I take tram nine from Marktplatz and find an empty seat. I rarely take this route since I live in Innenstadt, apparently it is very popular. A group of teenage boys starts to walk down the tram, they look at me as if I’m an intruder in their house. More people come in and the teenage boys bunch around my seat while speaking Turkish to each other. Inconveniently for me, they occupy the space around and above me, and I stay in my seat trying not to inconvenience to them.
One of them, probably around twelve years old (I am impressed by how casually he’s wearing a leopard shirt with matching leopard shorts) takes out his phone and starts scrolling through TikTok with the sound on. The tram fills up with snippets of songs and noises, one abruptly follows the other, a high pitched American voice gets interrupted by a low Turkish voice, German rap follows, then American English again. The other two boys next to me seem to be arguing with each other, or maybe they are just eagerly discussing something. Both act as if they own this crowded tiktok-bewitched tram. When they speak to each other, their bodies are involved: their hands gesture in front of my face and above me, they shift from foot to foot as if impatient. They own this tram and this space around me and above my head. I sit and listen, identifying familiar words. I wonder if we are going to the same place, but they seem too restless and self-assured. The smell of teenage sweat mixed with cheap perfume makes me envy their confidence. The smell of my adult sweat and expensive perfume makes me feel insignificant.
They leave at the stop Schwimmhalle, still talking and simultaneously watching TikToks, they go in the direction of the mall. Good for them. I also leave at this stop, but my destination is a bit further away. I know the place, I’ve been here several times already. A couple next to me is going in the same direction as I am, they talk to each other calmly, with no hand gestures. Their hands are busy with colorful plastic folders: light pink and bright green. She is wearing a dark brown headscarf, the makeup is impeccable. I also have my plastic folder. It is matte black and awaiting to be bothered in my backpack. I also did my makeup today, it does not look as good as hers, but I know that both of us are getting photographed today.
I see the colorful building of a swimming pool and turn right, because I already know the shortcut. Another brown man with a plastic folder joins my path — it is not his first time as well. His folder is also thicker than mine. We reach our destination without checking our phones for directions, we know where we are going. We sit there — me, the guy with a thick folder, the couple with pink and green folders, forty other people of color that make up about 80% of everyone in the room, all with our coloured folders. We sit and wait until somebody tells us what to do. Here, people do not feel like they own the place, in fact, they act as if they don’t own anything.
There is no smell, the walls are painted with brick red paint, the chairs are cushioned with fabric that matches the colour of the walls. Ugly. The seats are stained with sweat and dirt. It is unpleasant to sit on the stains when everything smells of nothing. All of us here have nothing to do but sit and wait. I see people sitting in groups quietly exchanging short words. A family of three: young couple and their child. The boy is around seven years old. I try to imagine what their house looks like. Somewhere quiet and clean, no stains on the cushioned chairs, plywood kitchen cabinets, all of them are carefully closed and no crumbs are left on the table after breakfast. Their fridge is filled with greens that you can only buy in Asia-Markt on Tuesdays, and a cabinet under the sink has a bin specifically for (un)wanted plastic bags of different colors. The boy is too young to be on Tiktok, but sometimes he is allowed to watch Peppa Wutz before school. The family gets called out by a man in uniform.
“Sprecht ihr Deutsch?", all three of them nod in agreement and another man in uniform leads them somewhere behind the walls. I can’t see them anymore — gray movable walls divide the big space into two parts: one with stained seats and another with office chairs. Air is the only thing we share with the people in the office chairs.
To talk to people in the office chairs a special operation must be followed. All people from the stained seats have to first, apply for a Termin, and then:
- Wait until the Termin is given (time and date cannot be chosen).
- Collect a folder of papers (the combination and number of papers differs from person to person, it may take weeks or months to collect them).
- Wait until the allocated time and date.
- Wait until they are allowed to enter the building after proving their identity to a man in uniform.
- Wait until another man in uniform calls their name.
- Wait until another man in uniform leads them to the person in an office chair.
The procedure must be repeated if the person in the office chair is left unsatisfied. In case of positive resolution of the initial procedure, one must bear in mind that the satisfaction of the person in the office chair almost always has an expiration date, therefore the procedure must be repeated periodically. The process can take an indefinite amount of time, yet the time required to complete the procedure is definite.
I cannot help but remember hours spent in Russische Botschaft in Berlin. You arrive at Brandenburger Tor, feel like a naive tourist approaching the gate and then take a left turn. As soon as the street opens to you, you can suspect anyone on it of being a fellow Russian. My gaze lands on a family of three. They are silently walking down the street a couple of steps ahead of me. They are Russian. You see it in the woman's golden jewelry with diamonds paired up with an everyday flower-top, you know it from her dyed red hair, and her freshly manicured hand that is holding a bright red plastic folder. Her husband is clenching a handle of a fully stuffed black leather briefcase, the other hand is holding his child’s wrist. The girl, not older than seven, is dragging after her arm that is tightly clasped by her father.
They walk quickly, in short strides. I don’t have enough time to look at the parents’ faces, but I bet they have stopped fighting right before they made a turn to Behrenstraße.
There’s already a crowd at the entrance of the Botschaft. A corridor of metal fences is constructed right in front of the door, so people could form a line. The entrance to the corridor is locked, so naturally people are scattered in disorganised groups around the fences. Everyone is speaking Russian, tightly clenching their red passports. I take out mine as well. A man in uniform lets people in one by one after checking our small red books. Everyone walks through a metal detector. Bag check. Pat down. Third floor to the left.
Стены покрыты щебенкой, пахнет старой женщиной; за перегородкой с окошками, обрамленными в каменные рамы, сотрудники говорят механическими голосами в микрофоны. Вызывают мою фамилию, мужчина за окном молча показывает на табличку «положите документы в лоток и сядьте на место», подчиняюсь. Два ребенка спят, качаясь на руках матерей, даже не подозревая, что прямо перед ними женщина и её муж разводят старую бабушку на квартиру. Та даже не понимает, что подписывает.
Кавказская женщина суетливо бегает от окна к окну, перебирая и приглаживая свои бордовые волосы она ищет с кем поговорить, параллельно снимает комочки туши с густо накрашенных ресниц. Улыбается мне — я улыбаюсь в ответ, вспоминая маму. В молодости у неё были такие же мягкие красные волосы. Однажды на рынке ее назвали армянкой, и она перекрасилась, но армянкой называть её от этого не перестали. Красноволосая женщина поворачивается к мужу и нахмуренно жестикулирует ему: «Ты чё стоишь без дела?». Меня направляют в следующее окно, показывают на табличку: «75 евро». Кавказская женщина тут как тут, любовно рассматривает мои короткие голые ногти пока я набираю пин-код на терминале.
Обратно в предыдущее окно. Мужчина за стеклом достает из-под стола еще одну табличку и отворачивается «Подпишите соглашение, положите его вместе с чеком в лоток. Пройдите на фотографию». Из другого конца зала слышно, как красноволосая женщина ругается с кем-то за окном.
«А что если я не умею читать? Почему вы со мной нормально не разговариваете? Вы что, немой?»
Фотографируюсь на большой сенсорный экран, пока младенцы перекрикивают друг друга. Чьи-то дети познакомились и играют в догонялки носясь по залу. Я сделала уже четыре разные фотографии, ни одна мне не нравится. Матери младенцев, кавказская семья, бегающие дети, бабушка и её предприимчивая семья — все наблюдают за моими неудачными селфи на большом экране. Наверное, здесь не часто бывают лысые кавказские девушки. Делаю пятую попытку, она еще хуже, чем прошлые. Скорее нажимаю «готово» и снова иду к молчаливому мужчине за окном, он указывает на кресла за мной: опять ждать.
Сушилка для рук включается, когда я открываю дверь в туалет. На деревянную дверь наклеен лист А4, где жирным курсивом написано:
RAUCHEN VERBOTEN!
НЕ КУРИТЬ!
FEUWEHRALARM SCHALTET SICH AUTOMATISCH AN!
Пропущенная буква “R” в слове Feuerwehralarm пририсована сверху простым карандашом. Сушилка для рук продолжает заполнять пространство обжигающим воздухом. Я смотрю на свои разгоряченные щеки в зеркало, оно кривое, как те, что стояли раньше в парке Горького. Голова растянута в форме яйца, оно красное, как пасхальное. Надеюсь, мне больше не придется сюда возвращаться.
Ausländerbehörde does not smell of any sweat or perfume, it’s only this thick air. But it is not hot and sticky like the air in my small bedroom on a warm rainy day, no, it's concentrated, as if there isn’t enough room for all the molecules in here. They are sitting close to each other, vibrating from all the energy inside them, inevitably touching each others’ molecular shoulders and stepping on each others’ molecular toes. They can’t really do anything about it — what could they? No one is allowed to open a window or a door to lüften. The particles are just left to tremble in their designated places. That is how the air feels.
More people come into the room and sit down on the dirty cushioned chairs. While I wait for my turn to speak to the person in the office chair, I hear Russian speech. Ukrainian family. Two women, one of them is older, and a man. A friend from Hannover is visiting, I overhear. They plan a menu and put together a grocery list. I imagine their house: it is cozy and warm, floral tablecloth on the kitchen table with four wooden stools around it, a huge plant next to the fridge, and a pile of slippers in the corridor.
“Frau Kuranova!”, we lock eyes with the man in uniform. He will hand me over to another man, and then that one will lead me to the one sitting in the office chair behind the wall. The man in the chair will be left satisfied with my case, but his satisfaction will only last a year till I will have to come back to this place again.
The text is a part of the book “Hallo, Mein Name ist Lesya, ich komme aus Russland und studiere Grafikdesign” by Lesya Kuranova, which she wrote and designed as her Master's thesis. The book consists of short notes and autofictional stories that give a glimpse into Lesya’s life since migrating to Germany. From observations gathered during unavoidable visits to Ausländerbehörde to doubts, accompanying professional identity crisis — everything gets woven into a net of (un)relatable experiences. Lesya graduated from the Masterstudiengang “Visual Strategies and Stories” at Burg in March 2026.
Since the number of printed copies was so limited, feel free to email Lesya [ lesyakuranova@gmail.com ] to get a full PDF of the book.