Please, would you proofread the second part of my text, A refugee.

When I was a teenager, I read the book called Brave New World by Aldous Huxley. Many years had passed since then, but still I remember the feeling of uneasiness which persisted in me months after I had finished the last page. The idea of a society in which people do not have a free will and in which they are manipulated by the leader seemed to me like a nightmare. I had experienced years of socialism and communism and I was glad when that experiment, which cost thousands of innocent peopleís lives and forced millions into prison camps, had finally disappeared into the grave.
Gradually, I had forgotten Brave New World because my mind was occupied with more important things. Life was cruel to me and every year I felt as if it would be my last. I even prayed to God to bring end to this suffering and let me die in peace, instead of keeping me alive in the world which was not for me.

But, apparently, God had other thoughts and plans and let me live. When the war broke out, I believed that finally I was going to die, killed by a bullet of a drunken soldier, who simply wanted to have some fun, or by someone who was dissatisfied with his own life and wanted to avenge his bad luck killing the others. However, these angry and evil men never touched me. Instead, they were killing my former school comrades and neighbours. Again, I was left to curse my bad luck.
Brave New Word came to my mind first after I had spent some years in my new homeland, Sweden. Until then, I had asked myself what was wrong with this country.

On the surface, everything was almost perfect. Streets were clean, planes, trains and buses flew and ran precisely according to the timetables, post functioned excellently, as well as other institutions. Everything was well-ordered and society was functioning like an expensive Swiss watch. There were no stray dogs on the streets, although there were homeless, but at least nobody was hungry and the country did not have war for many centuries. However, when I talked to the people, I noticed that almost everyone thought in the same way.

They believed they were living in the best country in the world. Nobody could compare with them. They were superior to all other nations and they looked down at the poor emigrants and refugees who came only to abuse their welfare state and their beautiful country. Soon, I understood that I could not discuss with them.

Although they were not rude to me if I criticised their country, they would turn crimson in their faces and scowl at me. If I persisted, they would tell me, ďIf you donít like it here, why donít you move somewhere else?Ē With these words, the discussion would usually come to the end and I would leave my interlocutor after a curt goodbye, or I would change the topic to avoid further conflicts and possible embarrassment.

The same reaction of the natives repeated over and over. They could belong to the different classes and professions, but in my opinion, their subconscious was the same. Apparently, I had poked in something particularly sensitive, something which in their minds was sacrosanct, and questioning the state of their society, I was committing sacrilege.