I am in a sidewalk cafe in Avilés, in Asturias, in the northwest of Spain. It’s late September, so it’s time for another El Camino de Santiago. It will be my fifth, during which I will finish El Camino Norte, most of which I did two years ago, but then branched off to try the Camino Primitivo.
It’s a short section, only 280 kilometers (175 miles), my shortest yet. But my goal this year is not to walk, but to work: It’s time to finally finish Act I of the musical. For real. I have three weeks.
But since I'm just starting to walk today – assuming this area’s legendarily frequent and fierce rain lets up soon (it is now driving me inside as it whips up under the awning, so we’ll see) – I decided to post once more about Berlin. It’s a piece I wrote as part of a proposed project I meant to start while living there – so many projects! – but I never quite got around to doing it, in part since my time there was so…part-time.
The idea was to profile some of the Einwanderer – immigrants, or, literally, “in-hikers” – who I met during my time there, especially when I was studying German at the Volkshochschule. Man, that already seems such a long time ago! In any case, I met many more than I interviewed, and wrote up even fewer of the few I did formally interview.
But there was one character whose story stuck with me. I tried his number recently, but there was no response, so I don’t really know how his story ended. I trust it was all for the best. Germany is in the throes of some anti-immigrant fever, but like the United States, it is committed to the project long-term, so I’m hopeful.
But you’ll see why I wonder.
Here’s what I wrote back in 2022:
I met “Rainier Freedom” in a gay bar in Schöneberg, on one of Berlin’s gayest streets, Függerstraße. He was smiling broadly and wearing a wide-brimmed beige fedora, a strange fashion choice in Berlin’s largely black leather-clad environs, but it made him stand out.
His deep brown skin and black beard made his bright smile (and wide eyes) stand out as well, and we spoke. Turns out he had much to smile about, having newly come out as gay, a liberating experience for anyone, especially at 26; but his white, toothy smile also hid a story that was pure terror.
Rainier Freedom – not his real name; as he put it, it is “a new name for a new life” – had recently come from Saudi Arabia, from deep in that country’s desert interior, where he was born and raised. He had come to Berlin for freedom, and not just that: He had come to Berlin to save his life. Had he stayed in Saudi Arabia, he would be dead – if not already, then soon.
Homosexuality is not officially a crime in Saudi Arabia. The civil law didn’t mention it until recently, instead deferring to Sharia (Islamic) law there, as in many Gulf kingdoms. But one can imagine what Sharia law has to say about homosexuality, transgenderism or anything else out of the very conservative norms of the Kingdom: Execution is considered a reasonable option, as is severe lashing, not to mention off-the-books torture.
After all, this is a place where making it legal for women to drive a car was hailed as a huge step for civil rights just a few years back.
Whatever the civil or even Sharia law says, the unwritten laws of the typical Saudi family are harsh. They make homosexuality or even cross-dressing a crime worthy of the most severe punishment. So great is the shame on the family that the offender must be cut out of the family – often literally. Rainier explained:
“I think my family already knows, or at least my mother does,” Rainier explained over the clinking of beer bottles and flirtatious camaraderie of the Berlin bar. “But I’m not sure. We have never discussed it. If they knew, they would have to kill me.”
He was remarkably matter-of-fact about this, as he described what would happen to him, were his orientation to become common knowledge.
“They start with your hands, they cut them off. Then they cut the next section,” he said, his hand chopping up his arm in sections, like a butcher describing his work. “When they have cut you into pieces, they bury your parts in different places around the desert. Then they go to the authorities and say, ‘Our son is missing’.”
And thus is the family honor restored.
This sort of brutal justice is, to be fair to the Saudi authorities, not legal. And Rainier told me that if such a crime were to be discovered, the head of the offending family would be taken to the tallest building in the town, and forced to jump off. Thus is “justice” restored, in his telling.
But such harsh “justice” hardly undoes the harm inflicted on an innocent, young gay man.
Given this situation, and facing constant fear of discovery, several months ago Rainier took a vacation in a nearby country. Upon arriving, he caught another flight, to Berlin, and applied for asylum under this country’s generous asylum laws. Under those laws, given the danger to his life, he may be allowed to stay.
But he doesn’t know yet. The police have come to where he is staying, to check on him, and to be sure he doesn’t want to be contacted by the Saudi authorities who are, at this very moment, looking for him.
His hearing date approaches, in early October. It is mid-September (2022).
“I don’t know what they will do,” he said with resignation, and hope. “Deutschland is a great country, and they take in many people who need help. I hope they will help me. But I don’t know. I have a few more weeks to wait.”
I asked him about the beer in his hand, about alcohol and Muslims. He responded that he is not a believer, but that drinking is also punishable by harsh measures in Saudi Arabia. Still many Saudis drink, without much fear of severe punishment – certainly not the punishment meted out to young gay men.
He doesn’t much like the taste of beer, but he said that it helps him sleep, something that doesn’t come easily to him, given his anxiety over what will befall him, his future at the discretion of the German government.
Still, he is optimistic, which one suspects is his nature, but which is also the only way he moves forward. Even just taking the steps he did, leaving his home country for an unknown, very different place, shows the optimism that every immigrant to Germany, or anywhere else, has to possess. But he’s also realistic, even fatalistic.
If his petition is denied, he said, “I will kill myself. What else can I do? If I return to my country, I will be killed for sure, and I don’t want to die that way. I want to have control over my life.” And, by extension, control over his death.
It’s a grim scenario, but his optimism gets him through, despite the fitful nights. As he looked around the bar, the smile returned to his face. “I don’t know what will happen,” he said, “But I am happy right now. Right now, I can be who I am, without fear. I have never felt this before. It is wonderful. It is freedom.”
+++++
As I said, I have tried to reach him, but without his real name, and without him answering his phone, I don’t know his fate. I am assuming that Germany wouldn’t send someone with such a strong claim to asylum back to a certain death.
But I may never know. In any case, I think about all the young men (and women) who were not so bold, or so lucky, as to have escaped such an environment, and found their true lives. I also remember that not all in such a dire situation are in Saudi Arabia. Some are in Arkansas or Mississippi or even rural, “religious” parts of California.
And so, the fight continues.
And the sun has come out, and my Camino ‘24 begins.
Onward.
PS, 19:20, in San Esteban de Pravia:
I ended up doing 23 kilometers on my first day, never a good idea, but my options were limited. Doing a mental coin flip at a nearby junction, I opted for this small, out of the way albergue in tiny, bayside San Esteban, seen here from the Camino.
And good thing: I just spoke to a fellow inmate, a friendly local named Jacinto, who said that the auberge in the town that was my original destination was full! In late September! So, this was a fortuitous decision.
During the long day, I got a lot of work done while walking, though of course walking is its own kind of work. This section was particularly challenging.
But of course most of it was just fabulously beautiful, as so much of Asturias and nearby Galicia, always my destination, tend to be. I got rained on a little, but one result, besides damp clothes, was a rainbow so close I could almost touch it.
But the day continued, fueled by my favorite breakfast foods – a slice of tortilla and a Cortado – and driven by the simple pleasures of being on Camino. (And a couple of churros thrown in for dessert.)
Hardly saw another Peregrino besides Jacinto, who I didn’t speak to, but who ended up here.
I may stay in San Esteban two nights, to work and rest my aching muscles (and rest my keister, which fell on hard during that muddy slog). I’ve allowed time for exactly this.
So for now, no “onward.” Just dinner and an early bed. And a Substack post! (And some listening to the new song I started for the show today…in my head!)
2100
Dinner: Meatballs, a ragout of veggies and mashed potatoes.
Night night.