Levy / Pandit / Farouky Displacement Stories of Identity and Belonging

E-Book
1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-3-12-909103-6
Verlag: Klett Sprachen GmbH
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Deutsch, 88 Seiten

Diese Sammlung von Short Stories enthält die Texte:

Andrea Levy: Loose Change
Shereen Pandit: She Shall Not Be Moved
Saeed Taji Farouky: The Rain Missed My Face and Fell Straight to My Shoes
Jhumpa Lahiri: The Third and Final Continent
Qaisra Shahraz: The Escape

Autoren/Hrsg.

Levy, Andrea

Pandit, Shereen

Farouky, Saeed Taji

Lahiri, Jhumpa

Shahraz, Qaisra

Richter, Isabelle

Leseproben

Shereen Pandit She Shall Not Be Moved
I swear, if it hadn’t been so late, I’d have done something about it. Or if the previous two number 201 buses hadn’t vanished into thin air. Or if it hadn’t been so cold. Or if I didn’t have Mariam with me, her almost turning blue with the cold. Yes, I would definitely have done something about it, there and then. I would have given him a piece of my mind. And them. But the thing is, it was late, and the buses hadn’t come for more than an hour. And this being London, it was pretty darned cold and there was Mariam, shivering next to me. So I was highly pleased, I tell you, when that bus finally pulled up. I paid. That’s another thing, it was the last change I had on me and I couldn’t afford to get chucked off, could I? Anyhow, this bus finally comes, I put Mariam up alongside me, while I pay. Then I try to move her along into the bus ahead of me. Only, we can’t move. The aisle’s blocked by this huge woman, with a pram in the middle of the aisle… She seems to be Somali, from her clothes – long dark dress, hair covered with a veil, like what nuns used to wear, arms covered to the wrists, nothing but face and hands showing. The driver shouts at me to move down the bus, only I can’t because of the pram. I’m about to say to him, well get this woman to move out of the way – it’s one of those modern buses with a special place for prams – when I see what the problem is. There are these two women, sitting in those fold-up seats in the pram space. White, fifty-ish, wrinkles full of powder and grey roots under the blonde rinse, mouths like dried up prunes, both of them. One of them’s wearing a buttoned up cardie like Pauline in East Enders. The other one’s wearing a colourless crumpled and none too clean mac of some kind. The big-breasted, big bottomed type. Both looked strong enough in the arm to lift a good few down the pubs every night. They’re sitting right under that notice which says: ‘Please allow wheelchair users and those with prams priority in using this space’. Which means, these two are supposed to get up so the Somali woman can put her pram in the space left when their seats fold up. Only, they’re staring hard out of the window, pretending they haven’t heard a word of what’s going on, and if they did, it’s nothing to do with them. As I said, they didn’t look like the kind to tackle unless you wanted a real scene. I wouldn’t have put it past the likes of them to use some pretty rough language, regardless of whether there were kids around. Me, I don’t like exposing Mariam to unpleasantness. So I turn to the driver, who’s still yelling down the aisle from behind his glassed-in box. I reckon it’s his job to tell the women to move. I mean why should I do his dirty work? There are two empty seats right opposite the women. They can just move over the aisle. I look hard at them, trying to will them to look around. They finally can’t resist looking round to see the havoc they’ve caused. They’re still trying to be nonchalant, but you can see this gleam of satisfaction in their eyes, their mouths growing even thinner as they jam their lips grimly together, as if to say: ‘That’ll show you who’s boss!’ I take the chance to point the empty seats out to them. Politely. I’m doing as my mum said when I was young, always show them we’re better. So, even though I’ve got a small kid with me, I’m not scrambling to grab the seat. Usually I let Mariam sit down because buses jerking around can be dangerous for kids, especially kids like Mariam, small for her age and skinny to boot. But do these old so-and-so’s take the seat I’m pointing out to them? Not likely. They look at me, then look at the seats as if they’re a pile of dog dirt I’m offering. Then they mutter something to each other, turn up their noses and stare out the window again, like it’s nothing to do with them. The Somali woman, meantime, has squashed herself tight up against the side of the aisle, just below the stairs. If anyone really wants to, they can squeeze past and go on upstairs. Her face is tight too. Lips set. Eyes blank. Head held high. She looks like a haughty queen. She’s done her best to accommodate other passengers by leaving them what inches she can, and now she just shuts off and looks into space. Through all this, the driver’s been yelling on and off. Finally, his door swings open – the glassed-in bit leading into the bus, I mean. Right, I think, here he comes, he’s going to make the old witches move. He’s not scared of them, big strapping bloke, he doesn’t have to be scared of anyone or anything. Besides, he’s got right on his side. They can’t even complain amongst themselves, let alone to his employers that he’s taking sides with the Somali woman just because they’re both black. But oh no! He comes at this Somali woman and yells at her that either she folds up the pram or she leaves the bus. He’s all over her, leaning right into her face and shouting. I reckon he’s going to hit her. I hate violence and I turn Mariam’s face away. I don’t like her seeing ugliness like this. The Somali woman doesn’t give an inch. Except to turn aside disdainfully because this bloke’s spit is flying in her face. Pulling her wrapper more closely about her, she says scornfully that she’s not doing either. And you can see why not. Her baby’s asleep in the pram and she’s already got another small one hanging onto her. One hand on the pram, another on the toddler. Her face is full of contempt for this driver, but her voice isn’t rude or loud or anything. Just firm. She’s paid, she’s got these kids, she’s staying put. He shouts and storms. Eventually he gives up and goes back and starts the bus so it jerks and she and the kid and the pram nearly go flying, except for the pram being stuck. Me, I’m totally shocked at his attitude. I’m really building up a head of steam here. If it wasn’t for all the stuff I said before, at this stage I really would have given him a go. But he’s gone back and there’s nothing I can do about him. I tell the Somali woman to sit down in the empty seat, thinking she can at least hold the small one on her lap and maybe I could steady the pram while Mariam sits next to her. She shakes her head wordlessly. It’s like she’s used up all her words on the driver. I reckon maybe, in spite of her looking so proud and firm, she’s too timid to give the women a go. Maybe she’s worried, being black and a foreigner, probably a refugee and all. Maybe she also doesn’t like a scene and is already embarrassed enough by the women. Maybe if she’d said something to them directly, I would have backed her. But how could I go and attack them out of the blue, make them move, if she’s not saying anything to them? The two women, deciding that they aren’t having enough fun, start a loud conversation with each other about how they’re not getting up, no way. Cardie reckons to Mac that ‘they’ – meaning women with prams, or does she mean black women – just pretend ‘they’ want to park the pram and then snatch the seats. ‘They’ want everything their way. Definitely black people this time. And on and on they go. I’m fuming, amongst other things, because Mariam is being subjected to all this racist hogwash. But what’s the point in having a go? It’ll only lead to a row lasting the whole bus ride and I probably will get chucked off then for stirring. Even if I’m in the right. They can say what they like about anti-racist laws, but I’ve yet to see them stop people like these two slinging their poison around. I look at the other passengers in the second half of the bus, past the stairs. All white. No-one’s saying anything, no-one’s seeing anything, no-one’s hearing anything. Not their business. Mariam starts to nudge me and whispers to me to tell the driver to tell the old witches to move. She doesn’t call them that, though. Calls them ‘those two ladies’. Ladies my backside. Mariam’s language is polite, but this is a kid with attitude. Got it from me, I guess. I used to be known as a kid with attitude too. They can have our seats, she says loudly. I nod, but say nothing. Mariam...