Image: Nikola Mihov, "Under Destruction," 2010
This month we present writing about migrant labor. Through official channels or underground networks, fleeing poverty or chasing dreams, the characters here leave their homelands in search of work and new lives, finding nothing is quite as they expected. Bulgarian journalist Martin Karbovski harvests cucumbers and comedy. Christos Ikonomou's sorrowful Greeks watch their world slip away. Journalist Wang Bang interviews Chinese prostitutes in a shadowy London, and Russian graphic artist Victoria Lomasko documents modern slavery in Moscow. Taleb Alrefai learns the hidden cost of a work permit. In Paris, Wilfried N'Sondé takes the temperature of a simmering banlieue. Vladimir Vertlib sees Russia recreated in Brighton Beach. Saud Alsanousi, the winner of the 2013 International Prize for Arabic Fiction, portrays a mixed-blood Kuwaiti victimized by that country's harsh immigration policies, while Bangladesh's Shahaduz Zaman's visa applicant endures medical tests and examines his own emotions. Mely Kiyak observes Turkish immigrants in Germany, and Juan Carlos Mestre mourns a worker who never returned. Elsewhere, Musharraf Ali Farooqi introduces and translates a group of Sindhi folk tales.
Piece by Piece They’re Taking My World Away
I say we go. It can’t be worse than it is here.
Slaves of Moscow
Once there, they had been robbed of their passports and forced to work without pay for twenty hours a day.
He says that was the most ingenious smokescreen he’s ever seen in his life.
The Gold Watch
''The clock inside has no numbers, it has only memories.''
Me and Mycobacterium tuberculosis
"And that shadowy bit you see up there, that’s the thing that has me worried."
The Bamboo Stalk
“Do you know how many policemen’s numbers I have in my phone?”
Horsemeat of the Brothel
A “new girl” is always more desirable to the regular clients.
"All decent Jews go to America."
Flowers in Concrete
The throng was slowly making for the two officers, a clash close at hand.
Poem to the One in Far-Off Lands
He works in order to return.
Bushrawi . . . Ranjini
Mus‘ad, my youngest son, is more than two years old, and I've never seen him.