An old mother and her mongoloid son

They are definitely sitting in the wrong places. But it has nothing to do with it. The two people are besieged by uniforms. Papers go back and forth, change hands, are examined – and returned. To the old mother and her retarded son.

There is nothing called backward anymore. There is nothing called mongoloid either. But the young man; relatively young man, is no doubt mongoloid. It is probably from the part of the world he comes from.

Where does he come from? It's not good to say. But he is going to Malmö, with his mother. To Malmö, where he has not been before. Where she hasn't been before either. They are on their way to Malmö in Sweden on brand new refugee papers. That is why the uniforms are there. That is why they come and go all the long way from Hamburg to Malmö. Different people each time, women and men in equal mix approximately. Everyone looks at the papers, evaluates them, tries to keep them a secret, obviously. A secret, or a non-authenticity. Fake papers; That is what they are looking for. The uniforms, that is. They come and go in the corridors and the whole trolley comes along. Holds your breath. Waiting for the two to be thrown off. Sitting ready to rise in powerful political protest.

Some of them, at least.

But they are not thrown off. Not at the station in Lübeck. Not in Puttgarten. Not in Copenhagen. Against all refugee policy sense – as we know its actors – they remain on the train. They seem to have the papers in order. Are the uniforms perhaps disappointed about it? So much muscle and authority to no avail? So much education and effort for absolutely nothing?

They could have moved on them, of course. So they are in the wrong places. Definitely in the wrong places. Correct in relation to the direction of travel. But in the wrong places.

Two newly ascended passengers alternate their looks, sugar resigns and sit on the two opposite seats. Which none of them have reserved. Sits there because the booked seats are busy. By an old lady and her mongoloid son.

Where are they from? Not good to say. The eyes are long against the papers lying in the lap of the old lady. But it is impossible to interpret the letters so far. Impossible to find out.

Trying to look at your clothes instead.

Black shot. Something black on the upper body. Black, long skirt. worn

trousers. Cane. Three worn black travel bags.

The son, on the other hand, has acquired a new habitat. Imitation ola trousers and windbreaker. A shirt that is snapped to the neck. New cut on the hair. A mother has made her son ready for the last big journey. Whoever should bring them to their destination.

Her hair is hidden under the bonnet. Most of the face is also hidden under it. But she can't hide that she's wiping away a tear. Turns away from the son, then. Sugar is heavy for itself when the son finally falls asleep.

Then at least he is in the wrong place. He snores so that it roars throughout the carriage. The type of snoring that begins far down in the abdomen vibrates up the neck and ends in the area around the tonsils that roll and thunder in the wind from below. Occasionally he hiccups. Smiles in his sleep and obviously dreams of something very pleasant. Smiles, and wakes halfway. Fall asleep again and restart the swamp

It's not particularly annoying. No one else is going to sleep. Instead, passengers begin to look at each other. Smiler. It gets warmer in the compartment. Warmer people there. Some catch the eye of the old lady. They smile at her too. Then she smiles back and catches her eyes.

She has left her home and is in an unknown place. She has strange, unapproachable people around her. She is surrounded by uniforms that stand up, wide-legged, and that look at her hostilely. But suddenly people smile at her. She smiles back and says "Malmö." She points to herself and says it again. "Malmö." She is going to Malmö and start a new life. But where is she from?

"Kurdistan," she says suddenly. "Kurdistan." "Hamburg," she says then. And then "Malmö." A map appears on the small table between the rows of seats. A map of Kurdistan. That is, Turkey and Iraq. She points out a place on the map. She's from there. But she has left her home. The papers are so new that it shines in them. They're fine. She has the right to be here. No one can stop her now.

In Copenhagen, she gets up halfway. "Malmö" she says questioningly. The whole carriage shakes its head. No no. Not Malmö. Copenhagen. She starts walking anyway. Towards the exit. A passenger gets up quickly and pats her on the shoulder. No. Not Malmö. Copenhagen. The old lady is restless. Is she not allowed to leave Malmö anyway? Does anyone want to stop her?

More passengers are coming. They smile. Awakens confidence. No. Not Malmö. Copenhagen. Point out the window where a sign is visible. It stands with white on blue. Copenhagen. The son has risen too. Looking at the mother, and at the other passengers. Don't really know what to do.

The old Kurdish woman speaks to a passenger who has been sitting quietly during the incident. Dots him on the shoulder. Says "Malmö." He shakes his head. She sits down again. Sitting tense and nervous on the edge of the seat. Then the train leaves. She resigns. Hope the people in the carriage are trustworthy. Realize that they are when the train finally reaches Malmö. Malmö, it says in black letters in white. Then she laughs resignedly. Relieved. Expresses that she has been stupid. You are so happy. It spreads to the son. He laughs out loud too.

It is heavy to carry. An old lady with cane and three bags. And a mongoloid son. Two passengers take one bag each. Wondering what to do if no one meets them. The train goes on to Oslo in twenty minutes. Will they have to stay overnight in Malmö with two refugees from Kurdistan?

On the platform stands a man. It's her second son. He walks towards her as she gets out of the carriage. Goes to an old mother, her Mongolian brother and two unknown people, each with their own black travel bag. Takes the bags. Embrace his mother and brother. Tells in Swedish that he was afraid they would not find out. That they would get off at the wrong station.

One woman embraces another woman. An old Kurdish lady gives a passenger a hug. This passenger has just been to the Netherlands and learned that they let grandchildren with Down syndrome die there. People with Down syndrome are not doing very well. Mongoloid, on the other hand, can live happy lives. This man is mongoloid. He dreams happy dreams when he sleeps. Even when on the run with his mother.

An old Kurdish mother gives a fellow passenger a hug. Presses her hand. Smiling in tears. Crying and laughing. She has met her son. She's happy. And as we go, she says the only thing she can in Swedish. "Thank you very much," she says.

A meeting on a train. A meeting in the night. When we get home we read in the newspapers that a new, large wave of refugees from Kurdistan has reached Europe. Two of them were an old Kurdish mother and her Mongolian son.