The Passport

On an uncharacteristically cold and rainy April day, I stood squeezed between two rather corpulent panie in an overcrowded, stuffy carriage of a commuter train. I was scrolling through my news feed, when my gaze fell upon the ominous headline.

The national parliament of my beloved motherland had passed a reform of the mobilization rules after months of deliberation.  

A cold shiver ran down my spine and I felt dizzy. 

“The regulations for the registration and conscription of able-bodied men had been tightened”, said the article.

As I further read that this new law was now in effect in Poland, I sensed the vigor leave my limbs. The carriage floor beneath my feet suddenly felt like shifting sand. Fortunately, two plump ladies, pressed firmly against me on both sides, kept me upright.

I had not anticipated such an outcome of the legislative negotiations. Five years ago I fled my country in an act of sneaky selfishness when I was about to be drafted.  Hiding in the Polish backcountry, I believed myself to be safe, firmly convinced that the draft board would not be able to stretch its long fingers out to me into the foreign land. Secretly, I also harbored the hope that I had been simply forgotten, that my file might have been lost or damaged before it could be digitized and fed into the national conscription database.

To conceal my true life story, I spared no effort: I learned a new language, concealed my past, created a new identity for myself, and even began to establish myself in the local society. I had a fairly regular life in Poland: I completed an apprenticeship, made a few friends, did odd jobs, found a position at a company, saved up some money, and even invested a small amount in Bitcoin, which I unfortunately lost a few years later in a boating accident. The tax authorities were duly informed of the incident.

I lulled myself into the sweet illusion of a new life, far from the claws of the draft board, but I was living on borrowed time, without realizing it. With a single snap of their fingers, they now had me in their grip. The carefully constructed edifice of my life began to totter, threatening to crumble into pieces. 

Was human existence without a valid ID even compatible with the existing laws?

Well, not in Poland.

I shuddered at the thought of the impending meeting with my employer. The new law made headlines. What would he say about my predicament? I could almost feel his stern gaze and pressed lips in my mind's eye. Then I imagined him asking me bluntly:

"Panie S., when does your passport expire? We need people here with valid papers, surely you understand. As I can see from your file, the renewal of your passport is due soon, Panie S."

This morning, as I made myself a cup of instant coffee in the company kitchen, I overheard a conversation between two colleagues. They were whispering excitedly, unaware that I was standing behind the veil of cigarette smoke, eavesdropping:

"Panie S. will probably have to go back home. His passport expires soon."

"He was a good colleague, Panie S., but duty is duty. You can't avoid military service forever. I hope he will serve his homeland faithfully."

My Polish friends – the wonderful people who had grown so dear to me over the years – seemed strangely distant and reserved after the announcement of the new law. They probably hadn't expected such a turn of events. 

Could our friendship still be valid if my passport finally lost its validity? 

I looked at them questioningly, but they increasingly avoided my gaze and steered the conversation to other topics.

Without my national passport which wasn't always looked at with delight on my part, my life would lose its meaning. Longingly, I now gazed at the dark blue booklet with the legendary national coat of arms. I held it tight in my trembling hand. The expiration date was approaching relentlessly, and my heart grew heavy.

The same questions buzzed relentlessly in my head like a swarm of flies, tormenting me without respite.

Who was I without a valid passport?

A person without validity, outside the established, law-abiding citizenry?

What was such a person still good for?

For my national passport, I would do a lot: Yes, even go to war, if I weren't such a coward, if I could think not only of myself, but also of the future of my homeland. But I'm not a hero. I wasn't raised to be a brave and noble warrior.

Who could honestly feel proud of dodging the draft? I know I couldn't.

I don't want to complain about my fate, because others may have it worse and one should consider their suffering instead of focusing only on one's own problems. I came across this thought in a book by Ayn Rand. I didn't actually read the book itself, just skimmed through it a bit. If I remember correctly, it was James Taggart who expressed it. He was truly concerned about the common good, not just his own well-being.

The idea of serving the public good is not entirely foreign to me, let me assure you.

I once wanted to make a donation to our army that is putting up fierce resistance against the enemy.

Unfortunately, the bank transaction didn't go through.

Another time I wrote a laudatory post for social media. It was about my compatriots and their achievements under the wise leadership of our president.

Unfortunately, I can't find it anymore. 

At school, we were taught that a national passport is what defines a person, giving them joy and security, and allowing them to look into the future with confidence. It is much more than just a piece of paper with a stamp; it is a symbol of recognition and belonging: You are part of the community, a valuable member of society with an important function. Our national passport agency issues these identity-defining documents, and our citizens carry them with pride. 

“For such a passport is not only an identity document, but also a symbol of the honor and virtue of our nation, a testament to belonging to a great people whose glory resounds in all parts of the world”, our teachers emphasized. 

"This seemingly inconspicuous, dark blue booklet holds immense power: It bestows upon its owner the true identity of a citizen of our country and awakens in them a deep sense of political mission. It is a shield against our enemies, who seek to undermine our national culture," our president proclaimed with solemn gravity during his last speech, surrounded by an endless, homogeneous mass of people that stretched before him like a roaring ocean.

With a heavy heart, I must confess that I had sometimes regarded my passport with an absolutely inadmissible self-evidence, not cherishing every moment I held the priceless booklet in my hand, believing that I could extend its validity at will.

Two months later

The booklet now lay lifeless in my hands, an unusable scrap of paper that closed the doors to the world for me. In short, my passport has expired.

My employment contract was terminated without notice. The employer shook my hand and wished me a good trip home.

I tried to find refuge with my friends. But they kept making excuses, so I finally had to give up on that idea. Their excuses were ever-changing and increasingly bizarre: an unplanned getaway, a surprise visit from a distant relative from a country called Slowakia, a sudden plumbing disaster in the apartment below. I struggled to make sense.

A short time later, my bank account was frozen until further notice and my lease was terminated. I was given a week's notice to vacate the premises.

The landlord, a sturdy man with deep-set wrinkles in his face, told me I must take up arms to defend my country at the front. His father fought against the Russians in 1943. He took out a yellowed photo and showed it to me with pride. He was a brave soldier who fought and sacrificed his life for the glory and honor of his German masters. It was his way of giving me some inspiration and courage.

"You should follow in his footsteps", the landlord said with a fatherly smile as he put his hairy hand on my shoulder. "It's time to fulfill your duty, son."

The thought of returning home and the consequences that came with it was still unbearable to me. I was at my wit's end, but I still wanted to live! I guess I'm just a coward.

I waited for a miracle that would throw me a lifeline and help me out of my predicament.

Draft dodgers were quickly and decisively expelled from the territory of the Republic of Poland: one decree deprived us of the right to reside and we were declared subject to immediate deportation. They shoved people like me into boxcars and took us straight to the front line under escort of a convoy of heavily armed special forces soldiers.

A one-way ticket.

I needed to go underground urgently.

With a heavy heart, I said goodbye to my old Volvo and slung my battered backpack over my shoulder, into which I stuffed all the essentials: my primus stove, a small gas canister, a tin mug, and the last of my mushroom harvest.

It was time to get going.

Life in the Car

I didn't like banks. That's why I had a few stablecoins and maybe one or two altcoins in my hot wallet that I could always access and use for payments. Luckily, the Polish authorities could not freeze these assets. Not that I had much, anyways. Not after the boating accident.

After losing my apartment and access to my savings, I found myself living in my car, which I had parked in an inconspicuous lot on the outskirts of town.

My Volvo station wagon has seen better days. I dug it up in a scrapyard a few years ago. The rust bucket was actually supposed to be scrapped, but I asked if I could have it for 1000 Złoty. The seats were sagging and greasy, but quite comfortable for that. Swedish quality, after all. All in all, a roof over my head and wheels to boot!

In the cargo area and on the folded-down rear seats, I have set up a halfway decent sleeping place for myself. Up front, my few belongings were piled up: clothes, a few books by Jordan Peterson, a collection of erotic stories with illustrations, a slightly dried-out cactus, a new grow kit for growing mushrooms, a flower-patterned pot, a wooden bowl, a tin mug, aluminum cutlery, and an old Soviet Primus stove that I used for heating and cooking.

My days were quite monotonous. I woke up as soon as the first rays of sunlight penetrated the windshield. Then I lit the Primus stove, made myself instant coffee, and heated up a few beans from a can. For the rest of the day, I roamed the area in search of something edible, tended to my mushrooms, or stayed in the car and spent the time reading books that Jordan Peterson had recommended. In the evenings, when dusk fell, it became cool and dreary in the car. I had to save fuel and tried not to light the Primus stove unless absolutely necessary. Before bed, I treated myself to a cup of mushroom tea and then squeezed into my sleeping bag. Often I would wake up at night, sweating, and bang my forehead against the ceiling. With a racing heart, I imagined that I had lost gravity and was drifting off into open space... My Volvo lifted off the ground and flew away into a bottomless abyss, and I was forever locked in this aluminum coffin - sentenced to eternal wandering in the endless expanses of the universe.

In the evenings, when darkness fell, it became cold and uncomfortable in the car. I would curl up in my sleeping bag and try not to think about anything. Often I would wake up shivering at night, longing for a warm bed and a real home.

My peace was often disturbed by the visits of a group of students who came from the nearby school. Giggling and grumbling, they would circle my car, knock on the windows, and make silly jokes about my appearance and my rundown vehicle. Sometimes I felt like a cow being swarmed by annoying flies. No matter how often I shooed them away, they always came back.

As I watched them approach, I turned the key in the ignition and let the V4 roar deafeningly. The sound was like the screech of a wounded wild boar, and the brats froze in their tracks. Then they ran away helter-skelter, tripping over their own feet and letting out cries of horror.

I understood that I couldn't stay in this place for long, because soon I would run out of cash and it was getting harder and harder to exchange crypto for fiat currency without raising someone's suspicions. Forays into the city center, where I would scavenge for food scraps in the trash cans, were also in danger of drawing attention to me.

All the time I had to watch out for the police, who were now rounding up poor sods like me and putting them in deportation detention. Deserters were stripped of their residence permits for the entire territory of the Rzeczpospolita Polska and declared subject to deportation. I had to go into hiding to avoid being extradited back home.

It was a precarious existence on the fringes of society – a life with an invalid passport.

Life in the Woods

The dense forest, stretching out before me like a sea of green, was my only salvation. It extended for over a hundred kilometers through several voivodeships into Germany. I plunged into the thicket, searching for a hiding place that would offer me protection from the whims of nature and the eyes of men. I wandered for days until I finally came across an abandoned foxhole. Carefully, I fought my way through the thorny undergrowth and entered the narrow cave. There, I made a makeshift bed. Berries, mushrooms, and insects became my food. With each passing day, I lost more and more of my human appearance.

My foxhole offered no protection from the icy winds and biting frost. I would never have survived the cold season in this place. A desperate plan began to take shape in my mind: I could turn myself in to the authorities in Germany and claim to be a woman. In Germany, it was considered misogynistic, even inhumane, to express doubt about a person's identity. But I was a male, undeniably so. I couldn't quite come to terms with the idea of being a woman. I had often had the opportunity to observe them on public transport or at work. A few times they had even spoken to me briefly.

Still, I doubt that I ever came close to undersatnding the quintessence of a female human.

For days, I sat in my hole, brewing mushroom tea on the primus stove, reading Peterson, and trying to grasp the essence of woman, who still remained something incomprehensible to me. Slowly, I delved into the uncharted depths of my consciousness. Words cannot describe it to you. With each mug of mushroom elixir, my thoughts became clearer and clearer. I watched the dancing flame of the primus stove in fascination and muttered, "A woman is like fire, warming and burning at the same time."

I wrestled with this thought for some time, unable to make a decision.

Two Weeks Later

I had wrestled with myself for a long time before the inevitability of this course of action became clear to me. Finally, I had to admit that I could no longer survive as a man. Either I would starve to death miserably or be torn apart by wild animals. Or I would be caught by the forest rangers and handed over to the authorities.

Like an insect, I crawled out of my wretched shelter. My appearance was more like that of a giant vermin than a creature that was once a human being. With the last of my strength, I straightened up and set off on the long journey to Germany. Only there could I claim my right to be a woman and be taken seriously. In Poland, I would only have been met with scorn if I had confronted them with such a statement. Then they would have smashed my skull with a rifle butt and thrown me into the freight train to be transported back home. I knew all too well how they had dealt with such resourceful tricksters before.

Finally in Germany

Like a bear after hibernation, I emerged from the undergrowth in Germany. A human could only be recognized in me upon closer inspection. A village lay before me and I headed straight for it. Several cars drove by and gave me a wide berth. Laughing children pressed their noses against the windows of the cars to get a better look at me. The adults stared at me with wide eyes and open mouths as they passed, wondering what kind of animal I was. To be on the safe side, most of them pressed the gas pedal to get away quickly.

I had barely travelled a single mile when I saw five police cars racing towards me. Someone must have notified the police. They stopped 300 feet away from me and took up positions. I saw several snipers in full gear deploy behind the parked vehicles. The megaphone barked at me: "Halt! No further step, or we'll shoot!"

I couldn't speak a word of German, but I instinctively understood that I should stop. Panic began to rise in me.

How should I communicate?

I had to let them know that I was a human being. But how? My clothes were torn and dirty, my hair matted and unkempt. I could be easily confused with a wild animal, escaped from the depths of the forest.

With a deep breath, I gathered all my strength and screamed at the top of my lungs:

"Proszę nie strzelać!"

One of the policemen must have understood Polish, because there was visible confusion. They looked at each other, muttered among themselves, some scratched their heads. The tension seemed to slowly dissipate and then gave way to a muffled excitement.

One of the police cars slowly drove towards me. Without getting out and getting too close to me, the voice from the megaphone sounded again:

"Was sind Sie?", inquired the policeman with some degree of curiosity through the megaphone.

"I … woman come out … Rzeczpospolita Polska", I stammered in my broken English.

For a minute there was silence. Behind the windshield of the squad car, two figures could be seen having a lively conversation. Then the voice from the megaphone sounded again, this time in a much softer, friendlier tone. He now spoke in the best, most carefully chosen Polish:

"Excuse me for this terrible inconvenience. We have received a report of the presence of an unidentifiable anima... person, who... hmm, well, it must have been a mistake. Criminal, unforgivable negligence, of course. This person will be held accountable for the false alarm."

"Do you need our help and support?"

I explained that I had gotten lost in the woods weeks ago and couldn't find my way back. They asked me if I wanted them to escort me back to Poland, to which I replied that I could also imagine living in Germany. They nodded in agreement. I asked if they could take me to the registration office, as I wanted to register my residence in Germany and have new identity papers issued.

I could never have imagined that Germans were such likeable, understanding, and helpful people. In Poland, this was far from the general opinion of the western neighbor.

So began my new life in Germany.

New Life

I could limit my womanhood to the confines of government offices, I thought. For only in contact with officials and public employees did I feel this deeply rooted female identity. Don't think it was some kind of a trick or a clever calculation on my part. I can assure you that such was an expression of my fluid gender identity. In other areas of life, I continued to be a regular man.

My unique situation captivated the attention of many researchers. They saw in me a fascinating embodiment of the complexities of human identity. However, there were also skeptical voices questioning and doubting this new phenomenon. Yet, their criticism quickly faded, and they disappeared entirely from the public eye.

A feature article about my story was published in a renowned newspaper, sparking a widespread resonance. I became an unexpected ambassador for people with gender fluidity. I delivered lectures, granted interviews, and participated in conferences. My story helped others understand and accept their own identities.

I was honest and didn't put on a façade. In talk shows, I spoke openly about my gender fluidity and my experiences. My story found an audience and generated considerable interest.

Publishing houses offered me book deals, and advertising agencies sought to include me in their campaigns. It turned out that I was not the only individual with a rare gender identity. More and more people came forward with their own experiences. Notably, most cases were registered in the eastern parts of Saxony, Brandenburg, and Mecklenburg-Western Pomerania. In the rarest of cases, they could produce valid identification documents and did not speak German; yet, they all wanted to remain in Germany.

Support centers were established nationwide for them, and I myself was brought in as an expert consultant. Why these particular regions suddenly experienced such a high influx of genderfluid individuals has not yet been definitively clarified.

My life has been happy and carefree ever since. Thanks to my book publications, public appearances, and work as an expert consultant, I was able to accumulate a considerable fortune.

I married a wonderful woman and started a family with her. We were blessed with two beautiful children who brought us immense joy.

Well, that was my life so far.

What do I do now?

Now I fully dedicate myself to wealth management and raising my children. I want to instill in them values such as family, tradition, and responsibility.

Over time, I lost interest in the topic of "gender fluidity." Perhaps it was merely a transitory period. I have processed my own experiences and feel completely comfortable in my skin.