, he asked me a series of questions.
“What is your name?”
I gave him my fake French name: Anthony François.
“Where are you going?”
“To Montreal.”
“Why are you going to Montreal?”
As I was carrying a French passport, I figured my only recourse was to pretend I could not speak English. So, I pantomimed the gestures of not understanding what I was being asked. I then mumbled a few mangled phrases in my “native” French language — Je ne parle pas anglais and so on — and sig
hed with exasperation.
He looked at me. I could feel the heavy weight of doubt in his eyes.
I pretended to be confused. I sighed again, this time impatiently, hoping they might think I was a seasoned traveller upset about being delayed for no reason. I sighed as if to say, “I understand. You must do what you must!” I smiled.
The officer stared at me stonily. My smile collapsed.
“Wait here,” he told me. He walked away with my passport.
The lounge was completely empty, and as the minutes ticked by, my resolve began to crumble. I could feel my heart rate quickening. The agent behind the counter had busied herself typing away at a screen, but I could feel her eyes on me, suspicious, perhaps worried I might at any second make a wild dash for freedom.
I waited as calmly and patiently as I could.
A few minutes later, a second officer appeared — a French- speaking officer.
“Bonjour, monsieur!”
My insides did a somersault. My French may have been marginally better than my English, but it was in no way good enough for me to pass for an authentic French citizen.
“Comment allez-vous?”
It was too late to play the mute card. I had blown that by speaking to the other officer. I had no choice but to blunder ahead.
I acted happily surprised. “Bien! Et vous?”
So far so good.
“Bien, merci. D’où êtes-vous?” he asked me. Where are you from?
“Je viens de Pondichéry, India.”
I knew that if the officer went much further than this, I was sunk. The blood started to rush to my head, hammering at my temples, but I tried to maintain my composure, at least outwardly. Inside, I felt like a detonated building collapsing in a smoky heap of debris.
I smiled apologetically, hoping to appeal to his Gallic nationalism. “It is why my French is not very good,” I said, in French.
He nodded, understanding.
Or, I thought suddenly, does he already know I am lying and he’s just playing along so I’ll dig myself in deeper?
He asked me the purpose of my visit to Canada.
“Montreal is a French colony, similar to where I am from. Therefore, I would like to travel there before I go back to India.”
He wanted to call the French embassy to verify my passport; otherwise, he said, it would be quite impossible to issue a boarding pass. My passport was illegal — most likely it had been stolen. The theft had probably been reported and entered into a database. I was doomed once again.
I felt like a wounded animal, cornered by a much larger and more dangerous predator. I did what had come to seem normal to me. I kept lying.
“This is ridiculous!” I erupted suddenly, aping the mannerisms of an outraged innocent being unfairly harassed. “My friends in Montreal will be waiting for me! I am a French citizen who merely wants to visit a French-speaking city in Canada. This is very embarrassing!”
I noticed just a twinge of alarm in the officer’s face. It was time to play my trump card. “Is this because I am Indian?” The issue of racial profiling was not nearly as sensitive then as it is today, but it seemed something in my manner had unnerved the officer. Or it might have been nothing. My French was not good and perhaps the officer had simply misunderstood me.
Apologetically, the officer assured me that my country of origin had nothing to do with this procedure. Have no fear, sir. He assured me, once again, that the questioning was purely routine, and that it would only be a matter of minutes, he was certain, before my passport was returned and the boarding pass issued.
I pretended to calm down and thanked him. “I understand. You are doing your job. I see.”
A few minutes later, he came back and apologized. He explained again that he was only doing his job. “Your passport is in order, sir, and you are free to go. Happy travels!”
He authorized the counter agent to issue the boarding pass.
“I am sorry about the confusion,” the agent apologized as she handed me my passport, ticket, and boarding pass.
“Fine,” I said, shamelessly milking the role of offended traveller. “But I will have to think twice about flying with this airline again.”
I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten away with it, but I guessed that the real Anthony François had sold his passport, which is why he hadn’t reported it stolen. I took the passport, ticket, and boarding pass and turned, briskly and in a bit of a huff, and walked quickly to security. Once through, I started running toward my departure gate. I heard my name over the loud speaker: “Last call for Montreal-bound passenger Anthony François! Gate forty-five!”
I kept running. Forty-eight … forty-seven … forty-six …
Forty-five! I had made it!
I presented my boarding pass to the smiling agent at the gate.
“Monsieur François!” she said. “You just made it. We were about to leave without you!”
The officer beside her asked to see my passport. I told her it had just been reviewed. She was not impressed. “Your passport, sir.”
She held the passport picture next to my face. I realized she was with Canadian immigration. A flight attendant closed the gate.
I couldn’t believe it. I was so close! This could not be happening. Over the agent’s walkie-talkie, I heard the pilot asking about the missing passenger. If I couldn’t board now, they were going to leave without me.
“I need to be on that flight!” I told the officer urgently.
“Sir!” she said forcefully. “Step back. Stay calm.”
She had more questions.
“What is your name?”
“Where are you going?”
“Why are you going to Montreal?”
“How long are you staying there?”
I answered each question in turn.
After what seemed an eternity, she appeared satisfied that all was in order.
“Sign the back of your boarding pass, please.”
I had been practising the signature since I was in Paris, so it was a piece of cake. She looked at the signature on the boarding pass and compared it to the one in my passport. She nodded. “One last thing. Can I see your return flight ticket?”
My heart sank.
“You cannot travel without a return ticket, sir.”
“I will be returning to India in a month, but I don’t know the exact date.”
She shook her head. “Without a return ticket, I cannot let you board the plane.”
I felt hopeless but tried to mask my fear. I had only four hundred pounds ($588 U.S.) in my pocket. “Can I buy my return ticket now?” I asked. It was the only option I could think of. I hoped she would avoid the hassle and let me board instead. Surprisingly, she called the ticket counter, and they hand-delivered a return ticket. It was 360 pounds ($530 U.S.), non-refundable. The good news was that I was on my way to Montreal; the bad news was that I would be virtually destitute when I arrived.
Finally, the gate was reopened and I was allowed to board the plane. Naturally, as I made my way down the aisle, my fellow passengers were curious, and none too happy, to see who had been responsible for the long delay. I wondered — hoped — that many assumed I was an exotic celebrity. As soon as the aircraft doors closed, the plane taxied onto the runway. The flight was departing more than thirty minutes late.
I was spent, broke, and exhausted but happy. I had hurdled over a series of formidable obstacles. Not bad for a kid from a tiny village in Sri Lanka!
But my elation didn’t last long. As soon as we were airborne and I was settled, my thoughts turned to dark imaginings of what awaited me in Montreal. What if they find out that I have an illegal passport? What if the plane turns back to London in the middle of our flight?
Settle down, I told myself. I was still worried that any second, armed officers would approach me and put me in handcuffs. My old roommate Pavan, who had vast experience in travelling, had once told me that if that ever happened, I should run to the bathroom and flush my passport down the to
ilet, then strip off all my clothes. “Immigration cannot remove you from a plane if you are naked,” he assured me. It was, like most everything I had heard, complete and total rubbish. In any case, it was my Plan B.
I was ready.
CHAPTER 23
After many hours, the plane finally landed at Mirabel Airport in Montreal. I peered through the window and saw a scene similar to when I had arrived in East Berlin: everything was covered with snow.
Before I left London, my friends had told me that when I arrived I would have to surrender my illegal passport and declare my true identity to immigration officials at the airport so they would grant me asylum in Canada. It had to be done at the port of entry. If I were to leave the airport with the illegal passport and then try to apply for asylum, I would be deported back to Sri Lanka.
I was so nervous, torn between declaring my true identity and leaving the airport with an illegal identity as a French national and figuring it out later. I was tired of living as a fugitive, but what if I told them the truth and they arrested me and deported me anyway?
I sat on the plane and waited for everyone to leave. I was the last passenger to disembark and the last in line at immigration. Finally, it was my turn.
At the last moment, I decided to trust my instincts and take the risk. I approached the immigration officer and handed over my illegal passport. “I am Tamil from Sri Lanka and would like to apply for asylum here in Canada,” I said.
I was not sure if the officer had heard me. My throat was so dry it was hard to speak. He did nothing at first, but finally he stood up from behind the desk and instructed me, with a flick of his hand, to follow him. We entered a small cinder-block office with no windows and just a few chairs. He motioned for me to sit down, then left and closed the door. I heard the click of a lock. I was alone.
I had gone through this situation so many times. Therefore, I once again trusted my instincts and suppressed my fears. I had nothing to lose, so I waited patiently. A few minutes later, the officer entered the room accompanied by a person carrying a tray loaded with food.
The Sadness of Geography Page 15
