„Zlatan came to me. He's going tomorrow at 8 am“

17:51/3.8. That was it. Dakel had sent me the message with whatapp.

I thought back to the conversation I'd had six weeks ago with Ramiza and Zlatan, to learn something about their life as Roma in Bosnia and about the reasons that made them move to Germany and try for asyl.

During the 90 minute talk the 4 year old Vanesa had been eating non stop. delightedly she licked her lolly, munched a bag of chokocroissants, nibbled cookies and chocolate. Then with sausage slices which she carefully rolled up before eating, she switched to savory tastes. She happily chewed non stop. To me the mixture seemed wild and unbearable. Suddenly she screamed, had picked up some words of the conversation: 'Bosnia, no! She threw her playmobile-bricks in our direction: Bosnia, no! Bosnia, hunger!

We were seated on red plastic chairs at a little table in room 12.

90 minutes with no future. 90 minutes with no hope.

Zlatan is 29 years old, Ramiza 22. They are expecting their second baby. The sickness that had bothered Ramizah a few days earlier at her sewing machine -the face yellowish, bags under her eyes- wasn't an upset stomach, no new virus attack, but the sign of an early pregnancy.

'Do you have a dream?' Six weeks ago they couldn't find an answer to this question.

'...to work in a big company'. With the emphasis carried by the deep sound of despair, Zlatan had formulated his modest longings. I thought of the German-book, level 2 of Ruba. There they were talking about forklift truck drivers and stockkeepers. The text had seemed absurd to me. Now I suddenly saw Zlatan on a forklift truck drive through a huge hall. With a stoic look from mongolian eyes, cool and easily he was manoeuvring his big dream of a 'normal' life between the shelves.

A better life for Vanesa they wished, of course, with Kindergarten and school. They said it, as if they'd already lost the hope for their own future.

'He said the taxi will come at 8 and the bus will leave at 10'

We sat in front of our cups stirring nescafepowder into luke warm water. Within the next 20 minutes the taxi would actually come. A neighbour from house nr 62 had given us a pair of kids shoes. Pink sandals with coloured stones on the straps. We'd kept them Vanesa. For the day of the departure.

'I meant to cook today' Ramizah said before we carried out the bags. 'For picnic'. Then tears ran down her cheeks. On her dark blue t-shirt in white letters it said: Be happy.

_{translated by Ursina Scrowther}