You Show Me Yours and I’ll Show You Mine
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We left Moldova and arrived in Prague late Wednesday evening. Our luggage, sadly, did not. It’s looking like time to go back to carry-on only—everything you’ve read and heard about airport chaos this summer is true.
You Show Me Yours and I’ll Show You Mine
“Would you like to see my Transnistrian passport?” Andre asked.
“Sure,” I said, with my usual oblivion. I was distracted by the approaching ‘ferry,’ which was a raft, being dragged across the Dniester River by means of a pulley system and a toothless old guy with no shoes on. I’ve always wanted to go on one of those old-fashioned ferries (I spent the 5 minute ride trying to remember the words to ‘Don’t Pay the Ferryman’). TL;DR—we got across the river.
I’ve never considered passports interesting, beyond my surreptitious craning in the airport check-in line to see what’s printed on the front—I’m curious about where someone is from, but I have no interest in studying the bureaucratic codes and gobbledygook that make up the guts of the thing. It’s a government document in a fancy cover, I assume.
Andre was our guide on a day tour of Transnistria; his passport was … different. It was—I realize this sounds ethnocentric and judgey—kind of cute. I had the presence of mind to keep my mouth shut, of course, but in my head, I marveled at the flimsy cover (like one of those colored paper folders I used to buy my kids when we were stocking up for back-to-school). The first page was the best part. It was Andre’s photo, taking up most of the page, underscored with his name and a handwritten notation. No barcode, none of the highly-confidential computer-generated precious identity information that says I’m me.
That important first page was laminated; Andre said he watched while the government official put the laminating plastic over the photo and used an iron to complete the process.
Even he, born and raised in Transnistria, was amused by that: his passport was completed with an ordinary household iron.
Lee and I got new passports recently; ours came to us equipped with the latest, greatest technology. The first page is made of some kind of special new RFID-protective technology; it feels like indestructible plastic. It’s so new that when we left Thailand in February, the border agent got all excited and called over a handful of other agents to check it out. It’s brand-new, and super high-tech.
It will also unlock many doors for me. So, so many.
When we showed up at the gate in Istanbul for our connection to Moldova last week, there was a long line of people waiting for the gate agent to check their visas. For each one, she had to check the person’s documents, check on her computer, check the app on her phone, and sometimes make a call. We just waved our passports so she could see the front, and she stamped us through. My passport—like my skin, and so many other gifts that I didn’t ask for—makes my life incredibly easy.
Transnistria is a teeny-tiny sliver of a place, sandwiched between Moldova and Ukraine. It’s what is known as a ‘break-away’ republic. It used to be part of Moldova, which was a Soviet satellite. But to make a long story short and overly simple, when the Soviet Union broke up, Transnistria wanted to stay with Russia, while Moldova wanted to be independent. So Transnistria declared independence, Moldova refused to acknowledge it, there was a war in the early ‘90s, and now, thirty years later, Transnistria (technically the Pridnestrovian Moldavian Republic) is sort of a country, but mostly not.
It has a border, and a government, and taxes and schools and well-paved roads and a transit system, but the only countries that acknowledge its official existence are three other break-away republics (which you’ve probably never heard of).
Andre was born there, in 2000; it’s the only home he has ever known. I kept trying (fully aware that it’s an impossible question) to ask him what it feels like for your identity to be determined by what amounts to an imaginary country. He’s not quite stateless, but his state exists on an odd plane.
No other country will acknowledge his passport, except Moldova and Ukraine. He can get a Moldovan passport; that’s the only way he can travel anywhere.
He exists; I promise he does. He’s studying English and German, and has one more year at the university in Tiraspol. He wants to be an interpreter, working in face-to-face contexts—translating texts is too boring. He is curious and engaged and proud of his homeland.
But the rest of the world looks at that passport and says, mm, no. You are not.
Take care,
Lisa
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