I am not a passport

Tiago Pinheiro, a new member of Left Unity, writes

Borders are imaginary lines created by men and women; they are limitations to a space who belongs to everyone, destined to contain wealth, encircle culture and perpetuate power.

The artists who envision those imaginary lines forget, however, that more than geometry of space, we are the small places who have seen us be born, grow up, dream, smile in illusion and cry in sadness. We are not flags but the result of the people who love us and whom we love.

Wanted this world, in permanent change, of similar traces throughout the centuries, that the borders became more than just lines: they mark differences between men and women, equals in their genesis, different only for their virtues, skin colour or beliefs.

Each day, more and more people are daring to cross the barriers. After all, too many times in a world of cruel inequalities, the search for dreams, hope and opportunities cannot be contained inside borders.

Nowadays, hatred is spreading against those who dream for more. Emigration is the scapegoat for poor governative skills, it’s looked upon as the reason for all misfortune; it’s the empty and sloppy justification of those who do not see men and women from all over the world as human beings of equal rights. Anti-emigration feelings are the easy excuse of those who have abused power in their own profit and of those who intend to do the same.

Having left my country with a heavy heart, tears dried by the enthusiasm brought by hope, I refuse to be seen as a passport. I am person, a nurse, a citizen of a world I dream of equal opportunities for everyone.

I was not a passport when I left everyone who believed in me in search for new opportunities.

I am not a passport when I give myself every day, all the experience accumulated over the years, while adjusting to a new culture, believing I can care for my patients as well as those who were born here.

I am not a passport when I dedicate my free time trying to understand every detail of a different way of being and living, trying to make a difference.

I’m not just a piece of paper when mine are the healing hands, administrating medication efficiently, mastering and executing techniques, holding others hands in moments of pain and desperation.

I’m not a passport when I put my family aside, miles away, making those I care for my family, caring for them with all the dignity, respect and commitment a son would demand for a parent.

I’m not a visa or an administrative permission when I’m present as someone breathes for the last time, when words don’t matter and a warm presence and emphatic look are universal language. Or when I’m relieving someones suffering, drying up their tears or offering a smile or an opportune joke to break through the despair.

I am not a passport when I’m holding all the answers to doubts and yearnings, in a language I devoted myself to learning; when I hold in my hands a passion for caring that needs no words but universal gestures.

I’m not just a number, a grey picture or a digital fingerprint when my effort makes the difference healing, returning a father home, a son to his parents, a wife to a husband. I am not a passport when, at the hospital’s door, the nightmare is over for someone, soothed by the smile and persistence of those who care.

I am not a passport when I forget my own sorrows, making them imperceptible to those I care for, in order for the hours spent by their bedside not to be cold and frightening but comforting, hoping and trusting.

I am not a piece of paper, when I’m trying to come up with new ways of caring, many learnt with the thousands I cared for, different from me only in language and place of birth. I am not a passport when all I want to do is heal and my actions are unstopped by race, colour, beliefs or nationality of those I care for.

I am not a passport, when I come home every day, feeling I gave my best and knowing those I cared for might be next in criticising immigrants.

Not a passport when I receive my paycheque, earned in a daily effort, contributing, same as everyone else, proud for every euro or pound that is direct result of my effort;

Or when I dream or aim for something better. I am only a human being, with this head held high and hope in the future.

I am not a passport when I aim not to be judged for my birthplace, skin colour or convictions but for my actions.

I’m reduced to it, when value is given to nationality, when rights are granted by birthplace, when difficulties arise exponentially because of my mother-language. Disposable until we’re necessary.

A passport who feels, cries, smiles. A passport who cares. Passports belong in the pockets together with the silly excuses. We are all equals.