Memoirs of a Stateless Person

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Born stateless: Looking for a country to love me - BBC News

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Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. Memoirs of a Stateless Person by Anna C. Her memoirs cover the pre WWII period of the 's in her birth country, Bulgaria and her growing up in the German and Russian cultures of her parents and that of Bulgaria.

The uprooting of her family because of WWII and subsequent events tells of the increasing horrors and dislocations not only of her family but that of countless others. Get A Copy. Paperback , pages. More Details Other Editions 5.

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Memoirs of a Stateless Person

Hover to zoom. Sold Out! Be the first to review. We will let you know when in stock. Thank you for your interest You will be notified when this product will be in stock. I agree to the. Terms and Conditions. How It Works? IMEI Number. The joy of living in western Europe didn't last very long.

By the time I settled in Scandinavia things had worsened. For the first time in my life I experienced racist attacks, not based on my nationality but the colour of my hair. And it was ugly. As this name calling grew louder and more frequent, I became more and more disillusioned. Had it not been for the kindness of my newfound Swedish friends and the majority of peace-loving Scandinavian people, I don't think I would have been able to survive it.

‘They told me I had no choices’

I knew I had to leave Scandinavia. Even if I stayed, I couldn't live a normal life as a stateless person.

Such mundane things as opening a bank account or gaining access to a public library were too much. It was simply, 'Computer says no!

Then I will leave, I thought. But there was one small problem. My Yugoslav passport wasn't valid anymore. And I couldn't get a new one because the country where I grew up was gone. It had just stopped existing. The former Yugoslav embassies represented only the Serbian state now and there was no way I would go and ask them for help — not because of some deep-rooted principles about their policies, but because I would have been classed as a deserter and sent back on the next flight.

And that was, most definitely, the least preferable scenario. After weeks of intense worry and doubt, the solution came in the form of a fake Swedish passport. Some friends, well-wishers and philanthropists gathered enough money and I was on the road again.

This time I was on my way to England's green and pleasant land. But first I would have to navigate the ferry crossing and border patrol from Sweden to Denmark, followed by the train journey to Germany, via the most notorious border at the time — Flensburg. Just a week earlier, a friend had been caught at that border crossing — calling from a detention centre to tell us that more than people had been picked up there.

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I felt the pressure. That man's guitar was like medicine for the nerves of the poor, stateless, wandering wayfarer. And it worked. I was super calm. Until the driver announced that the next stop would be Flensburg. Then I went to the toilet.

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I checked how red my face was and practiced my new Swedish name — Andreas. I handed over my fake passport and fixed my gaze on the shiny bit of the lens of my glasses, feeling, somehow, that I could hide there. The guard nodded and gave me the passport back. I slipped through to the other side, desperately fighting the urge to run.

Jag heter Andreas. It was all in my head: My name is Andreas. I am from Stockholm. My mouth kept failing me, producing only weird eeh-eeh sounds. Even the mighty Joe Satriani couldn't help here.