ÓW Festiwal

ÓW Festiwal 2009! www.owfestiwal.pl

WHO ARE WE?

In such a fast-paced, diverse world, it takes a real leap of the imagination to believe in “generation Europe”. Certainly we have all travelled through time - growing older as a generation. Some of us have travelled through space – coming from former colonies to add richness to the European identity. But have we also managed to travel through ideas - bridging perspectives to “unite in diversity”?
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This blog emerged as a work result of Summer Media School in Lisbon, 21 - 30 of September 2008. We participants would like to thank all organisers for their work and passion that led them to prepaire this extraordinary event.

Editors line:
- Tanyella Allison
- Pia Dohler
- Ilaria Lonigro
- Karolina Kamińska
- Eugen Soineanu
- Michel Brioni
- Filip Jurzyk

Don’t go to Chelas

You were in Chelas? My God, I have lived in Lisbon for eight years and I have never risked going there – says Melinda, a 23-year old student who moved to Portugal with her family from Cape Verde. Melinda isn’t the only one in the Portuguese capital that knows the bad reputation of this district. But why are people afraid of Chelas, which is situated almost in the heart of this modern European city? And do the lives of people in this district differ from what we have seen in other parts of Lisbon? Finally – do the youth of Chelas fit the general mould of “generation Europe”? There was only one way to answer these questions – go to Chelas.

First impression after leaving metro at Chelas station? Ordinary part of the city. Normal streets, standard Portuguese buildings, smiling people and the usual car congestion. So is there something to be afraid of? The easiest way to find out was to ask a police officer. – It is not safe down here, especially after 7 o’clock, so better not to search for troubles cause you can find them – Jorge Barbosa, an officer from police station situated not far from the metro entrance, warned. – And you can lose your camera easily, so better keep it hidden – he added. – Don’t go there! – shouted officer Barbosa as we headed south.

Another voice of warning in this seemingly friendly neighbourhood was that of our bus driver
when asked where Africans are living. – It is not a good place to hang around – he said while opening the door on next bus stop. – But if you really wanna go there…- he added indicating “interesting” direction. Then he disappeared with lots of noise and the smell of exhaust fumes, leaving us in the very heart of African part of this city. Buildings were a bit different. Grey, overwhelming, neglected. Inhabitants of this district walking through the streets and pavements gave the impression that they weren’t going anywhere in particular but just loitering to kill time. Even when we found those who spoke French or English, they were not interested in being interviewed. Eventually an old man speaking French was willing to talk. – I moved here with my family from Guinea twenty years ago – said Nelson, 64-year old man standing in front of local food shop. – I never think how our life here looks like. We simply live from day to another, trying to avoid problems and bring up our grandchildren as good people – he added calmly.

In this sleepy and almost dull neighborhood there was only one eye-catching building – the purple, yellow, pink, green and blue-colored walls were so shockingly different from the surroundings, that we were drawn to it, like a fly coming to a bulb in the night. A narrow corridor leading to the inside was inviting us to take a peek. The calm atmosphere of this district muffled our instinct of danger, so we left the street to see what was behind the wall. Without knowing that this corridor will lead us directly to a nightmare.

“At least we are safe”

There is no doubt we were strangers in this neighborhood - like tourists trying to spy upon this community, steal their intimate way of life. Looking to find out about the life of African immigrants who moved to country of their former colonizer in search for better conditions. Cape Verde, Guinea, Sao Tome, Zanzibar, Angola, Mozambique… Portugal made a lot of mistakes in the past, ravaging the resources of some African nations, and now has a moral debt to pay. Because they usually speak Portuguese and national immigration policy is friendly for them, lots of Africans move to Portugal wishing to find a better life.

After meeting few talkative Africans, we discovered that in general Portuguese society is friendly to them and doesn’t show any strong racist behaviour. – There is no racism here, especially amongst young children – says Mais, a 40-year old women carrying her small daughter Camille and sitting opposite to her old mother Adelaide. We found those three women sitting in a tiny kiosk where Madame Adelaide was selling vegetables and fruit on the street. 30-years ago this African family moved to Portugal from Cape Verde. Now they live on the edge of poverty, earning what little money they can from selling goods to other Chelas inhabitants. But they do not complain about their life here. – At least Camille can study in school with other children and we feel safe here – says Mais in French. In the nest of African anger

But the rainbow-like building wasn’t safe at all. As we passed through the corridor into a courtyard between pink and green walls, we felt we had entered a different dimension. Although the courtyard was empty it was oppressively stuffy, a muffled hip-hop beat from some open window piercing the silence. Click! We took one picture and chaos descended. Immediately, from different sides of the courtyard more than a dozen young black people appeared, hiding their faces in t-shirts, running towards us and yelling in Portuguese. This time we didn’t need a translation – we were in a serious trouble.

Knowing that if we ran away, it would be over, we faced the situation head-on. The group encircled us and started pushing, trying to take our cameras, screaming that we are undercover police. We saw wild anger in their bloodshot eyes and when they realised that we’re foreigners, some of them started yelling in English. Fighting to keep camera in our hands, we tried to persuade them that we were just lost in their neighborhood while visiting Chelas to see how people are living here. Finally, they were convinced, as they stood and watched as all the pictures were deleted from the memory card.

- What the f… are you doing here? Get away now! – someone shouted. So we headed back to the street, still encircled by the group pushing us aggressively. But as we left the building, their curiosity gave us the initiative. Shaking their hands as with friends and introducing ourselves, we gained a bit of trust and started asking about their life, roots and problems. Showing respect to them, we somehow managed to start a discussion. The most talkative guy was Dave, a young Briton who came to visit his family living in Chelas. When most of his friends went back to the building, he explained why we were so lucky to get out from there without being harmed. – You made a picture of two guys making a deal with drugs, this is a site where they sell this stuff for whole district – he said.

Asked about the police station that was directly opposite the building, Dave answered: - And what then? You will never see a policeman here. They don’t come inside, they are too afraid of us.

During the riot, we saw a few young white Portuguese boys among the mainly black group. – So you don’t live separately here? – we asked. – No, man! We’re brothers and sisters, skin color doesn’t matter. They live on the same street, go to the same schools and deal with the same problems, so why should we hate each other? – Dave answered.
Micro-world

Just opposite the drug dealers nest, there was a school and kindergarten. All over the place, children were just having fun, talking, playing without any fear. They were very friendly and those who were older even wanted to speak. 14-year old Melissa, and Neuza and Ugu who were two years younger confirmed everything that Dave told us. For them, Chelas was their home, a safe district where they were growing up, playing and laughing. They didn’t care about the origins of their parents or skin color. – If you are from here, you don’t have to be afraid of anything – said Melissa. – Just you need to accept and respect others – she added.

And do you want to know, where all this happens? Shop, school, kinder garden, police station, dealers nest and vegetable kiosk were on both sides of… Avenida Joao Paulo II.

Text: Filip Jurzyk

Photo: An-Sofie Kesteleyn

Trapped in time: an immigrants odyssey

“Who wants to do an article on Africans in Portugal?” In a room full of European journalists a wave of hands go up. But why are we so interested in this topic - Is it just that we are looking for “colour” for our articles? Do we simply want to find some striking cultural differences to impress our readers? Or perhaps only a tag line for a spicy shocking lead? Yet the question of immigration is at the heart of what the European Youth Press stands for. Our aim is not only to create awareness of the work of the European Parliament, and issues that are topical in individual members states, but also to forge a European identity: What is a European? How can the European Union facilitate the integration of so many cultures?

Samm’s story is a case in point. He has lived in Portugal for 16 years, but now feels lost and helpless in the country he fled to in 1992 to escape the war in Liberia. He was lucky – eventually he was granted a visa that allowed him to get a job. He worked in construction as an unskilled labourer like many of his fellow Liberians – dangerous, poorly paid, irregular work – but still he felt like he had a chance. Yet in 2004 his employer cheated him out of his taxes, and when he went to renew his visa he was refused: “The last time I had legal papers was in 2005. I told the SEF [Portugese Ministry for Immigration] what had happened but they didn’t care about my problems. They made it harder for me. Here in Portugal they don’t have people who care.” Now Samm relies on his friends to help him out, “I won’t go and take money from the social service, I can’t do this, I have more dignity than that”.

The helplessness of Samm’s situation is painfully ironic: “Now I have to pay the taxes that I owe the state so I can have my visa re-instated” Samm explains, “but I don’t have the money because I am not working. And I can’t work until I have my visa - it is enough to make you go crazy”. According to Samm, the European Union is not doing enough in Portugal, although in other countries the situation is better – “the EU is doing a lot for immigrants in Holland and Spain” he remarks. Does he feel like a European? “I feel like I have a right to be here, after all these years. I just want a stable life. If I could do anything, I would work as an interior designer. I could have had a family by now but I can’t even support myself”. He strokes his hair where the strands of grey are beginning to show.

Across the city in a quiet residential neighbourhood, Nelson Chantre, a bright-eyed, well-dressed student, is taking part in the initiation of the new students at his university. His father came from Cape Verde when he was just 17, settled and married a Portugese lady, and Nelson was born in Portugal. “I feel an affiliation to Cape Verde but I am Portugese. People here are beginning to feel like Europeans too,” he tells me. To me, Nelson is the epitome of the “new generation” of Europeans that are a part of our collective identity. He is a second generation immigrant, but he is also a European, and like many of us, he looks beyond the borders of Portugal and sees a bright future for himself in Europe.

Samm’s story could have been different – he could also have a son Nelson’s age, who is looking to the future. Instead, he is trapped in time, unable to move forward with his life and achieve his potential. Yet Nelson is testament to the fact that integration is possible, and desirable. Our European identity can be greatly enriched by those who by accident of language, war or colonisation in their home country, come to Europe for a brighter future.

Text: Tanyella Allison

The “slave” who quoted Shakespeare

In Praça de Figueira people are walking fast. The lunch break has just finished and everybody must go back to their jobs. Everyone except for tourists, who are sitting in the cafés, a few birds pecking at crumbs, and some old men loitering in the park. We are here to speak to the immigrant community, to find out about the journey of those from African colonies, but the task is not so easy. We try approaching some people but most of them speak only Portuguese and are not so friendly with us - three white smiling students asking for an interview in English.

John Baley Wiston is a healthy man. His hands are really strong, but his eyes are gentle and his voice is pure. He has a lot to say and finally he found someone interested in the hell he lives in. He’s 43, but he looks older. Life hasn’t been easy for him. He arrived in Portugal in 1993, on June 6th. He remembers very well the day he arrived from Liberia, an ex British colony with a name full of hope. I ask him why he didn´t move to England instead and he simply replies: “ I came here by coincidence, I had no choice. It was during the war in Liberia. The only way to make your life safe was jumping in any wagon, so I came here by boat. It took two weeks ”.

Even though he has been a legal resident since 1997, John doesn’t feel like he’s Portuguese: “ Emotions, background and mentality are different ”. He works in construction, as a labourer, like many male African immigrants in Lisbon – women work as cleaners. “ Many labourers die, but if you refuse to do something, they fire you. These are only temporary jobs and it happens that we don’t receive any money for the works we have done ”. Supervisors are called “ gargados ” and their strategy is trying to shy away from their responsibilities: “ They have no respect, they intimidate you and abuse you, telling you any type of things”, says John, “They make you feel like a slave ”.
Labour unions exist, but they can’t work if workers first don’t speak out. “ Africans from Portuguese colonies never speak out. They are scared, they’ve never been used to it. Africans from British colonies don’t behave like this. But if we are divided, as workers and as Africans, we will never change things ”. Sometimes the government organises security checks, but they’re insufficiant.

John lost all his family in Liberia, and hasn´t been able to go back and visit his homeland, nor can he afford to move forward with his life and start a new family. He is stuck in time, a prisoner of a dreadful situation. If he had the opportunity to study and learn something, if Portugal gave him this chance, things would be different. He would like to have his own business, he would find his own way, anything which could make him independent. Than he would send money to his country. “ I’m forced to do my job. There’s nothing I can do here. It’s not question of liking or not ”.

If he could say something to the European Union, he would say: “ There are so many Africans who could be engineers, lawyers, because they studied, but they don’t have the opportunity. If you don’t want all these immigrants to come here without any role, you have to start solving the problem from the roots. You don’t have to think about Africans here, but you have to help Africans in Africa. They need technologies, schools and hospitals. Without money they can’t do anything. My generation has problems, forth generation will have more and more problems. Poverty is not a natural thing, it’s a man made thing, caused by capitalism ”.

John is charismatic, full of information, and is always smiling, even though inside he is sad: “I feel like I am handicapped by this senseless world”. But he trusts in the next generation of Europeans - maybe the future will be better. For the moment, he has to face reality. “ The most important thing is to find a form of relief for yourself. I find it in faith and in music: ‘If music be the food of love, give me excess of it that suffice the appetite’ : it’s Shakespeare ”. I ask him to write the quote on my notebook, because I can’t remember it. His hand shivers, the letters are barely legible.

Text: Ilaria Lonigro

Photo: 1) Zaza, 2) An-Sofie Kesteleyn