I always found the name false which they gave us: Emigrants.
That means those who leave their country. But we
Did not leave, of our own free will
Choosing another land. Nor did we enter
Into a land, to stay there, if possible for ever.
Merely, we fled. We are driven out, banned.
Not a home, but an exile, shall the land be that took us in.
Restlessly we wait thus, as near as we can to the frontier
Awaiting the day of return, every smallest alteration
Observing beyond the boundary, zealously asking
Every arrival, forgetting nothing and giving up nothing
And also not forgiving anything which happened, forgiving nothing
Ah, the silence of the Sound does not deceive us! We hear the shrieks
From their camp even here. Yes we ourselves
Are almost like the rumors of crimes, which escaped over the frontier. Every one of us
Who with torn shoes walks through the crowd
bears witness to the shame which not defiles our land.
But none of us
Will stay here. The final word
Is yet unspoken.
Bertolt Brecht
1898-1956
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