In some ways, Bulgaria feels claustrophobic. It is small, only 111,000 square kilometers, but bordered by the Black Sea, Turkey, Greece, Macedonia, Serbia, and Romania. The streets of Sofia were narrow but the streets of Lovech are narrower, with barely enough room for cars to pass between buildings in the old part of town. Houses are built almost on top of each other, red roofs dotting the sides of hills and clustered together in town. To a girl used to Texas’s wide streets and wider skies, Bulgaria presses in on all sides. But the claustrophobia is more than physical.
Bulgaria is a country with strict borders. Ethnic Bulgarians don’t like Turks, who make up 9% of the 7.4 million person population, because as our Latvian friend said it, “They are still angry about the Ottoman Empire.” But it is better to be Turkish-Bulgarian than not Bulgarian at all.
Everyone hates the Roma (5% of the population) because they are seen as ruining the country. Two 19-year-old boys in sneakers and plaid shirts, looking every bit like American college students, stood straight-faced and told me, “The gypsies deserve our hate, because they have figured out their way around the system and now have so many children to get the child support that we [Bulgaria] cannot pay for pensions for old people.” They considered, then said, “They are not our only problems, but they are our biggest.” Our host at the guest house we are staying in, Simon*, agrees. He believes Bulgaria will eventually be taken over by the Roma.
Simon was most emphatic on the subject of the Syrian refugees. Syrians are streaming through Turkey and into Bulgaria, Greece, Macedonia, and Serbia, seeking asylum in Germany. Lovech is far north of the border- there are no refugees here. But Simon repeated several times, “They will destroy Europe. It is an invasion.” I looked at him quietly, trying to keep the shock out of my face, as he said, “I don’t believe they are refugees. When you see refugees they are like me-“ pointing to his white hair and beard- “but the pictures you see are all of young men. It is an invasion. Maybe 10, 20% are women and children. They will destroy Europe.”
Bulgaria has built a 100-mile fence made of razor wire, to keep the refugees out.
The ethnic boundaries press in like the rows of houses along cobblestone streets. So many times, I have wanted to pipe in and cite the statistics and terrible truths about ISIS murdering thousands, destroying priceless artifacts, selling women and girls over and over again. I want to tell Bulgaria they are wrong- the Roma do not deserve their hate simply for existing. This is not what Jesus was doing when he drank from the well of the Samaritan woman, or told the parable of the good Samaritan.
But I come from a land of borders. The Texas/Mexico border, la frontera.
A land of systemic injustice that keeps entire groups of people on one side of a border, or in detention centers, or in a constant state of fear that they will be deported for simply living at the lowest rung of the socioeconomic ladder.
How can I speak out against the borders in Bulgaria when my own home is a borderland where I am complicit in injustice?
Here in Bulgaria, prejudice is spoken out and justified. In America, it is codified- we don’t say the Roma deserve our hate, but we say the Mexicans will take our jobs. We don’t say the Turks can’t be trusted, but we say we can’t be too careful about allowing Muslims into our country. Maybe that’s why I feel so claustrophobic here: Bulgaria makes me look clear-eyed at my home.
I can’t breathe here. But there are millions who can’t breathe in America. In Syria. In the borderlands between human and illegal immigrant.
Jesus doesn’t want us to stay silent in the face of injustice, in Bulgaria or our hometown. Jesus wants us to breathe deep and start to speak.
*Name has been changed
