The Boy at the Back of the Class

by Onjali Q. Raúf

  If a refugee child joined your class, what would you do to help them feel welcome?

  Have you ever met a real-life Brendan the Bully?

  If you have, what happened and how did you react?

  If you haven’t, how would you handle the situation?

  Looking back, have you ever bullied another student? If so, what would you do differently today?

  Have you ever talked about the worldwide refugee situation with an adult?

  If you have, what did you discuss?

  If you haven’t, what would you say? What do you think can be done? Who do you think can help?

  If you could be famous and on the news for a single day, what action would you take to help others?

  Who would you share The Boy at the Back of the Class with, and what would you tell them about it?

  I was born in…

  My parents are from…

  My favorite food to eat is…

  If I could travel anywhere in the solar system, I would go to…

  If I visited the Queen, I would wear…

  My best friend in the whole wide world is…

  The thing I’m the best at is…

  In my family, the funniest person is…

  When I grow up, I want to be just like…

  Up until September 2015, I had never really thought about what the words “refugee crisis” really meant. Even though it was a topic that was being spoken of in the news every day, it felt like an invisible crisis—something that was happening in countries far, far away and to people I knew almost nothing about.

  But at eleven a.m. on September 2, 2015, that all changed. Not just for me, but as I later came to find out, for thousands of people across the world. Because that was the morning nearly every single newspaper around the globe ran the story of Alan Kurdi, a young boy who had died at the age of three trying to cross the Aegean Sea (a body of water between Turkey and Greece) with his family.

  Reading that story filled me with a series of endless questions. How was this allowed to happen? Why did I not do something sooner? And what could I do now? Because I knew I had to do something—no matter how tiny that something might be.

  Those questions spurred me into action. I hunted down agencies that were working to save refugees’ lives and raised what donations I could for them, and after a while, I decided to visit the closest refugee camps I could find and deliver aid directly. I began to venture out to the refugee camps of Calais in northwestern France whenever I could.

  Ahmet’s silent strength is a testament to the many young children I have had the honor of meeting in the forests, broken tents, muddy plains, or huts and makeshift shelters in Calais and Dunkirk. Even after having survived horrors and cruelties, each child’s capacity to be cheeky, to laugh, to find joy or instill it in others is a gift I will always remain in awe of.

  From the many faces of those beautiful children, I have dedicated this book to Raehan, “the Baby of Calais”: a baby only a few weeks old whose mother had survived the destruction of her village and a journey of thousands of miles while pregnant. Following the demolition of the official campsite at Calais, baby Raehan and his family disappeared, and I can’t help hoping every day that they made it safe and sound to the family members they had in the UK.

  In the meantime, the legacies of Alan Kurdi and baby Raehan go on through the work of the thousands of kind hearts who help refugees to not only survive, but find safety and a home they can call their own again.

  Thanking every person who has been part of this incredible whirlwind of a journey is going to be harder than writing and editing the book combined! Simply because it has taken an army of amazing hearts to get me here. So here goes….

  First and foremost, for putting up with all the manic parts of me, for nursing me through two surgeries and a decade of pain, for running out and getting me enough chocolate and favorite foods and the medicines I needed to keep me going, and for never giving up on me even when I had given up on myself, my love and eternal thanks to my beautiful mum, Salma Shirin Raúf, and my brother Zakariah. (Zak, you once commented that I’d probably have died of stupidity and starvation if it hadn’t been for you both. I didn’t have a response, because we both know you were right!)

  To my agent/silent defender, Silvia Molteni, who took me on even though I submitted my first manuscript with a cover letter that began with “Dear Dear,” my endless gratitude for your calm perseverance, and for planting the seedling that led to this book not only being published in the first place, but making it across so many an ocean. I’ll never forget the fact that I happened to be in my car yet again when you phoned to tell me about Delacorte taking this story on, because the surreal joy of it all still hasn’t left me. I pray it never will. I have no idea what I’d do without you.

  To Alexandra Hightower, my US editor, thank you for your beautiful handwritten notes shipped across the oceans to help keep me inspired and my innards smiling, and your amazing capacity to spot the changes needed to best help the young human beans of America understand the story further. I feel utterly blessed to have your gentle guidance on this side of the pond! Together with my wonderful UK editor, Lena McCauley, you have both helped this tale reach planes I never imagined to be possible, and I can’t wait to see where this adventure takes us.

  To my Delacorte Press and Penguin Random House family, and most especially to Beverly Horowitz, whose passionate “yes” to this book has led it on a journey so far from home, my eternal gratitude to you all for loving Ahmet and this story enough to take a chance on not just an unknown fledgling author, but a British one at that! There aren’t enough words—so I’m hoping an endless supply of afternoon tea treats and not-so-British hugs will suffice! Thank you for making this undreamt-of dream come true.

  To Pippa Curnick, thank you for creating the book’s beautiful cover and inner world of illustrations. You brought something once only imagined to life. And to my copy editor, Lady Genevieve Herr (as I call you in my mind), thank you for your honesty and fearless questioning.

  I am, I believe, one of the luckiest souls in the world, enriched as I am daily by souls infinitely wiser, kinder, and worthier than my own. To the real Selma Avci, thank you for believing in my writing since Day Zero (nearly two decades ago!) and for loving all my stories no matter how bad they were and continue to be! I hope you and Turgay Ozcän never stop reading or laughing. Ever. Even if what you’re laughing at has to be me!

  Remona Aly, in the last ten years that I have been blessed with your friendship, my universe has expanded in ways unfathomable. Thank you for every memory made, the endless prayers gifted and for your unshakable faith in me. I’m so glad we got pretend-married in Ireland!

  To the sharer of my literary dreams, Sughra Ahmed, and kindred-spirit-cousin, Piya Muqit, thank you for encouraging me, sitting with me through the dark times, and giving me the loving kicks I needed to get this book done.

  To Caroline C. Cotett, the personification of calm amid the storm and cofounder of the Refugee Women’s Centre (RWC) Dunkirk: I feel so honored to have met you and will be eternally grateful to Timothy Gee and the Quakers in Britain for that blessing. I can’t wait to go on working with you to help the refugees you give your all to, every hour of every day.

  To my first and eternal refugee-aid convoy team: Dahlia Basar (panini maker supreme), Atif Butt (le Capitan!), Homaira Sofia Khan and the unstoppable Yasmin Ishaq, and every volunteer or team member who has ever gone out with me to Calais and Dunkirk: thank you for always saying “Er…okay,” even when you thought I was mad, for the endless fund-raising, goods-raising, cooking, packing, loading, and shopping, and being brave enough to drive on the wrong side of the road. I would never have embarked on this journey without you all. Especial love to Khola Hasan and the Ilford Women’s Islamic group (and especially the beautiful duo
Salma and Saira), Taiba Shah, Anoushka Khan, Yasir Mirza, Nurun Nahar, Samina Deen, Dena Kirpalani, Jahanara Begum, Nathasha Aly, Sulaiman Chowdhury, Hasina Zaman and Allistair, Nadira Huda, Rusina and Jahangir, Zaffer and Shima, Seher and Shaizir, Doreen Samuels, Jude Habib, and every dear heart who has gone on donating and supporting me and my teams whenever the call for help is made.

  To my general welfare and sanity team: Ayisha Malik, authoress supreme for (a) being the reason I approached PFD and Silvia in the first place and (b) calming me down when I thought I couldn’t hack the ride; Leesa Gazi for your endless gentle love and tears of both joy and care; Satdeep Grewal and Alex Thomas for your quiet faith in my writings and wicked sense of humor; Jacquelyn Shreeves-Lee for reading the first draft of the book with such joy; Nadia Abouayoub for writing with me in the early days in the Wallace Collection before you found your falcons and began to disappear to the Highlands; Sumiya Hemsi for your heart, laughter, and loving Mum almost as much as I do; Batool for the passionate care you impart; Yasmeen Akhtar for your elegant, Audrey Hepburn–esque wisdom; Asha Abdillahi; Rabia Barkatulla; Shaista Chisty; Sajeda Qureshi and Mockbul “Mycroft” Ali; Julie Siddiqi; and countless other hearts who keep me inspired and laughing. You know who you all are.

  To John Crawford (my beloved step-in dad) and Victoria Dyke, thank you for reading this in its first draft (inclusive of some blindingly bad drawings) and getting me to sign the copy, thinking it was worth your time to do both those things. I love you both endlessly.

  To all my nieces and nephews: Inara, whose gurgling kept me going during that first draft; Kamilah, whose gorgeous, eager-to-befriend heart always makes me smile; Zahir, whose questions about the Second World War were an inspiration (and not tiring to answer at all!); cheeky Eshan; and my other two hearts, Kasheefa and Maeesha, thank you for making my world so utterly joyous.

  To every refugee forced to search for peace so far away from the place you once called home: There is more love for you than you can imagine. Go on. The peace will come.

  And as the umbrella to all the above, my heart lies in thanks at the feet of God. For heeding my prayers, making this happen, allowing me to live on and telling me “not yet” when I needed to hear it most.

  ONJALI Q. RAÚF is the founder of Making Herstory, an organization that encourages men, women, and children to work together to create a fairer and more equal world for women and girls everywhere. In her spare time, she delivers emergency aid packages to refugee families living in Calais and Dunkirk, and can often be found with her head buried in a book at the local bookshop. The Boy at the Back of the Class is her first novel.

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