Thecontestedlegacyoftheanti-fascistInternationalBrigades

Afterbeingoffered a prestigiousinternationalliteraryresidency, Nkiacha Atemnkeng wasexcitedforhisfirstvisittothe US – untilheturnedupattheembassyforhisinterview

I am a westernvisarejectionexpert. Threetimes – eventhough I workatanairport. But I ammostly a literaryreject, a realitywhichalso, somehow, alwayspresentsitselfinsetsofthrees. Like a trilogy.

I amatthe US embassyinYaoundé, Cameroon’scapital, waitingoutsidethegateandthehighfence. I admirethewhitetiledbuildingsandpolesflauntingAmericanflags. Westandinthemorningsun. A Camerooniansecurityguardwalkstowardsus.

“Itisnotyet 8am. Thatisthetimewhenyouwillgetin, notnow, sodon’tstandhere. Moveawayplease,” hebooms, toyoungpeopleandpeopletwicehisagealike.

Wegrumble. Heinsists. TheAmericanembassyislikesomesereneelephantthatcannotbedisturbed. TheCamerooniansecurityguardseemsmoreprotectiveofitthantheAmericansare. Wemoveandstandnearthefencesofotherembassies. Eighto’clockcomes. Ourgrumblingassumesthesoundof a propeller-poweredaircraft. Hefinallytellsustomoveforwardat 8.10.

Threeguardsperform a manualsearchonourbagsandweentertheembassy’ssecurityroom. Theyscanourbodieswithwalk-throughmetaldetectors, andourbagsagain, with x-raymachines. Wesitinthepiazzajustoutsidetheinterviewhall.

I amheretoobtain a conferencevisatoattendthespringsessionofthe 2017 ArtOmiinternationalwriters’ residencyinNewYorkstate. Myapplicationwasacceptedin 2016. I wanttodosomeintrospectionin a quietenvironmentandworkonmynovel. Douala, therowdyanddysfunctionalFrench-speakingeconomiccapitalwhere I liveandwork, hasbeendistracting. I’malsokeentomakeliteraryconnectionsandsharemyworkwith a newaudience. Experiencingwhatlifeislikeinanothercountry, anothercity, isalsoonmymind. I wanttoacquaintmyselfwithNewYorkbeforeperhapsmovingtheretostudy; I havealsobeenoffered a partialscholarshiptostudyfor a writing MFA atthePrattInstitute.

ItisMarch, themonthofmybirth. I havebeenonholidayatmyuncle’sinthecoastalcityofLimbe, locatedintheEnglish-speakingSouth-WestregionofCameroon. TheDoualaInternationalairport, where I work, hadbeenshutdownforthreeweekssotherunwaycouldberepaired. Itwasanopportunityformetodiscussthepaymentoftheremainderofmyfeeswithfamily. Myuncle, NkengIvo, theheadofthefamily, plays a verybigroleinourlives, moresothanmyfatherinmyhometownofKumba.

I hadbeendeepincommunicationwithmyfamilywhen I received a phonecallfrommyneighbourinDouala. Myrentedstudioandtwoothershadcaughtfireandweretotallyburnedout. Heand a coupleofothershadsavedsomeofmythings. Mythoughtsattheembassyarebittersweet.

ItisalsothemonthDonaldTrumpimplementshistravelbanonsixMuslim-majoritystates. TwoareinAfrica. Cameroonisnotamongthecountriesblockedbyhisban, so I amoptimistic. Thenextgroupof 10 visaapplicantsareusheredinby a guard. I amamongthisset, mostlyyoungpeoplehopingtoobtainstudentvisas. Therearethreeinterviewersinfrontofus, alllily-white. I amattherearofthequeue, and I watchthemrejectvisaapplicantsoneafteranother. A youngguyhasbeenadmittedtotwo US universities, butstillgetsrejected. Oneboyfrommyqueueisgiven a visa. Hissmileissoluminousitislikehe’sgoingstraighttoheaven.

Therejectionscontinue. Even a pastoristurnedaway, visaless. A womanwhohasbroughtherold, ailingfatherismaking a scene. Hehasbeengiven a visaandshehasbeenrejected. Heisquiet. Sheisscreaming. Howwillhegettothe US alone? Hecanbarelywalk. Theconsularofficersareunmovedbyhertheatrics. Shewon’tleavethecounter. A securityguardappears. Shewalksaway. Theconsularofficerskeepworking. Theydon’tevenexamineapplicants’ documents, as I heardtheydidinthepast – theyjustlookattheadmissionletterorinvitationto a universitygraduationorwedding. Thentheyinterviewtheapplicantanddecideupontheirfate, whichismostlyreject, reject, reject.

I amnext, residencyinvitationinhand, otherdocumentsandpublishedworkneatlyin a file. I havetostandinfrontoftheseatedconsularofficer – a slimmanwithgeekyreadingglasses – throughoutmyinterview.

“Whatisthepurposeofyourtriptothe US?”

“I’mgoingtoattendtheArtOmiinternationalresidency, sir,” I say, handinghimmyinvitationthroughthespaceintheglass. Hereadsitdiligently.

“Sowhoispayingforyourtrip?”

“ArtOmiwillpayformylodgingandfeeding, asitissaidintheletter. I willpayformyflight.”

“Whatdoyouwrite?”

“Fictionandcreativenonfiction. I’m a blogger, too, so I createonlinecontent.” Hetypesall I say. I continue. “I’vebroughtallmypublishedworksinprintwithme. Shortstoriesin a fewanthologiesandmychildren’schapbook.”

I amabouttogivehimmysecondfileofpublishedworkwhenhesnapsthroughthemicrophone: “No, no, no, I don’twanttoseeanybooks.” Heopenshisrightpalmtowardsmeandshakesitvigorouslyfromrighttoleftandlefttoright, in a keep-those-things-awaymanner.

Thegestureruinsmymood. Aremypublishedworksnottheultimateevidence? Perhapsbooksarealsoconsideredpartofthedocumentsthatconsularofficersnolongerexamine? I amlatertoldby a friendthat I shouldhavejustinformedtheofficialthat I hadcomewithmypublishedworks, nottrytosendthemthroughtheslotintheglassforhimtosee. Itwasforceful. Heneededtoaskfirst. Buthedoesn’taskforanyotherdocument.

“Wheredoyouwork?” hecontinues. Myresponsesarenownomorethanaudiblewhispers. I mentionDoualaInternationalairport.

“Haveyoutravelledbefore?”

“Yes.”

“Whichcountry?”

As I begintosay: “Ghana, RwandaandEthiopia,” heisflippingoverthepagesofmypassportquickly, lookingforthevisas. Doeshethink I amsodumbthat I wouldtellthatkindofstupidlie? Someonewhoworksatanairport. Andanyway, I havealreadyfilledinalltheinformationheisaskingmeonthe DS-160 visaapplicationformonline. Heandtheotherconsularofficershavealreadydecideduponmyfate, theydidsobefore I setfootinhere.

“Areyoumarried?”

“No.”

“Nowtellme, too, doyouhaveanykids?”

“No.”

I thinkthisisthefinalnailinmycoffin. Hemayregardmeas a flightrisk – anambitiousyoungmanwithoutdirectfamilyties, whowillremaininthe US. Hefinallyhitsthegavelonthetablelike a judge.

“Sorry, ourvisalawshavebecomevery, verytight. Verytight.” Helaysemphasisonthe “verytight”, thenpauses, beforeadding: “YoucantraveltotheUnitedStatesonlywhen… ”hehaltsagain, andthendealsthekillerblow: “Whenyoubecomeanaccomplishedwriter.” Westareintoeachother’seyes. It’sanicymoment.

“Butyoucantryagainnexttime.” Hehas a mournfullookonhisface, asifheis a concernedphysiciantellingmeaboutthediagnosisof a terminalillnessinthemostsoothingwaypossible. But I keeprepeatingonethoughtinmyhead: you’reanasshole, you’reanasshole.

Hehandsme a greenpieceofpaper.

“Pleasereadthiscarefully. Youwillbetterunderstandwhyyourvisawasrejected.”

Itisthesamedamngreenpapertheygivetoeveryrejectedvisaapplicant. Thereasontheygiveisthesameforeverybody: youhavenotconvincedthemofthereasonswhyyouwanttotraveltothe US. Theydon’tthinkyouwillreturntoyourhomecountry. Youcannotappealthedecision. Aninterviewcostingalmost $200 endswith a cold-bloodedrejectioninlessthan 10 minutes, asifit’s a joke.

My writer friends, Dzekashu and Howard, are stunned, especially at the “No, no, no, I don’t want to see any books!” Howard suggests I should write about the consular officer. My family is shocked. What is the reason for my rejection? Visa laws have become very tight? What rubbish is that? I paid for that interview. I deserved a concrete reason.

Myfather, AtemnkengSimon, mymostavidreader, isdevastated. Heconsolesmeandassuresmeanotheropportunitywillcomemyway. MykidsisterinFlorida, V, tellsmesheisn’tsurprised. ItispartlyduetoTrump’stravelban. Developingcountries, especiallyoneswithpoliticalcriseslikeours, areinvisiblenamesinTrump’sbook, inadditiontothesixnamed. Ourvisaquotahasdropped. Theyareobservingitoverthere. Camerooniansarenottravellingtothe US liketheyusedto.

DuringtheObamayears, ithadbeenrelativelyeasyformyairportcolleaguestoobtaintouristvisas. A fewofthemhadtravelledtothe US forholidays (andreturned). I travelbacktoDouala, where I moveintomyAuntHilda’s. I staythereforsometimetosortmyselfoutandlookfor a newhouse. Hershasoccupantsalready, sohersittingroombecomesmyroom, hercouchmybed. Her TV isjustnexttomypillow. I switchto CNN onedayandconfirmmysister’ssuspicions. A headlinereads: “Traveltothe US downgloballyby 10%”.

MyplanstostudyatthePrattInstitutealsofallapart. I needatleast $50,000 totopupmy $11,000 scholarship. Andevenif I obtainthefullscholarship, isitcertainthattheAmericanembassywillgrantme a studentvisa?

DoualaInternationalairportinCameroon. Photograph: PeterTreanor/AlamyStockPhoto

MykindAuntHildaandherfunnyneighbour, Sam, trytocheermeup, but I descendintothesaddeststate. I laughattheirjokes, butshedsilenttearswhenI’malone. I morphinto a wrappedballofdarkthoughtsundermywrapper. Whyismylifeprogressingandthenregressing? Whyaremybreakthroughmomentsbreaking?

Atwork, colleaguesaskmeaboutmyburnedhouse, but I don’ttalkaboutit. A fewothersareinsensitive, makingjokesaboutmebeinghomeless. Noneofthemevenknowaboutmyvisarejection. Butitis a trilogyofdisappointmentsforme, allinthemonthofmybirth.

I emailtheresidencydirectoraboutmyvisarejection. I tellhimtheresidencyisimportanttome. I wanttodeferuntiltheautumnsessioninOctober, andtryagainattheembassy. Heisshockedbymyrejection, buttellsmethedecisionisn’tuncommonamongartiststheyinvite. Hesaystherejectionsputthewholeconceptoftheirinternationalresidencyintoquestion. Heacceptsmydeferralproposal. I speculateonwhathesays. TheArtOmiinternationalresidencycouldevenshutdowniftherejectionscontinue.

Iam backattheAmericanembassyformysecondinterviewinJuly – a B1/B2 touristvisaapplication, sinceconferencevisashaveallbeenbookeduponline. Themanwhointerviewedmelasttimeisontheleft, a burlymanisinthemiddle, andanoldladywithwhitehairisonmyright. SheremindsmeofMargaretAtwood. I moveaheadinmyqueue. Not a singlevisaisgiven. I amnext. Themanwhointerviewedmelasttimeisfree, so I walkuptohim – I don’tlikethiscoincidence. Ofcourse, hedoesn’trememberme, butwhenhestartstyping, myinformationappearsonhisscreen. Heglancesatme.

“Havewemetbefore?”

“Yes.”

“Gotocounterseven, please.”

I stepasideandask a guardwherecountersevenis. Hepointsattheburlymaninthemiddle. Someoneisleavingthecounter. I havemydocumentsandpublishedworkswithme, buthedoesn’taskforanydocuments. I don’tdareproposeshowinghimanythinguntilheasks. Heasksformyinvitationletter. Thequestionsheposesarethesameaslasttime: purposeoftrip, thefunder, what I write. Headdsanotherquestion: “Howmuchdoyouearn?” When I tellhim, hecontorts.

“So, _____ monthsofyoursalarywillbuyyou a returntickettothe US?”

“Yes.”

Hepausesinhistyping.

I’mthinking: “Dude, I’vebeenworkingforsevenyears. Plus, I didn’tfallfromthesky.”

“Areyoumarried?”

“No.” Heshakeshishead.

“Doyouhaveanychildren?”

“No.” Heshakeshisheadmorevigorouslythistime.

Herecomesthecurseoftheyoung, unmarriedmalewithoutkids. I knowwhat’scomingnext.

“Haveyoutravelledbefore?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

GettheGuardian’saward-winninglongreadssentdirecttoyoueverySaturdaymorning

I repeatthecountries. Helistenskeenlybeforespeaking. “I’msorry, I can’tissueyou a visa. ItisverydifficulttotraveltotheUnitedStates, unlessyouhavetravelledoutofAfricabefore. Onthisgreenpieceofpaperyouwillfindthereason… ”

It’slike a scenefromTheTerminal, theTomHanksmovie – exceptthattheTomHankscharacteristrappedintheairportforninemonths, whereasthisstoryplaysoutattheAmericanembassyinjustfiveminutes. I walkawaylike a manin a trance. Embassiesmake a lotofmoneyoffvisaapplications. (Infact, Africansareestimatedtoloseatleast $50m inrejectedvisaapplicationstothewesteachyear.) Thedefaultmodeatthe US embassyis: reject.

Maybetheythink I wanttogettothe US, burnmyCameroonianpassportandstartseekingasylum, marryanAmericancitizenorjointhe US army; allinanattempttoobtain a US passport. I thinkofallthebrokeCameroonians I knowwhohavetoldthemostblatantliesandpresentedthegreatestfakesinthenameofdocumentsattheAmericanembassy, andweregivenvisas.

I think, too, ofCameroonianswithstrongfinancialmuscleandbulkybankaccounts, whointendtotraveltothe US toengageinbusinesses, ordoacademicwork, ortoholidayandreturn, buthavebeenrejectedvisas. I feelthatsometimestheconsularofficersknowthatthepersontheyareinterviewingwillneverreturntoCameroon, yettheystillissue a visa. Thatanotherpersonwillreturn, whowillnotget a visa. I concludethatvisaissuingis a mysterythatonlyconsularofficersunderstand.

ItraveltoNigeriainNovember, aspartoftheLimbe–Lagosliteraryexchangeprogramme, where I amawardedtheprestigiousSyltFoundationwritingresidencyinGermanyduringtheopeningceremonyoftheAkéartsandbookfestivalinAbeokuta. ButbeforeSylt, I hadappliedfor a Germanwritingresidency, theKünstlerdorfSchöppingen, threetimes, beforefinallybeingaccepted. Itisonlywhen I receiveanemailfrom a GermantranslatorinBerlinthat I understandhow: “Ifyouhadgotyourvisaforthe US lastyear, wewouldhavemetatLedigHouse. Howdo I know? Because – smallworld – I wasontheboardoftheSchöppingenthisyear. I likeyourshortstoryWahalaLizard. So I hopeyouenjoyyourtimethere, it’smyhomeregion… ”

I smileatfateconsolingme. I sendhim a happyreply, thankinghimforchoosingme.

“YouwillbeissuedthatSchengenvisa,” a friendassuresme. “TheGermansaremuchmoreopenwiththeirvisaprocess. Youjustneedtoshowenoughevidenceattheembassy.”

It is 8am one day in May 2018. I am at the German consulate in Yaoundé, a big white bungalow, to apply for a Schengen 90-day tourist visa. The Cameroonian security guard, who is wearing an old-fashioned grandaddy suit, is more annoying than all of those at the American embassy put together. My friend Dzekashu, who has also been here for an interview, jokes: “If that security guard had been a consular officer, he would not grant anybody a visa.”

Themorningsunseethesonourheads. Theguardleavesussittinginitsglow, notonseats, butonsomeoldcementslabsandrailingsoutsidethebuilding. Atleastit’sbetterthanstandinginthesuninfrontofthe US embassy. I turntotheyoungboysittingbesideme.

“Whenthoseinthewestwanttotravelhere, dotheygothroughallofthisstress?” Hegiggles. I tellhimaboutbeingchasedawayfromthegateoftheAmericanembassy. Hewidenshiseyesinshock.

“That’scrazy! TheseEuropeans, theyprobablyjustbuytheirflightticketsandboardplanesstraighttoAfrica. Noembassy.”

I smileandsaytheyneedvisastomanycountries, too, butit’san A-B-C process. Finallytheannoyingsecurityguardletsusentertheconsulateandwesitdownonrealseats. Therearetwoconsularofficersconductingtheinterviews: a middle-agedCameroonianladyandanoldwhitewoman. Peopleareevenpermittedtositdownduringtheirinterviews.

I amoneofthelasttomeet a consularofficer, ataroundmidday. Itistheoldwhitewoman. I slidemydocumentsthroughtheholeintheglassframeseparatingus. Twofiles. Onecontainingtheoriginalcopiesofmydocumentsandtheotherphotocopies. Shechecksthem. Aftershereadsmyinvitationletter, sheraisesherheadabruptly.

A US visa application form. Photograph: Hanna Kuprevich/Alamy

“Thereis a littleproblemwiththetimeyouareapplyingfor.”

Notagain.

“July 1 toSeptember 30 is 92 days. Themaximumnumberofdaysfor a Schengentouristvisais 90 days. You’llhavetoapplyfor a long-termvisainstead. Sorry, I can’tprocessyourapplication.”

Myheartsinks. I hadnotevennoticed, I hadjustcountedthedaysofmyresidency.

“That’showtheorganisationsenttheinvitationlettertome. Theyprobablydidn’trealise,” I protest. Shekeepsflippingthepagesofotherdocuments.

“Andtherestofyourdocumentscarrythesamedates. Travelinsurance, everything.” Shepausesandbeginstothink.

“I’llberightback,” shesaysandwalksdown a corridor, disappearinginto a roomwithmydocuments. Timefreezes. Shereturnsmomentslater. I scanherfaceforimpendingbadnews.

“Wecanonlyprocess a visafor 90 days. Isthat OK withyou?” sheasks.

“Oh, that’sfine. It’swhat I hopedfor.”

Shecontinuestotype. Shedoesn’taskanyquestionsforaboutthreeminutes. Then: “So, whatdoyouwrite?”

“Fictionandnonfiction.”

“OK. Buttheonlyissuerightnowisthat I don’thaveenoughevidencethatyouare a writer.”

“Oh, I’vegotmypublishedworksherewithme. Doyouwanttoseethem?”

“Yes,” shenods.

I sendmychildren’schapbookandtwoanthologies, pagesopentomystories, throughthesmallspaceintheglassseparatingus. Shereceivesandexaminesthem. I pickuptwoeditionsofTheAfricaReportmagazine …

“Oh, that’senough. Thisiswhat I wantedtosee, thankyou. Howdidyoulearnaboutthisresidency?”

“Online.”

“Canyoudothefingerprint?” I concur. “Checkbackagainintwoweeksforourdecision, atmidday. Bye.” I leavetheconsulatein a jollymood.

I returntwoweekslater. Butwhen I openmypassport, thereisnovisa. Mybodygoesnumb. A pieceofpaperaccompaniesthepassport – white, thistime. Thereareninepossiblereasonsforrejection, andboxescorrespondingtoeachone. Threeboxeshavebeentickedforme: “Justificationforthepurposeandconditionsoftheintendedstaywasnotprovided”; “Informationsubmittedregardingthejustificationforthepurposeandconditionsoftheintendedstaywasnotreliable”; “Yourintentiontoleavetheterritoryofthememberstatesbeforetheexpiryofthevisacouldnotbeascertained”.

Theironyisthat I workforSwissport, a companythathandlesvisaverificationatDoualaairport, but I cannotobtain a visatotraveltothewest, afterthreeattempts. Myfatherissosadhedoesn’tknowwhattotellmethistime. Evenhisrock-solidoptimismaboutmesucceedingas a writerbeginstocrack.

I returntoDouala, tomynewrentedapartment, but I cannotsleep. I wakeupat 2am andstareattheceiling. Thethirdrejectionisthemostcrushing. SoI’lljustkeepmissingoutoneveryopportunity I aminvitedto? A residencyI’dbeenapplyingforsince 2015. Threebloodytimes.

IambackattheGermanembassyforaninterviewfor a Étudiant BAC – a short scholarship visa – in September. My Sylt Foundation writing residency is funded by the Goethe-Institut, the German cultural centre. I tell the Goethe staff in Yaoundé to count the 90 days well. It is actually 89 days. The Goethe staff assure me that I will get the visa this time. They are on good terms with their embassy. If I am rejected, they will intervene. They couldn’t influence my rejection in May because the Künstlerdorf Schöppingen residency is not an organisation they work with.

I am a tallmassofnerves. Theoldwhiteladyisthereagain, togetherwith a burlyCameroonianman. I sitinfrontofhim. WhenhereceivesmyGoethedocuments, heturnstohiscolleagueandinquiresaboutsomethinginbriskGerman. Sherespondsbriefly. Hetypes. I stare. Helooksatme.

“AllyourGoethedocumentslookgreat. But I don’thaveenoughinformationaboutyourjob. All I seeisyourworkattestation.”

“I wasatGoetheyesterday. Theyaretheoneswhoarrangedmydocumentsinthatfile. TheyalsotoldmethatasI’mtravellingon a Goethegrant, I don’tneedtopresentallthedocumentsonyourSchengenchecklistonline.” Themanshakeshishead.

“That’swhat I wasjustaskingmycolleaguehere. ItisanissuewesometimeshavewithGoethe. Youaresupposedtohavethedocumentsthatproveyourgrant, aswellasyourworkdocuments.”

How’sthatmybusinessiftheytoldmesomethingelse? Andwhatif I was a full-timewriterorfreelancer?

A protest against President Trump’s immigration ban at Logan International airport in Boston, Massachusetts in 2017. Photograph: John Cetrino/EPA

“It’sanÉtudiant BAC visaI’mapplyingfor, sir, not a Schengenvisa.” Thereis a slightarroganceaboutmenow. I amtiredofconsularofficers.

“Itdoesn’tmatter,” hesnaps, glaringatme. But I amalsoreadyforthisping-ponggame.

“I broughtinanotherfile. Justincase.”

“Can I haveit?” I lookformySwissportworkcontractandpayslips. “Thereisnoleaveletter.” Ping-pongtime.

“No, just a workattestation. Mybossalwaysacceptsmyleaveproposalsbyemail. It’snotthefirsttimethatI’mtravellingtoattendsuchliteraryevents.”

“Weneed a leaveletterhere. Anemailisnot a leaveletter.”

Itsoundslike a retort, not a demand, so I don’tanswer.

Hepicksupmyphotocopies, comparesthemwiththeoriginaldocuments, thenstampsandfilesthem. Whenheseesmyboss’snameonmyworkcontract, hismouthcontractsinto a surprised “Oh!” Mybossisoneofthekeyoppositioncandidatesintheupcomingpresidentialelections. Buttheconsularofficerdoesn’taskanythingabouthim. Instead: “Areyou a hobbywriter?” heasks. I shrug. Whatthehelldoesthatmean? Buthey, anotheropportunityforping-pong. I serve.

“No. I writepart-time.” Henarrowshiseyesasheglancesatme, buthedoesn’tvolleytheballback. Heonlylowershisheadandtypes. I think I havedeliveredRogerFederer’sace.

“Howmanybookshaveyoupublished?”

“Onechapbook, righthere.” Helooksup. I brandishitintheair. I don’teventrytosenditthroughtheglass.

“SowhatwillyoubewritingonSyltIslandforuptothreemonths? Somekindofpoetry?” Heasks, withkeeninterestthistime, notthenonchalantwayhedidbefore. I divertthedirectionofmyping-pongball.

“Fiction … anairportnovel.”

“Oh!”

Heiswarmingtome. But I thinktheoldladytohisleftwouldn’tbeaskingmesomeofhisstupidquestions. ShewouldnotterrorisemeaboutworkdocumentswhenI’mtravellingon a shortscholarshipvisa. Shehadbeen a lotkinder, eventhough I wasrejected.

“OK, isthereanythingyouwanttoadd?”

“Yes. Theinvitationletterstatesthat I wasborninKaduna. That’snotcorrect. I wasborninKumba.” Hechecksagain, realisestheerrorandgasps. Finally, fingerprint.

Itell my friend Dzekashu about some of the man’s annoying questions and he laughs. He says the consular officer was just trying to intimidate me. I will get the visa this time, he says. I return to the consulate a week later. I open the first few pages and there it is – my 90-day Étudiant BAC visa.

I phonemyfatherinKumbaandaskhimaboutthesecuritysituationinmyhometown. Therehadbeen a generalfearofimpendingviolence, asseparatistfightersintheEnglish-speakingregionsofCameroonhadissuedthreatstopeopleviasocialmedia. Theysaidtheyweregoingtodisruptthepresidentialelections. Nociviliansweresupposedtovoteunlesstheywantedtobekilled. TheywerealsogoingtobarricadetheroadsthatleadtotheFrench-speakingregionsandcreateghosttownsthroughoutthelengthyelectionperiod.

TheEnglish-speakingregionsareheavilymilitarisedbythegovernment. Butthesoldierswerecommittingthesameatrocitiesastheseparatists. As a result, thousandsofpeopleintheEnglish-speakingregions, includingmysiblingsandstepmother, hadbeeninternallydisplacedtoDoualaandmanyothertownsintheFrench-speakingregions. Mystubbornfatherstayedbehind.

“Wearehere, noh, nothingterriblehashappenedthisweek, butthesituationisnoteasyoh,” hetellsme. “Onlysporadicgunshotsintheoutskirts. Theyarefryingpopcorn,” helaughs, thenasks: “Whataboutyourvisa?” I cansensethatheistense. I smile.

“I haveit. Norejectionthistime.” Heshrieks. I imaginehisgrin.

“Whydidyounotstartwiththegoodnewsnoh?”

“Yoursafetyor a three-monthvisatoGermany – whichoneismoreimportanttome?” Helaughsandsays I amright. ButKumbaiscalm. I shouldnotworryabouthim.

Mystepmotherandsiblingshavetemporarilymovedtomynewstudio. I travelbacktoDoualaandspendtimewiththem. Mystepmotherishappyaboutmyvisa, butcomplainsthatlifeinDoualaisexpensive.

Later, while I amonthephonewith a closefriendandcolleagueatSwissport, heasks: “Sohowdoesitfinallyfeeltohave a visathatcannotonlytakeyoutoGermany, butall 26 countriesintheSchengenzone?”

Thecontestedlegacyoftheanti-fascistInternationalBrigades

In the 1930s, thousands of men and women around the world enlisted to fight fascism in Spain. Many survivors went on to play a key role in the fight against the Nazis – but, in some cases, later became powerful servants of brutal regimes

Virgilio Fernández del Real sent his last testament via WhatsApp on 28 November 2019. I opened the video to see him propped up in bed at his colonial-era haçienda in Guanajuato, Mexico. Bloodshot eyes peered out above a rampant white beard. A big red, gold and purple flag, representing Spain’s short-lived republican democracy from the 1930s, was spread out behind him. “My birthday is on 26 December, when I will be 101,” he wheezed in Spanish, though he clearly did not believe he would make it. “I still have the strength to say: ‘¡Viva la República Española!’”

Nine daysbeforethatbirthday, hiswife, Estela, sentanothermessage: “Fifteenminutesago, VirgiliowentonhisjourneytotheFather’shouse, transcendingintotheinfinite. Heisnolongersuffering.”

They had stayed in my Madrid apartment 18 months earlier, so that Virgilio could recover from a two-week hospital stay after having fallen ill during a visit to Spain. My kitchen became a shrine as visitors trooped through, anxious to thank Virgilio for serving in a volunteer army called the International Brigades. That unit of 35,000 foreigners from 80 of today’s nations had fought against fascism in the Spanish civil war and been disbanded in 1938, a year before the short-lived democratic republic was finally extinguished. More than 50 years later, their actions still resonated.

The republic is an emotional touchstone for leftwing Spaniards, but admirers of the volunteers are spread across the world. Groups devoted to their memory exist in the US, Britain and half a dozen European countries. Mention of them can provoke sudden displays of enthusiasm, as I discovered when I began researching the group: a Spanish journalist pulled down his shirt to reveal the Brigades’ triangular symbol tattooed on his shoulder; a German in California sang their songs; and a Scottish writer at a neoliberal magazine talked wistfully about an uncle from Glasgow who had volunteered. David Simon, creator of The Wire, is now planning a drama series about the International Brigades.

Elsewhere, opinion is dramatically opposed. In Poland, streets dedicated to the Dabrowski battalion of the International Brigades are being renamed by the Institute of National Remembrance, which oversees a controversial “decommunisation” law passed by the ultraconservative Law and Justice party in 2017. The brigaders had “served Stalinism”, their Polish critics argued. They were not entirely wrong.

InternationalBrigadesveteranswentontoserveasironcurtainprimeministers – orequivalent – inEastGermany, HungaryandAlbania. Theyprovideddozensofministers, generals, policechiefsandambassadorsacrossallEurope’scommunistregimes – forming a potentelite, althoughtheyweremostlyworking-class. InEastGermany, formerInternationalBrigadesvolunteersfoundedandranthenotoriousStasi. Suppressingfreedomwaspartoftheirjob. Littlesurprise, then, thatsomecountrymennowdespisethem.

History is neither neat nor clean, especially when it comes to past wars. The first casualty of war is said to be truth, but really it is nuance. War presents stark, binary choices. Kill or be killed. One side or the other. The truth is more complex than that, as the story of the International Brigades and their afterlife shows.

In early October 1936, a 21-year-old classics graduate from Cambridge, Bernard Knox, slipped an old pistol into his bag and passed through the border control at Dover on his way to Spain. The pistol belonged to a Cambridge professor of ancient Greek called Francis Cornford, who had last used it as an officer in the first world war. Cornford had given it to his son, John, a 20-year-old poet and friend of Knox’s who was travelling with him. Knox carried the gun because Cornford’s passport showed he had already been to Spain, and police were suspicious of visitors to a country where, in July, Franco and his generals had started a civil war. Britain was promoting non-intervention – a sop to Hitler and Mussolini, whose troops were blatantly fighting for Franco. It did not want British volunteers taking part.

In the early days of the civil war, before returning to Britain to recruit volunteers, Cornford had joined one of the militias that emerged when, in response to the coup, a counter-revolution broke out inside the republic. Socialists, anarchists, communists and regionalists in Catalonia and elsewhere grabbed control of the streets. Militias abounded, with women also donning uniforms and carrying weapons. “The women are fine,” wrote Felicia Browne, a British artist who joined a militia group. They were heady days, with the streets of Barcelona daubed in revolutionary slogans described by another volunteer fighter, George Orwell, in Homage to Catalonia as “startling and overwhelming”.

While recruiting, Cornford had depicted the conflict as a dusty, lazy revolutionary war – much as people imagined the Mexican revolution that ended in 1920 – rather than the sophisticated scientific destruction it soon became. His group had no idea which unit they would join, but when they reached Spain, the International Brigades had just been formed. The Communist International, or Co mintern, the Moscow-based organisation advocating for world communism, did the arranging. The arrival of spontaneous volunteers such as these provided the impulse. Another recruit, Winston Churchill’s rebel nephew Esmond Romilly, had cycled across France fuelled by coffee and cognac before volunteering and declaring himself a member of “that very large class of unskilled labourers with a public-school accent”. He sailed on a boat from Marseille, with watch duty split in two-hour shifts between French, Germans, Poles, Italians, Yugoslavs, Belgians, Flemish and Russian-speakers.

Poorly armed and virtually untrained, the first volunteers found themselves defending Madrid against Franco’s experienced and ferocious colonial force, the Army of Africa, just a few weeks later. Cornford’s group operated a machine gun in the philosophy faculty of the brand-new University City campus. They built barricades out of thick tomes on early-19th-century German philosophy and Indian metaphysics. Enemy bullets gave up before reaching page 350, making them believe old tales of soldiers saved by Bibles in breast pockets. “I think I killed a fascist,” Cornford, a former pacifist, wrote excitedly to his girlfriend, Margot Heinemann, on 8 December. “Fifteen or 16 of them were running from a bombardment … If it is true, it’s a fluke.”

After Franco’scolonialarmywasairliftedfromnorthAfricatoSevillebyGermanplanesinanoperationthatHitlerpersonallynamedOperationMagicFire (inspiredby a sectionofWagner’soperaSiegfried), ithadswepteasilytowardsMadrid. ItwashaltedattheUniversityCity, andtheInternationalBrigadeswerehailedasheroesinSpainandelsewhere. Theirdisciplinesetanexampletothechaoticrepublicanarmy, evenifsomevolunteersmistakenlythoughtidealismcouldreplacetraining – andpaidwiththeirlives. TheyoungandpreviouslyuntriedwarphotographersRobertCapaandGerdaTarotooktheirpictures, andtheywerelionisedbyErnestHemingwayandtheNewYorkTimes, amongothers. Warcorrespondentsofalmostallnationalitiesblessedtheirluckatbeingabletofindfrontlinesourcesamongthebrigaderswhospoketheirlanguage.

Fresh recruits arrived by their hundreds every week from as far away as China, Chile and Abyssinia, though most came from Europe or the Americas – and many were already political or economic exiles. At least one in 10 were Jews, rebelling against their position as fascism’s chosen victims. The American historian and veteran Albert Prago called the International Brigades “the vehicle through which Jews could offer the first organised armed resistance to European fascism.” In fact, almost all brigaders saw themselves fighting a global battle to stop fascism, in which Spain was just a part. With Hitler and Mussolini on the other side, that seemed obvious – if not to politicians in London, Paris or Washington.

Many of those first recruits had died, or been badly wounded, by the end of 1936. Cornford was killed at Lopera, in A ndalusia, the day after he turned 21. Knox had already been badly injured, falling to the ground with a fountain of blood spurting from his shoulder, convinced he was dying. “I was consumed with rage – furious, violent rage. Why me?” he recalled later. “I was just 21 and had barely begun living my life.” Volunteer British and American battalions – each of about 700 men – were not formed until the following year, and first fought at Jarama, about 20 miles from Madrid, that February. About 700 women also enlisted, but the republic sent militiawomen away from the frontline, and most served as doctors, nurses, translators or administrators.

The brigaders were shock troops who generally, but not always, fought courageously. Sometimes, they turned battles around. Other times they were routed. Those captured were mostly shot. Prisoners left alive were sent to a medieval monastery converted into a jail at San Pedro de Cardeña near Burgos and made to do fascist salutes. A German-trained military psychologist, Lt Col Antonio Vallejo-Najera, conducted tests designed to prove that Marxists (as he wrongly assumed they all were) were either psychopaths or congenitally dim. He satisfied himself that this really was the case, but – in an academic paper – expressed surprise that, even in jail, “the immense majority remain firmly attached to their ideas”.

It was not all heroics. A considerable number of International Brigade volunteers deserted. Some were shot by their own commanders for doing so. After capturing the town of Quinto, their senior officers ordered them to shoot all the enemy officers, sergeants and corporals. The victims were “kids just like us”, recalled the Canadian volunteer Peter Frye after being assigned to a firing squad. Women were often treated by the brigade’s French commander (and senior Comintern official) André Marty or his security staff as suspected spies. In one case, Marion Merriman, the wife of a senior American officer, was raped by an unnamed Slav officer. She kept silent about it, in order to prevent the American Abraham Lincoln battalion rebelling in her defence. “This must be my secret burden. I cannot tell anyone – ever,” she remembers telling herself in a memoir dedicated to her husband, Robert Hale Merriman, who was killed.

“I knew I wouldgettheirvisaoneday,” I answer. Hesays I don’tsoundtoocheerful. I thinkthat’smaybebecauseI’vebeen a visarejectionexpertforsolong.

By the time the last brigaders left Spain, 7,000 had died. They had lost their war. Franco declared victory on 1 April 1939 (he would rule as dictator until 1975). By then, most brigaders had returned home or were locked up by France with the rest of the fleeing republican army in vast camps as it dealt with one of Europe’s biggest refugee crises since the first world war. Those not welcome in their own countries – Germans, Italians, Poles and others – or later deemed “dangerous” by Vichy authorities spent several years in the French camps. Others who did return home were watched closely by police in their own countries. Britain’s MI5 held files on many, as did the Dutch police. Authorities painted them as dangerous, foolhardy or wrong. But that would not last.

Hitler invaded Poland exactly five months after Franco declared victory. Suddenly, almost everyone agreed that fascism had to be fought with weapons.

On 21 August 1941, French International Brigade veteran Pierre Georges and two colleagues met at the Barbès-Rochechouart metro station in Paris. All three carried pistols. Pierre had joined the International Brigades aged 17, been wounded at 19, imprisoned in occupied France, escaped and now, at 22, was training young communists to assassinate Germans from Hitler’s occupying army. Georges, better known as Colonel Fabien, jumped into a first-class carriage, shot a naval warrant officer called Alfons Moser and ran off before the train left. A few weeks later, an Italian veteran, Spartaco Guisco, helped kill Lt Col Karl Hotz, the military governor of Nantes. Hitler responded with mass executions – including of several brigaders, who had been locked up as a preventive measure.

Charles de Gaulle, leader of the Free French Forces, was appalled. Fabien’s group had ignored his commands. “I order those in the occupied territory not to kill Germans,” he said, fearing the mass retaliations that soon came. But resistance had shifted to a new level, and De Gaulle had to change his mind. Fabien died in an accident later in the war, and now has a Paris metro station named after him. He was one of hundreds of brigade veterans, including women, to join the French Resistance. More than 100 were killed, but on 19 August 1944, it was another brigader, Henri Rol-Tanguy, who ordered the French force of the interior (FFI), to rise against German troops in Paris. A week later Gen Dietrich von Choltitz formally surrendered the city to Rol-Tanguy and Gen Philippe Leclerc.

When the second world war broke out, it had been natural for brigaders to enlist. They had fought fascism for three years, but the task had not been completed. In Britain and the US, they were initially viewed with mistrust, not least because of the Nazi Soviet non-aggression pact (the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact) of 1939, by which Hitler and Stalin partitioned Poland. The former commander of the British battalion of the International Brigade, Tom Wintringham, approached the government with plans for a home guard. He was turned away, and instead founded a private academy of “ungentlemanly warfare” at the Osterley Park stately home, where brigade veterans and others taught people to make petrol bombs, ambush tanks and conduct guerilla warfare (the surrealist painter Roland Penrose taught camouflage).

Soon, however, it became clear that brigaders had extremely useful experience in warfare and formed a unique network throughout occupied Europe. Knox had emigrated to the US and was recruited by Gen “Wild” Bill Donovan’s Office of Strategic Services (OSS) – the forerunner to the CIA, which ran guerrilla operations. Sent to liaise with Italian partisans, he bonded with the commander after realising that he was a former brigader and that they had fought together in Madrid. “From then on, relations with the partisans were no problem,” Knox said. In fact, several Italian partisan armies were led by brigaders, as were all four of Tito’s communist armies in Yugoslavia. The former brigader Aldo Lampredi was one of three partisans who executed Mussolini and his lover Claretta Petacci in 1945. Lampredi’s Beretta pistol delivered the final shots. A fellow brigader, Randolfo Pacciardi, became Italy’s postwar minister of defence. Even German brigaders fought against Hitler, with writers Erich Weinert and Willi Bredel shouting propaganda at snowbound Nazi troops from the ruins of Stalingrad. Since their aim was the defeat of fascism, the brigaders could finally savour victory in 1945.

On 13 November 1989, Erich Mielke stood before the East German parliament to answer questions in his role as head of the Ministerium für Staatssicherheit, the state security ministry, commonly known as the Stasi. Mielke was 82 years old, a veteran of the International Brigades, and had run the notorious secret police for three decades. He was known as the “master of fear”, after turning East Germany into what the writer Anna Funder, in her book Stasiland, called “the most perfected surveillance state of all time”. The Berlin Wall had come down four days earlier, and the assembly no longer considered its task to be rubber-stamping everything. Mielke had not realised. Facing unusually tough questioning, he raised his arms and declared: “I love all humanity! I really do!” The assembly dissolved into laughter. Five days later he resigned. In 1993, he was jailed for the 1931 murders of two Weimar Republic policemen.

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