I didn't come to Europe to sell flowers
I didn't come to Europe to sell flowers
It is a quaint evening in Rome. Due to a national holiday for Saint Augustine, Rome is unusually devoid of tourists, we are told. Wherever we can see there are tourists. And flower sellers. This can’t be what devoid looks like. The flower sellers have different flowers. Beautiful red roses blooming in a bucket. Ten Euros for a flower. We say no to one and then another. “Baji khareed lain”. I am told not to converse with them by our hosts. All of them will flog in if you buy from one. This is not something I have not heard before. Every time in Lahore when the car stops at a traffic signal in cavalry I am told to not give money to one of the beggars. The rest of them will flog in. The stout man looking at me expectantly with a flower has white hair and seems my father’s age. His name is Muhammad Sajid. He has been selling flowers for a decade in Rome.
I didn’t come to Europe to sell flowers but destiny can make one do anything.
When he sees us walking away he says since it’s already late and he hasn’t sold many flowers he would sell it for five Euros. I exchanged money for the flower and we walked away with a quick thank you. Our friends who had told me not to buy seemed a little annoyed. “This is what they do. Come here and create a circus. It has become like Lahore”. The flower blooms alone on the table of my hotel room on what was my last night in Rome.
Next day around noon sitting at one of the cafes close to the train station I see two men selling hats. They are wearing cowboy hats themselves which make them stand out among the crowd. They stand at the entrance of the cafe urging bypassers to buy the hat. Nobody does. As I exit, one of the two men calls out “Baji topi le lo”. It is Muhammad Sajid, the rose seller from last night. “What will I do with it?” I ask him “Wear it” he says, taking off his and putting it back on. “It’s a nice way to avoid the heat. Tourists are having heat strokes these days.”
When he sees us walking away he says since it’s already late and he hasn’t sold many flowers he would sell it for five Euros. I exchanged money for the flower and we walked away with a quick thank you. Our friends who had told me not to buy seemed a little annoyed. “This is what they do. Come here and create a circus. It has become like Lahore”. The flower blooms alone on the table of my hotel room on what was my last night in Rome.
Next day around noon sitting at one of the cafes close to the train station I see two men selling hats. They are wearing cowboy hats themselves which make them stand out among the crowd. They stand at the entrance of the cafe urging bypassers to buy the hat. Nobody does. As I exit, one of the two men calls out “Baji topi le lo”. It is Muhammad Sajid, the rose seller from last night. “What will I do with it?” I ask him “Wear it” he says, taking off his and putting it back on. “It’s a nice way to avoid the heat. Tourists are having heat strokes these days.”
Muhammad Sajid had come to Europe at thirty eight. Financial difficulties at home had made him leave. He had thought of having his own food business or his own taxi when he came. After a difficult passage, through the ‘prayers of my family’ I reached Italy. He has been selling flowers, key chains, hats and other small trinkets since the past ten years. His son who was six when he left, is now sixteen. He is still illegal and hasn’t gone back to see his family. In the winters, work is slow. These are the best months for work. He tells me he would never wish a life in Europe on his worst enemies. This message and his story is not unique. It is one that we have heard repeatedly from many participants and interviewees.
There is disillusionment, degradation and hopelessness that plague migrant’s experience of Europe. Yet many want to leave. Many continue to leave. Many yearn to leave. Why is that Europe despite the realities of migrants life still has an Edenic appeal?
The dream of Europe is one that has been inherited by some. It was a dream nourished by grandfathers and fathers. Europe seems the answer to poverty. It is the answer to piling debts at home. It is the answer to arranging dowries for unmarried sisters and daughters.
The European dream is the answer to building a big cemented house of one’s own.
On the beach in Barcelona, there are towel sellers, mojito sellers, and blanket sellers. You can also rent the blankets from them and return them after you use them. The men shout “ven por mojito” “Ven por mojito”. They carry trays raised to their shoulder levels with glasses with colorful umbrellas, ice and transparent water-like drink with pieces of mint dancing inside. A man comes over and tells me that I look pakistani and if I don’t add alcohol inside this is just nimbo pani. Surely on a hot day like this one would love some nimbu pani. The beach is divided into different parameters: everyone selling mojito has their own little block. After an hour or so, they gather and see who is more successful. I am treated with the ‘respect’ of a sister because I am a fully clothed pakistani woman who can hear all the nasty things they shout in punjabi about sunbathing goris. There is commotion about an incident where someone who one of the mojito sellers was staring at and she complained to some security personnel patrolling the beach. It is unfair baji, since they are wearing nothing it is their fault. All the men selling mojitos, beach towels and blankets are illegal punjabi men. The soundscape of the beach with the spanish music blasting in is regularly interjected with the insults these men hurl at each other, their observations about nangi goris and their laughter.
This is our rozi. The ways in which the mojitos are being forcibly and persistently sold to beach goers remind of how at the gt road there are people selling snacks, nimko, papar with lemon and they crowd around cars at every juncture despite how busy the gt road is. We didn’t imagine selling drinks on beach it is good business, irfan says. He had come to barcelona after seeing his uncle’s success who was settled in spain. He never picked up my call, I slept on the streets and then found friends. Now in the summer it is good business and in winters we find construction work, it is hard work. These goris have no shame. They come here and lie down for the entire world to watch and when one watches then they go and complain. Ithar kisi ka koi deen iman nahi hai.
We do this which is still halal work. My friend sells chitta [herione] on la Ramla and makes so much money. But I don’t want to feed my children haram money. They think I am manager at hotel.
The security guard at our hotel on la ramla is pakistani. His name is Faisal and he is from Gujrat. Pakistani, he looks at our faces tired from the train journey as we check in. We get so many Indians here, but no Pakistanis. He tells us the night life in Barcelona is really happening with a little disco move but of course my husband couldn’t go because he is with family. The receptionist asks if we know English, before we answer he says “everyone in pakistan knows English not like you poor spanish. We are all highly educated. Faisal tells the receptionist.
There is a nexus in which Faisal operates. He recommends his friends turkish kabab place for us to eat at and insists we take a cab which he will arrange for us, quoting thrice the money of what a cab usually charges for the journey. Everything is business and tourists are gullible so we can charge them anything.