My name is Maysoon Majidi

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My name is Maysoon Majidi. I was born on July 29, 1996. This is my voice. I have a Bachelor's degree and a Master's degree in theater. I am a political activist and a member of the human rights organization Hana. I take part in organizing the Kurdish community in diaspora, and I am an activist for women's rights and those of subjugated nations. As for refugee rights, I have always taken part in various initiatives such as organizing the demonstrations at the UN in Erbil (Iraq) after the death of Behzad Mahmoudi, a political refugee. I carried out many other initiatives. I have taken part in the struggles of the Kurdish people for seven years.

In 2019, I had to escape Iran with my brother and went to Iraqi Kurdistan, where I worked in television. For the past two years I have been working as a reporter and freelance journalist. During the Revolution for Jina-Mahsa Amini, I organized the first performance in front of the United Nations headquarters in Erbil and set up the Ack News channel to publish real-time news. Both my brother and I received threatening messages from the Iranian regime, so we had to leave Iraq, because the UN was unwilling to offer any support, help or protection. In August 2023, together with other activists, we paid €5,000 to enter Turkey as refugees. We had to walk through the mountains. In Turkey we stayed at an old lady's house for two days, then we went to Van, and after five days we received fake passports. From there, we went to Istanbul with various vehicles and cars (it was a year ago and I don't remember all the details). In Istanbul, there were 15 of us and we were swindled (...). They stole the money we had paid them to get to Italy, they threatened us, they constantly treated us with violence and contempt.

We were abandoned in Turkey for five months (from August to December). During this time, we were asking for financial help from family and relatives (...). My brother and I had to wait until December to get the money to come to Italy (almost €50,000). My family had to sell their car and their house to pay this money back. On December 25, we went to the Aksara Hotel in Istanbul with the goal of leaving for Italy the next day. There were many other passengers. (...) Finally, on December 26, at 6 p.m., together with 30 or 40 other people, we were transferred to the port of Izmir. On December 27, together with other passengers delivered by another truck, we arrived at the beach after walking through the mountains for hours. At noon, after being searched, leaving our cell phones with them and only being allowed to take one backpack, we were transferred to a boat on dinghies, divided into small groups. Each of us had only one black backpack with the strictly necessary items. The boat had three small cabins and a common room. The women and children were in one cabin and one cabin was for the family (...). The men, most of whom were Afghans, stayed in the common room. There were three bathrooms, only one of them for us, which broke on the first day and was out of order. (...) When it was urgent to go to the bathroom, we had to use plastic bags and then throw them out. Because of the terrible situation, we would often vomit. The boat's engine was constantly breaking down (...). The pump also broke down and water was coming into the boat; the men had to empty it with buckets and dump them out.

My body was getting weaker and weaker from seasickness. My head was spinning. I realized that my period had arrived. I went to the bathroom to check. It was true, but I couldn't find my backpack to get a pad. I went back up to look for it and saw that a man had sat down in my place. I tried everything, I argued with him, but he wouldn't budge. I was nauseous and couldn't breathe. A woman, who was above the whole time, mistreating everyone, began to scold me. I threw some words back at her. One by one, everyone joined in and started yelling. A man tried to calm me down and told me to sit on a piece of wood at the bottom of the boat, and said that the other passengers could also go upstairs to breathe. (...) On December 30, I stayed in the last cabin next to the women and children. The smell from the bathroom was so strong that you could smell it from upstairs. On December 31, we were told that we were in the open sea and there was no longer a risk of being seen by the police, so we could go upstairs without any problems. (...)

We were all leaving each other our real names and Instagram handles. The trip was over and the Italian coast was visible. On that foggy December morning, they lowered the inflatable dinghy into the water. Everyone was happy, they started filming and sending messages to let people know they were safe. Sitting on a piece of wood, I also sent a message and selfies with my brother to the family. My tongue was shaking because of the cold and I had to repeat my voice message several times. (...) Five minutes after sending the video, they said five people needed to go into the dinghy, just like we had come on board at the start. My brother and I were among those named (...).

I thought everything had gone well. I started taking photos of the mushrooms that had grown on the ground, the trees, the nature, and then we took some selfies. Because I was on my period, a Kurdish man was carrying my backpack. We hadn’t gotten far yet when I heard a noise from behind. I saw a shadow behind the trees. As soon as I called out to the others, the policemen came out. I got scared seeing them, because I thought they were going to beat us (like the Bulgarian policemen), so I immediately said we were refugees, “Help us!” Many of them came out. First they asked us to show what we were carrying in our backpacks and then they searched us. One of them set up a hotspot for me on his cell phone so I could access the Internet, so I was able to look up my name online and show him some photos of my work. After that, I was able to communicate with them through an online translator.

I explained that we were political activists, and that I was there with my brother: “We are Iranian and we don’t intend to stay in Italy. We are headed to Germany.” He wrote to me through the digital translator that I needed to remain calm. And that they would move us to a camp so we could rest and get help. Then we would be free to leave. I thanked them.

Afterwards, they took us to an open parking lot. We joined the other passengers who had arrived before us. We queued up to have our pictures taken and our personal information recorded. They handed out water and cookies. I sat down in a corner with my brother. The policeman and the mediator asked me who was sailing the boat. I answered, “I don't know.” (...) The mediator repeated the question, “Who was in charge on the boat?” (...) I answered, “I don't know.” They left. Soon afterwards, they asked us to get on a white bus. (...) My feet were swollen and my shoes were dirty and wet. I took them off and washed them. Then I went outside and sat down. (...) At that point, they came and arrested me. I still don't understand why.

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[Translated to Italian by the Union of Italian and Kurdish Women – Marjam Mohammadi, Snour Marziyeh Nishat]

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Originally published at https://ilmanifesto.it/mi-chiamo-maysoon-majidi on 2024-09-05