I had never visited the small town of Shirljohannes before, somewhere on the border of Germany and Switzerland, despite my fairly extensive travels for work around Europe. These continental small towns, they are so charming and picturesque, the literal scenes of The Sound of Music and shite like that. However they do end up being a bit “samey”- and I wasn’t expecting my overnight stay at Shirljohannes to be much different. It was an unplanned stop, I had found myself somewhat tired and drowsy after an exceptionally good meal, and decided to check in a local inn and get some much-needed sleep.
The pretty inn with blooming spring flowers at the window sills and such like certainly didn’t belie the horror of the next day. It was only the obvious confusion of the otherwise polite young clerk upon laying eyes on me that gave me the inkling that I had made a terrible choice to break my journey in Shirljohannes.
I couldn’t help noticing the large bright posters hanging in the lobby. Depicting small crowds of people clearly of non-European descent, such as Arabs, Middle-Eastern, Far East, and South / South Eastern Asians, they all bore the words “Lotteri Dag 2023”. Some kind of artsy “United Colours of Benetton” ad, I naively assumed.
The clerk, himself clearly of Middle-Eastern origin, greeted me with a startled look which he could not hide. He asked for my name and then exclaimed “Mr. Abbas? You are Mr. Abbas? And you’re staying here?”
I was irritated. “Yes indeed, I am staying for one night. This seemed a good a place as any for a stop, I was too tired to drive on”.
“Can I see your ID please? Do you have European ID sir?” To my ears, he sounded very suspicious.
I am of course used to a certain amount of low-level, poorly-concealed racism traveling in Europe, but I couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed that this clerk, whose parents if not himself would probably have shared a similar heritage to mine, would act like this. I offered my passport. “No, but I have the correct visas” I responded sharply.
The clerk said nothing more, and checked me in. My mood soured, I went to my room, and soon fell asleep.
The next morning, two officers approached me at the breakfast table, where I was enjoying some amazing pastries, already checked out and my suitcase at my side.
“We entered you in the Lottery sir” they said in heavy accents. “We ran background checks on you- you are waiting for your Canadian citizenship and thus eligible to enter. Canada entered an official agreement with our government just last week. You can look up the articles.”
I stared at them, completely confused. “What are you talking about?
They returned my stare with bland official courtesy. “The Lottery sir. You will be entering the Passport Lottery held periodically at Shirljohannes, to celebrate the citizenship of our hardworking foreign worker population. You were found to meet the official requirements for entry. We entered your name. You will present yourself at the town square in precisely 43 minutes, when the name will be drawn.”
The other continued “And sir, please do not even think of leaving Shirljohannes or calling anyone outside the town. It will be much better for you to complete the Lottery. The odds are, you will be on your way within the hour.”
They left.
With a shaking hand, I pulled out my phone and began googling. Within seconds, I realised I do not have access to the world wide internet, but only some weird local Shirljohannes intranet. I hastily clicked on the bizarre English translation.
The Lottery was the (almost) last step on the long, convoluted journey for Foreigners in Shirljohannes applying to become Citizens. After years of filling and sending in forms, paying fees, waiting, waiting, interviews, more forms, changes to family composition, more waiting, Foreigners who were eligible for citizenship and the cherished passport of a European country would have to enter the Lottery.
The Foreign community would choose one person, who would be sent by ambulance to the local hospital, where they would be administered a painless, lethal dose by professionals. The final step, necessary to prove their loyalty and dedication to their new country.
I clicked through the convoluted intranet text, sun streaming on the beautiful breakfast setting. A cuckoo jumped out of an ornate old cuckoo clock and declared time. The young clerk from last night came up to me as I was reading.
“Mr. Abbas, it is time to go. The community- it’s better to go- they don’t like it if there are delays.”
I looked up at him, terror gripping me. “I don’t understand… how is this happening, how is this legal?”
The clerk shrugged. “It is legal. The municipal councils voted it in a few years ago- and the elders of the community support it. There were so many hate crimes, so much violence against foreigners. It is better now. I heard North America will be adopting similar laws soon. Of course it is very silent now- but if you looked, you would have found the information- and of course, the dependents of the sacrifice will be supported- very humane- but come, let’s go. We cannot keep them waiting.”
Propelled by fear, I got up, and followed him outside. The sun poured through the clear Alpine air into my eyes. In the glare, I could see knots of people, in twos and threes walking down the scenic mountain streets, all towards the city square. The clerk and I joined the flow.
Walking by us was a small group of women, dressed in ornate decorative ethnic clothing I would associate with India. The sunlight struck off the brilliant spangles in their clothes. I then noticed many people were dressed ethnically, while others wore plain western style clothing. Several women wore the hijab. There was little subdued chatter. I heard a woman in a sparkling robe say in a dialect I recalled from my childhood, “I prayed and prayed all night it would be me- I can’t bear my children- “ before the other women said “shhh Tasneem, do not talk of it. Do not go welcoming sorrow.”
As we drew closer to the town square, the crowds grew larger, and quieter. There was a moment of pure silence. Then everything began happening very fast.
A middle-aged man who looked to be some authority figure went up on a platform before a small splashy fountain which held the statue of naked white Venus and some other Greek deity. I just noticed the device set up on the platform.
The man operated the device. My heart was beating so fast as it spit out a paper that I thought it would burst out of my chest. The man held up the paper and he read out a name. “Tasneem-”
I didn’t catch the last part of the name in the rippling sigh which broke through the crowd. I saw the women fall away from the one whom I had earlier heard talking about praying. In the same movement, paramedics moved up to her, and started guiding her towards a waiting ambulance, at the edge of the town square.
The silence continued, although small murmurs could be heard. Tasneem did not struggle - her demeanour seemed one of submission .
The knots of people broke away from the crowd. A certain festive mood was undeniable. My young companion was no longer at my side, and I caught sight of him running over to young folk closer to his age, releasing a whoop of joy and relief.
I looked around. The two officers approached me and smiled grimly. “Very well Mr. Abbas, the Lottery is over. Congratulations on your upcoming citizenship. You may depart now without any further delays.”
I nodded. It was clear they expected me to leave right then. I could not disobey. I quickly walked to my car, and got in.
Within twenty minutes, I was well on my way to my destination, Shirljohannes behind me. May I never set foot in that terrible town again.