We Interrupt This Broadcast . . .

Some of you may have noticed (and some of you have commented) that I have been on a sort of blog hiatus lately and it is likely to continue for a little while longer.

I looked up synonyms for the word hiatus and found “break” and “interruption” among others, so I don’t know exactly what to call this post popping up in the middle of my silent running time, this interruption to my hiatus, this break in my break . . . but I have some exciting – literally breaking – news I wanted to share.

Remember my birthday present? The egg incubator?  Well, . . . .

TA DA!!

Yesterday we were in the middle of a braiding session, when my daughter and I heard noises coming from the incubator. Within the next hour, this little guy had made it out of his egg. An hour after that he was moving around and chirping.

He was the only one of six eggs to hatch and I went to bed worried that he would be lonely. But on a trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I passed the incubator and noticed that the chirping sounded like a duet. Sure enough – a second chick was there to greet me in the morning.

 

Now let’s see if we can keep these little guys going . . .

. . .  long live the German Reich’s Chickens!!

 

Form Letter of Rejection

 

After two years of living in our village and waiting for their asylum applications to be processed, our refugee boys were just told that the home they live in is going to be closed down. Apparently it is too expensive for the government to maintain. The 18 boys still living there will have to be relocated. Dispersed. One option is a rooming house at a highway truck stop – in one half of what began as an overly optimistic brothel. (The other half will continue to be used for its original purpose.) We are working on a different arrangement for one of the boys (“H.”) who still wants to attend my husband’s school.

My husband and H. sat in the kitchen discussing his “options” now that he is about to be . . . displaced once again. They sat in their usual spots – my husband at the end of the table and H. around the corner to his left. I have seen them seated like this many times over the past months, as H. told his life story and my husband typed it into story form. They are up to page 6 now, and the story is long from over.

Mariabad – a Hazara enclave

H. was basically a refugee at birth. His young parents were already on the run from both the Taliban and his mother’s family (!) because of their honor–offending Hazara (Shiite)/Sunni love affair which had led to the birth of H.’s older sister. When the Taliban came to power in Afghanistan, they had to leave the country altogether. They ended up in a place called Mariabad which is a sort of enclosed Hazara settlement within the larger Pakistani city of Quetta. H.’s childhood took place here. For ten years or so, the normal elements of early life – school, sports, work, games, family celebrations – were interspersed with police raids, an ever-increasing number of bombings and kidnappings. When H. was 13, his two younger brothers were abducted and severely beaten. Shortly thereafter, his elder sister disappeared while on her way to school. H.’s parents could only suspect that the mother’s family had discovered them. They decided it was too dangerous to stay there any longer. His father left first for Australia, hoping the family could follow, but he tragically drowned in the attempt to get there. Three years after that, H. made the next attempt – this time to Iran – only to be caught, imprisoned for a few months, and then deported. He made it back to his family in Pakistan. They made their next attempt to flee (again to Iran) as an entire family and this time they were successful. From there H. and his younger brother set off toward Germany via Turkey and Greece. Once they reached Austria, they decided to stay and try for asylum here. Almost exactly two years ago, H. arrived in our village . . .

 

It was already harsh for him to find out that he would need to move once again, but then he got a second piece of bad news in the same week: his asylum rejection letter with particularly offensive content and wording:

“Concerning the Reasons for Leaving Your Native Country:

The reasons supplied by you for leaving your native country are not credible. It cannot be established that you had to fear persecution in Afghanistan based on the reasons listed in the Geneva Convention on Refugees or that you are confronted currently with a relevant situation threatening your life or limb.

In connection with the existing information of this office on the general situation in Afghanistan, it could be established beyond a doubt that, in regard to the persecution you claim, flight alternatives within that country’s borders exist which are objectively and subjectively reasonable for you.”

 

This is pretty clearly some kind of standard form letter – it doesn’t make sense in light of H.’s situation. He is like the DACA kids who came to the States as babies due to other people’s decisions. And just like some politicians in the States with their “one size fits all” solution for those kids, it seems the Austrian government is pursuing a similar policy for the refugees. Automatic rejection in the first round.

The question is why they needed two years to come up with this answer.

Fifty-six

We decided on a birthday dinner this year (as opposed to breakfast or lunch). I requested the classic steak and baked potatoes meal and it was yummy. Beforehand I surfed here and there, putzed at this or that, took two long dog walks, peeked around the house in search of a cardboard box holding my present – a new chicken or two. Couldn’t find one.

But it turns out I was right. Not only am I getting new chickens, but I am getting German Reich chickens!! Jawohl! Mensch, das ist ja dufte!!

There is one little catch . . .

The eggs are arriving by mail and I have to hatch them myself.

Wish us luck.