Democracy and Citizenship
19 year-old Irina leaves her home in Ukraine to work as a strawberry picker in England, the country of her dreams. She is met by Vulk, the middleman who has promised her a job.
gs ek
se m
pl
ar
“Irina, my baby, you can still change your mind! You don’t have to go!” Mother was wailing and dabbing at her pinky eyes with a tissue, causing an embarrassing scene at Kiev bus station. “Mother, please! I’m not a baby!” You expect your mother to cry at a moment like this. But when my craggy old Pappa turned up too, his shirt all crumpled and his silver hair sticking up like an old-age porcupine, OK I admit, it rattled me. I hadn’t expected him to come to see me off. “Irina, little one, take care.” “Shcho ti, Pappa. What’s all this about? Do you think I’m not coming back?” “Just take care, my little one.” Sniffle. Sigh. “I’m not little, Pappa. I’m nineteen. Do you think I can’t look after myself?” “Ah, my little pigeon.” Sigh. Sniffle. Then Mother started up again. Then – I couldn’t help myself – I started up too, sighing and sniffling and dabbing my eyes, until the coach driver told us to get a move on, and Mother shoved a bag of bread and salami and a poppy seed cake into my hands, and we were off. From Kiev to Kent in forty-two hours.
er
in
Mar ina Lewycka (1946–) is a British author. She was born to Ukrainian parents in a refugee camp in Germany. The family later emigrated to England.
Two Caravans
rd
STARTING POINT
MARINA LEWYCKA Why do some people leave their home countries to live and work in other countries? What challenges do they face?
Vu
108
challenge utfordring refugee camp flyktningleir wailing jammer dab tørke tissue papirlommetørkle embarrassing pinlig craggy værbitt porcupine piggsvin rattled opprørte shcho ti ukrainsk: hva er det med deg? sniffle snufse poppy seed valmuefrø swell hovne opp period menstruasjon sensation følelse
OK. I admit, forty-two hours on a coach is not amusing. By the time we reached Lviv, the bread and salami were all gone. In Poland, I noticed that my ankles were starting to swell. When we stopped for fuel somewhere in Germany, I stuffed the last crumbs of the poppy-seed cake into my mouth and washed it down with nasty metallic-tasting water from a tap that was marked not for drinking. In Belgium, my period started, but I didn’t notice until the dark stain of blood seeped through my jeans into the seat. In France I lost all sensation
