Schweizer Deutsch in Afghanistan

Hardly ever do I meet somebody who actually knows about this tiny place in Italy, where I am originating from, and where people speak German. We are a breed that most people have difficulties to grasp. Somehow, despite globalization and the gradual blur of culture and identities, only few people actually manage to get acquainted to the idea of Italians who speak German as a first language and Italian with a unmistakable German accent; with the result that at least once a day, I turn into a amateur history teacher, explaining in exactly five sentences the history behind my broken Italian and my Italian passport.

Waiting for the glorious moment and question to happen, I yesterday stepped into the reception of the IOM office in Kabul. For one or the other reason, receptionist love asking questions. I was there early; the person I was supposed to meet was still out for lunch. So, I sat down opposite the receptionist and two other guys who seemed to have no specific purpose in being there. So, what do you do if you have no specific task to look after? You ask the one opposite you some innocent questions. First: what’s your name? Easy: Johanna, with the J pronounced like a Y. Second question: Whom do you work for? IRC, the ones with the black arrow on a yellow background. Third question: Where you’re from? Italy. Five seconds pass by; I can feel the three guys opposite me thinking, their faces getting a surprised expression. And than the inevitable forth question: But you’re accent sounds German! Yes, that’s because I am from the German speaking part of Italy. Do you want to hear the whole story? Usually, the answer is a vague nod and a glimmer of disbelief in the eyes. Not so today. Instead of the disbelief, the guy opposite me starts smiling and replies in broad Schweizerdeutsch “Bist von Bozen?” Now it is me whose eyes nearly drop out of my face. There is this Afghan man sitting opposite me, comfortably wrapped into the Shalma Kamiz, smiling and asking in broadest Swiss German if I am from Bolzano. As it turns out, he left Afghanistan seven years ago, traveled to Zuerich, got a job in a hotel as night watchman, moved on to another Hotel and up the ladder, and is now working as night portier in a well known Zuerich Hotel, the Schweizer Hof, making more money than I do here in Afghanistan. Then he embarked in an analysis of the Swiss People. Though he likes the salary and living conditions, he thinks that Swiss people are too tight, proud and angry most of the time. Italians, on the other hand, he thinks are more like the Afghans. A bit relaxed, friendly, sometimes a bit too loud, but at the same time friend with everybody. His recommendation to the Swiss is to loosen up a bit, a message he spreads to clients during his nightshifts at the hotel. Other than that, he points out the beauty of the Zuericher lake, the craziness of the street parade, and the languages he speaks (un poco italiano, a bit of French, the German he picked up in the street, and of course his own language, Dari). With an “Aufwiedersehen”, spiked with up and downs like valleys and mountains of Switzerland, he waves me good bye, as the lady with whom I am supposed to discuss return programs for qualified afghan enters the room to pick me up.