‘Which hand?’
‘Which hand?’
‘On which hand was this injury? Right or left?’
I look down at my hands and remember Sami’s hand in mine.
‘It was his left hand. I know because his left hand fit into my right hand and I could feel his bent little finger.’
‘What was his date of birth?’
‘January 5th 2009.’
‘Have you ever killed anyone?’
‘No.’
‘What’s the national anthem of your country?’
‘Is this a joke?’
‘Is that your answer?’
‘No! It’s called “Guardians of the Homeland”.’
‘Can you sing it without the words?’
I hum a few of the lines through gritted teeth.
‘Do you like reading?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘What was the last book you read?’
‘A book about the crystallisation process of honey.’
‘Do you read political books?’
‘No.’
‘What about your wife?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘What does your wife do for a living?’
‘She is a painter. Was.’
‘What is the current situation in your country?’
‘It’s heaven on earth.’
‘Mr Ibrahim, I understand that these questions may seem to be a bit unnecessary to you, but they are an important part of your screening.’
‘The situation in my country is complete chaos and destruction.’
‘Who is your president?’
‘Bashar al-Assad.’
‘When did he become the president?’
* * *
And the questions continue in this way. Do I have any association with the president? Where is Syria? What countries does it share borders with? Is there a river in Aleppo? What is its name? Eventually he begins to ask me about my journey here, and I tell him as much as I can remember in a straightforward, linear, coherent way, just like Lucy Fisher suggested. Except it’s harder than I thought, because when I try to answer his questions he replies often with a question that I wasn’t expecting, something that throws me and takes me to another part of the journey. I tell him as best I can about how we reached Turkey, about the smuggler’s apartment, about Mohammed, and the trip to Leros, about Athens and all those nights we spent in Pedion tou Areos. I don’t elaborate. I don’t tell him about Nadim. I do not want him to know that I helped to kill a man, that I am capable of being a murderer. And finally I tell him about how we made it to England. But I don’t tell him what happened to Afra before we arrived – I wouldn’t even be able to say the words out loud.
He tells me the interview is over. The voice recorder is turned off and the files are closed. A bar of light from a rectangular window close to the ceiling falls across his smile.
When I stand my legs are numb and I feel that I have been robbed, somehow, of life.
Lucy Fisher is waiting for me. Afra and Diomande haven’t yet finished. Seeing my face, she goes to the vending machine and returns with a warm cup of tea.
‘How did it go?’ she asks.
I don’t reply. I cannot speak.
‘Please,’ she says, ‘don’t lose hope. That’s the thing.’ There is a tone of resignation in her voice and she is pulling at the strand of hair. ‘This is what I always tell people, you see. Never, never, never lose
was fading, dwindling like the fire in the night. I needed to find a way out. So the next day I ventured out of the park. I asked passers-by for directions to Victoria Square. The square was cluttered with people and litter, those who had nowhere else to go sat on benches beneath the trees and around the statues. I recognised a few faces from the park, some of the drug dealers hanging around by the station or outside the cafés beneath the canopies on the square. There were stray cats everywhere, scavenging in the bins. A dog lay on his side on the concrete with his paws outstretched; it was hard to tell if he was dead or alive. I remembered the wild dogs of Istanbul and standing on Taksim Square with some hope in my heart. Hope existed then in the unknowability of the future. Istanbul felt like a place of waiting, but Athens was a place of stagnant resignation, and Angeliki’s words played on my mind: ‘This is the place where people die slowly, inside. One by one, people die.’
This was the city of recurring dreams, with no way of waking up: a string of nightmares.
A man held up a bunch of worry beads. ‘Twenty euro,’ he was saying, ‘very beautiful stone.’ His voice was full of desperation and grievance, the sentence sounding like a demand, but there was a manic smile on his face.
‘Do I look like I have twenty euros?’ I said, and turned away from him.
I looked up at the buildings that lined the square and the streets running off it. There were balconies with canopies and a feeling that a better life had once existed here; in their shabbiness and fading beauty they told a story of abandonment. There was graffiti on the walls, angry slogans that I couldn’t understand, and coffee shops, and a flower stall and book stall, and people trying to sell tissues or pens or SIM cards. These people were like flies buzzing around the entrance of the Metro, following people as they stepped off the escalators.
The man with the worry beads was still standing beside me, the same infuriating smile on his face.
‘Fifteen euro,’ he tried again. ‘Very beautiful stone.’ The colours caught the light. Marble and amber and wood and coral and mother-of-pearl. I remembered the prayer beads in the souq in Aleppo. The man pushed them closer to my face.
‘Twelve euro,’ he said, ‘very beautiful!’
I pushed them away violently with the back of my hand, and I saw that the man had become frightened. He stepped back, lowering the beads.
I showed him both my palms. ‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’ The man nodded and turned to leave and I stopped him.
‘Can you tell me where I can find Elpida Street?’
‘Elpida?’
I nodded.
‘Zitas Elpida?’ The man lowered his face and mumbled something in Greek. Then he said, ‘Are you asking for hope? Elpida mean hope. No hope here.’ There was sadness in his eyes now, but then he chuckled to himself, ‘El-pi-dos,’ he said slowly, emphasising my mistake. ‘Elpidos Street.’ He signalled to the right, to a street just off the square, and he continued along his way, worry beads held up like a prize, the smile on his face.
I crossed the square and turned onto a tree-lined street. At the end of this street was a long queue of refugees outside a building with glass doors. There were prams and wheelchairs and children, and locals weaving through the chaos with their dogs. The doors opened and some refugees came out holding bags, while some others went in. On the corner there was a crowd, some standing, others sitting on the steps outside another set of glass doors. People were greeting one another and talking among themselves. As soon as they saw their friends the children ran into the street to play. The sign on the entrance said: The Hope Centre. And there was something about all this that made me more determined to leave.
I noticed that the women and children were going inside, while the men stayed outside; some sat down on the steps, others looked in through the windows, some headed back to the square. I waited, hovering, and a man came to the door; he was wearing a pair of mirrored sunglasses on his head, which he lowered onto his nose as he stepped outside. They reminded me of the police officers at the Leros camp and I was about to turn and walk away when the man greeted me warmly in Arabic. He explained that this was a centre for women and children only, a place where they could have a hot shower and a cup of tea, where the children could play and new mothers could nurse their babies.
I returned to the park and picked up Afra and together we walked to Victoria Square. She was quiet, sniffing the air like a dog, probably creating pictures in her mind – the coffee, the rubbish, the urine, the trees, the flowers.
At the Hope Centre we were gree
ted by the man with the mirrored glasses and Afra was given a number so that she could take her place in the queue for a shower. I was told to come back in a few hours. I peeked through the window; to the right, behind a wooden frame, children were playing. There were paintings on the wall, Lego and balls and board games on the floor, Afra was being guided to a chair, given a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. She was smiling, so I left.
First I went back to the square and found an Internet café. I hadn’t checked my emails for a while and was hoping to hear from Mustafa.
12/04/2016
Dear Nuri,
Last week I attended a dinner held for refugees and there I met a man and a woman. The woman works with refugees in a nearby district, helping new arrivals to fit in. The man is a local beekeeper. I told them both that I had an idea to teach beekeeping to refugees and jobseekers. They were both very impressed! They are helping me to set it up with some local funding. I hope that soon I will be giving workshops to volunteers.
The beehives are thriving, Nuri! These British black bees are very different from Syrian bees. I thought that they would never work under 15 degrees Celsius, but these bees work at temperatures much lower and they even continue to work in the rain. The bees gather nectar from flowers along train tracks and private gardens and parks.
My dear Nuri, I don’t know where you are. At night I open the map on the floor and I try to imagine where you might be. I am waiting for you.
Mustafa
Even in the email I could hear the excitement in Mustafa’s voice again, that innocent boyishness that had carried him and moved him through life.
Dear Mustafa,
I am sorry that I haven’t been in touch and that you have been so worried. I promise that I will find a way to make it to England. It has been a difficult time. Afra and I are staying in Pedion tou Areos, a large park in the city of Athens. I am struggling to find or even imagine a way out, but we will get out of here and be in England before you know it. Most people are trapped here. So many come and not many leave. But I have the money and I have passports. I will need to do something soon because I fear that we cannot survive here much longer.
I think about you and your family. I think about the lavender and heather fields and the black bees in England. The work you are doing is amazing. When I am there we will work on these projects together.
I will find a way.
Nuri
I left the café and took a seat on a bench by the half-dead dog, who lifted one heavy lid, ever so slightly, and then went back to staring at people’s passing feet. A man came and sat next to me. He had a phone and notepad on his lap. He tapped his fingers on this notepad and then glanced over at me. Then his eyes darted around the square and he looked over his shoulder. I noticed he was sweating a lot.
‘Waiting for someone?’ I said.
The man nodded, still distracted.
‘Where are you from?’ I said.
‘Syria.’
‘The Kurdish part?’
He looked at me and nodded. He smiled back, but his mind was elsewhere. Eventually a man and woman turned up.
‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ he said. ‘Did you bring everything?’
‘Everything you told us to bring,’ the man said.
‘Let’s go. He’s been waiting a while – he won’t be happy.’
I wanted to ask who they were meeting, but the man put his phone and notepad into his rucksack, and looked me right in the eyes, with confidence now. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said. ‘I wish you a day of morning light.’ And before I could say anything the three of them headed off in the direction of the Metro station.
Afra came out of the Hope Centre smelling of soap, her face soft and gleaming with cream, and she had on a new headscarf. I suddenly realised how bad I smelt.
‘Afra,’ I said, as we walked back to the park, ‘I stink.’
‘Yes,’ she said, trying not to smile.
‘I need to find somewhere to shower.’
‘Definitely.’
‘It’s bad.’
‘Very.’
‘You could at least try to lie!’
I sniffed at my armpits, surprised at how I’d become accustomed to the smell. ‘I smell like the streets,’ I said.
‘You smell like sewage,’ she said, and I leant in and tried to kiss her and she scrunched up her face and pushed me away laughing, and for that moment we were both the people we used to be.
As we entered the park and walked among the shadows of the trees, my limbs became heavy, my mouth dry with anxiety, remembering everything that had gone on in this place.
‘This is the biggest sky I have ever seen!’ a young boy said to the girl beside him. They both looked up and so did I. There were no clouds that day and no wind, the sun was strong and the area gleamed with green and yellow, a taste of the summer months to come; and through the leaves, far beyond, the sky was big and blue and bright, almost as big as the sky above the desert, and for this boy it held promises.
‘When the night comes it will be full of stars,’ he said to the girl. ‘We will be able to make lots of wishes.’
And like a little boy, I made a wish to the blue sky. I wished to make it to England. I looked up and I let the wish fill my mind. I imagined the black bees and the hives. I thought of Mustafa’s email. I remembered my response. I will find a way.
We made our way to our place on the blanket. The crickets were louder now. The twins still had not returned; their blanket remained where they had left it, umbrella still open and perched on its side, a pair of new trainers beneath it.
When night fell Angeliki arrived, wrapped in a blanket, taking a seat by the tree beside Afra. She was picking at the scabs on her arms; the tiny wounds had started to heal. As she adjusted the blanket, opening it up to wrap it more tightly around her shoulders, I noticed that her breasts had stopped leaking, only dry stains remained on her white top. She started to talk to me about Athens, stories she had heard about the ancient civilisation. She told me how she saw a team of young archaeology students digging for treasures by Monastiraki station, and she told me about the world hidden beneath the churches. Later she became quiet. She took the talcum powder out of her bag and smothered her face and arms with it, and then she sipped her water slowly and watched the children play, her hands in her lap.
The smell of the talcum and Angeliki’s rhythms had become familiar to me. Afra was different when Angeliki was there. She sat up and listened to her even though she didn’t understand everything she was saying, and every so often Angeliki would place a hand on Afra’s arm, or nudge her to make sure that she was paying attention.
‘Won’t you ever tell me where you came from?’ I said, once Afra had fallen asleep.
‘Somalia, if you must know.’
‘Why didn’t you want to tell me?’
She untied her headwrap, readjusted it and tightened it again.
‘I don’t like to talk about it because it hurt my heart.’
I was quiet. Maybe she didn’t want to talk to me because I was a man, maybe it was a man who had done something to her. I didn’t want to force her story, but perhaps she sensed my acceptance and it helped her to relax, for she said, ‘There was very little food. Bad famine. I had to leave and so I went to Kenya. I was pregnant, I didn’t want my baby to be born at home, to suffer like I did.’ She paused and I remained silent. ‘In Kenya I was in a big camp called Dadaab but they were saying this camp was going to close. They thought al-Shabaab fighters from Somalia were using the camp for smuggling weapons. And there were so many of us. They wanted to get rid of us, to dump us. So I leave there and I make a long journey to here.’
She stopped and I saw that she was searching her bag for something. Eventually she pulled out a little pouch.
‘They took my baby when I got to Athens. In here is a small lock of her hair. One night when I was sleeping in this park, somebody is take her from my arms. I know that they put drugs in my water, poison it so that
I will not wake up, because usually I wake to every tiny movement and every tiny sound she make. How did they take her without me knowing? They poison me, I know it.’
Her voice cracked and I didn’t ask any more questions, but I could tell that she was thinking about it now, that memories of both Somalia and her baby were filling her mind and her senses, in the way the memory of the heat and the sand of the Syrian Desert came back and engulfed me and filled my heart. The fire was bright now and her face was beautiful and sculpted in its light, but the talcum powder gave her a pallid complexion.
‘You know, sometimes I remember that my country is so beautiful – there is the Indian Ocean and it sparkles blue and looks like heaven. There is golden sand and beach, rocks and some houses like white palaces. The city is busy with cafés and shops. But the situation there is so bad.’ She looked at me now for the first time. ‘I can’t go back, because when I am in Somalia there is nothing forward, nothing goes forward. Now, in this place, there is forward.’
‘There is? I thought you said there isn’t?’
She considered for a few moments, and then said, ‘This is what I believed.’
She was silent for a while and then she said, ‘I want to find job, but nobody want me. English is no good here. People here don’t like me. Even Greek people can’t get job. They sell tissues on the street. How many tissues will people need to buy? Maybe this is a city of crying?’ She laughed now, and I was reminded suddenly of the laughter I had heard through the window back at the school.
The following morning, Angeliki had gone and Afra was drawing. She was sitting cross-legged on the blanket, using both hands to create an image. In her right hand she held the pencil, and with the fingertips of her left hand she followed the grooves of the marks on the page. An image was emerging and it looked like a place from a dream, a desert meeting a city, the lines and dimensions distorted, the colours mixed up, but I could see Afra’s soul in the lines on the paper, the way they appeared to move with light and life.
‘This is for Angeliki,’ she said, and when she’d finished she asked me to put it under the blanket so that it wouldn’t blow away.
The Beekeeper of Aleppo: A Moving Testament to the Human Spirit Page 19