Without Refuge

by Jane Mitchell

  Other students look at me now. My face burns. I stand

  up. Step away from the table. Safaa doesn’t move, but

  her black eyes follow me. I can’t read her expression.

  “I thought she was my friend,” I say to Moham-

  mad. “Now I can’t even look at her.”

  I stride outside.

  Mohammad jogs alongside me. He looks back.

  “Who?”

  “Safaa.” Anger flashes through my words. “It’s

  her fault. She’s why I’m here. I was looking for her

  when everything happened. I thought she wanted to

  be with my family, but she left us.”

  My words trip over themselves and drown in

  my tears.

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  “Breathe easy,” Mohammad says, just like Baba.

  “Take your time.”

  I dash away my tears as we walk. I tell Moham-

  mad everything: about Safaa shooting at us and Amin

  being sick and Baba helping. About arriving at the

  border, and Safaa’s carpet bag, and the guards shoot-

  ing at me. About sprinting alone across the border.

  I even tell him about the brothers, Musab and Ali,

  who wanted me to go to Ankara. Somewhere along

  the way, my tears stop. I gulp for air. At last I run

  out of things to say. We’re quiet for a while, except I

  hiccup every so often.

  “Everyone who arrives here has been through

  hell,” Mohammad says. “Kids on their own have been

  through more than most. They don’t have parents or

  aunts or uncles to keep them safe and make decisions

  with them. Some kids have seen their families killed

  by airstrikes, or get sick and die. We don’t know

  what they’ve gone through. Safaa and Amin have

  only been here for a few days.”

  He stops walking. I wait to hear what he’s going

  to say. “They haven’t spoken at all since they arrived.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I didn’t even know their names until you told

  me just now,” Mohammad says. “I don’t know where

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  they came from. I don’t know what language they speak.”

  “They speak Armenian, I think,” I say. “But

  Arabic too.”

  Safaa and Amin didn’t speak much with my

  family, but they did speak. Safaa especially was

  beginning to open up a little more. One part of me

  wants to help, but I’m still so angry.

  “You need to talk to her,” Mohammad says.

  “I can’t.”

  “It will help both of you.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “It would be good to have a friend in the camp.”

  “She’s no friend of mine.”

  “She did no harm other than leaving without

  telling you,” Mohammad says.

  “She shot at us.” I sound like Alan when he

  squabbles with his little friends.

  “That’s not why you’re angry.”

  Mohammad is right.

  “I’ll help you,” he says. “You must talk to Safaa,

  or this will eat you up from inside.”

  I can’t go back to the children’s center when Safaa

  is there. I can’t leave this camp.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

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  “Words will come,” Mohammad says. “Just promise to try.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Mohammad claps me on the back. “Great.

  Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “To talk to Safaa.”

  “Now?” I’m not ready yet. “What about

  tomorrow?”

  “Now,” Mohammad says. “Or you’ll spend your

  time afraid you’ll bump into her.”

  “I’m not afraid,” I say. “I’m angry.”

  “Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

  The other kids are back in school, so Mohammad

  collects Safaa from class.

  “Let’s walk,” Mohammad says to the two of us.

  Safaa’s beaded keffiyeh is pulled across her face so

  I can’t see her expression. She looks ready to bolt at

  any moment and keeps looking behind us, as though

  checking how far we’ve come from the school. How

  far she is from Amin. She probably wishes now that

  she’d kept her gun and bullets.

  Mohammad walks between us, but gradually he

  pulls back. He tries to be subtle but it’s really obvi-

  ous. I flash him a look; he ignores me.

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  “How is Amin?” I say at last. It’s a beginning.

  Safaa says nothing. We won’t get far if I’m the

  only one to do the talking. We walk a little more.

  “He’s well,” she says at last. Her voice is so soft,

  I doubt Mohammad hears her—I’m right beside her

  and I hardly hear her. “He wants to see you.”

  “You told him I’m here?”

  “Yes.”

  “He looks strong.”

  She doesn’t reply, but the wildness she wore isn’t

  so wild now. She isn’t so twitchy.

  “I looked for you at the border,” I say.

  I want to say more. I want to shout at her. To tell

  her I was worried and confused when they vanished.

  And angry. But maybe it’s not time for that yet. I’m

  working hard to keep my anger from boiling over,

  but maybe Safaa is working hard too. Words are

  difficult for her. I listen with every part of me.

  “We couldn’t sleep,” she says. “The smells. The

  noise. The cold.”

  “You took your bag.”

  “I wouldn’t leave it for you to carry.”

  “But not your carpet bag.” I don’t add that this

  was the bag that almost got me shot to pieces.

  “It was under your mother’s head. She was asleep.”

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  I never thought of that. We stop walking.

  “We left quietly,” she says.

  “Why cross without us?”

  She shrugs. “Nothing was planned. It happened.”

  How can you cross a border between coun-

  tries and not plan it? How? Anger rises in me again like black water, but I stop suddenly. I realize that’s

  exactly what happened to me. I never planned to

  cross the border, yet here I am in Turkey.

  “They opened the border for trucks and buses,”

  Safaa says. “A man shouted to us from a bus. We

  ran fast. He pulled us on—hid us under seats. The

  guards counted passengers but didn’t search. We got

  off in Reyhanli. We walked here.”

  I stare at Safaa. Mohammad stares at Safaa. Safaa

  stops talking. She looks bewildered from saying

  so much.

  Her leaving wasn’t planned. It wasn’t meant to

  be this way. My anger is gone. In its place is under-

  standing and a lingering sadness.

  “Can I see Amin?” I say.

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  15

  A week later, the nurse removes the bandages from

  my feet. I come straight back to the children’s center

  and put on my new white trainers. I pull the laces

  tight and stand up. They feel weird. My feet are shut

  in. My plastic sandals let my toes wriggle, but there’s

  no space for toe-wriggling in these. I walk outside

  to show Safaa and Amin. I’m springy. Taller. In pain.

  “They look too tight,”
Safaa says.

  “They’re perfect,” I say. Mohammad might take

  them back if they don’t fit.

  My toes are cramped, stiff, but these are new

  trainers. New. Trainers. I’ll get used to them. I’ll wear them even if they cut the feet off me. I look down at

  my European feet.

  The next day, I start at camp school. I walk light

  and bouncy, mostly so dust doesn’t settle on my

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  shoes, but also because it’s the least painful way to walk. When I get there, I see other boys in their

  trainers, with the laces loose and the tongues folded

  down. I do the same. It’s much more comfortable

  when my feet aren’t strangled.

  School here isn’t like real school. Students wan-

  der in and out all day. Some come for a few days,

  then stop. Then return. Others, like Safaa and Amin

  and me, are there every day because Mohammad and

  Fatima make sure every child in the children’s cen-

  ter attends school. Kids from different backgrounds

  and parts of Syria all cram into the tent. We speak

  different dialects and have learned different subjects.

  Everyone has missed some schooling. We mostly

  write stories about our experiences and memo-

  ries. The little ones paint pictures and sing songs.

  Alan would love it, but Bushra would be frustrated

  because there’s so little learning.

  I was at the top of my class in Kobani, with plans

  to study pharmacy in university. Now I can’t even

  concentrate. The teacher is kind and patient. He tells

  me to write down how I feel and what I’m thinking,

  but I’m afraid to start. I have so many feelings I’m

  afraid I won’t be able to stop writing. I don’t want

  to put my thoughts down on paper. I don’t want

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  to show them to anyone. It’s safer to hide them—

  then they don’t seem so real. I think of my family

  instead. I look at every boy Alan’s age and think of

  my brother. I even look at every girl Bushra’s age and

  think of my sister. I miss everything about Syria: my

  house, my friends, my aunts and uncles, my cousins.

  I even miss the streets and the markets. I miss the

  shops and the bunch of little kids who played on our

  street, lining up stones and pebbles. But most of all,

  I miss my family. I don’t sleep at night. I lie on my

  mattress and think of Dayah and Baba and Dapir. I

  wonder how Hamza is doing back in Kobani. I wish

  I was still with him.

  Once school is finished, there’s little to do. I

  don’t talk much with the other boys. I’m the Kurdish

  outsider. Safaa, Amin and I walk around the camp,

  sometimes talking, mostly just walking. Several

  times, we see the family I crossed the border with. I

  nod at them but we don’t talk.

  The boys in my container tease me about walk-

  ing with Safaa.

  “You’re too old to walk together,” they say.

  “Have you found your wife?” they say.

  “She should have a male relative with her,”

  they say.

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  “Amin is her brother,” I say. “He fulfills the role.”

  One afternoon, we cross the wooden planks laid

  over the stinking green ooze. At the barber’s tent,

  I trade my razor for a haircut. Safaa waits outside.

  Amin stands next to me to watch at close range. The

  barber holds up the long strands of hair curling down

  the nape of my neck.

  “Short?” he says.

  “Short.”

  When I come out, Safaa covers her mouth and

  turns away so I don’t see her laughter. Her shoulders

  shake. I finger the short stubble on my scalp.

  “Is it that bad?”

  “It has to last,” she says. “You don’t have another

  razor.”

  We walk back to the children’s center. The wind

  is cool on my scalp. I put my hand up to feel the

  shape of my skull beneath the fuzz.

  “It’ll grow,” Safaa says.

  Back at the children’s center, Fatima laughs.

  “What have you done to yourself?”

  “Haircut,” I say.

  “What will they think?” she says.

  “Who?”

  “The family waiting for you at reception.”

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  I stop. I stare at her. I hardly dare to say the words. “My family?”

  Fatima laughs again. “They arrived this after-

  noon. Go quick now.”

  I walk out of the children’s center. It’s like step-

  ping into a different world. A rarer world. A bigger

  world. The sky tilts and stretches above me. Ground

  shadows yawn wide and dark and thrilling. The

  hairs on my shorn scalp tingle like electricity runs

  through them. Amin stares at me, but I don’t stop.

  Safaa calls my name, but I can’t talk. Every part of

  me urges me on, aching with hunger. Driving me

  toward reception. I pick up my pace, jogging over

  the dusty ground. My toes feel every dip and yield on

  the path, even through the soles of my trainers. Little

  puffs of dirt rise in whispers and hushes beneath my

  feet. Bright air slides over my cheeks, hot and dry. As

  I sprint faster, the layers I’ve built to protect myself since I crossed the border flake off, like scorched

  leaves on the trees along Kobani’s Aleppo Way.

  They drift to the bare earth like a thousand feathers,

  memories of my terror and aloneness and cold dark

  nights, until I’m left bare. Raw. Exposed. None of

  me is hidden anymore. My feelings are on show for

  all to see. They shine wet on my face. They tremble

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  in my bones, my muscles, my gleaming blood.

  Reception is in front of me. Dayah stands next to

  it. My Dayah. Darkness lifts from my blood and my

  heart sings. I see her before she sees me. She watches

  every child passing by, her face pale and haunted. A

  twist of guilt tightens my belly. I’ve caused so much

  pain by leaving my family and crossing into Tur-

  key alone. And I’ll be in trouble for nearly getting

  shot dead by border guards. I stop running. I hold

  still for a heartbeat. I want to keep the sweetness of

  this moment captured in my memory for ever. Until

  now, I didn’t know how frightened I was.

  Dayah sees me. She freezes, eyes locked on mine.

  “Ghalib! My Ghalib.”

  Her voice is a whisper, but a whisper with a burn-

  ing edge to it. Everything releases inside me. I run

  into her outstretched arms and she snatches me to

  her. She runs her hands over me, feeling the shape of

  my skull with her fingertips, my arms and legs. The

  curve of my spine. The wings of my shoulders. I’m

  too old for her to do this, but I don’t care. I. Don’t.

  Care. Her consuming love is like flowers blossoming

  over my fears. Building up layers of protection again.

  We cry. We laugh.

  Only when she’s certain I’m uninjured does

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  Dayah hug me tightly to her, gripping me like she’ll never let me go. She presses her face to the top of
<
br />   my head. I hear her breath above me, her heartbeat

  against mine. She pushes me back to look at me fully.

  “Oh, Ghalib!” she says. “What happened?” Her

  fingers explore the fresh stubble on my scalp. “Lice

  or fleas?”

  “I traded my razor.”

  “You asked for this?” Her eyes fill with wonder.

  “Economy cut.”

  “But you have nothing left, Ghalib. Let’s hope it

  grows fast.” She draws her fingertip down my cheek.

  “But my first son is alive and well.” Her search-

  ing fingers pluck the shoulder of my new tracksuit.

  “New clothes?”

  “Is everyone well?” I say.

  She traces the seam of my T-shirt, straightening

  it across my shoulders. “How are your poor burned

  feet?”

  “When did you cross the border?”

  So many questions hang in the air. So many lost

  answers. Her eyes look at my laced trainers, still

  clean-looking. Still new. I’ve taken good care of

  them. Her gaze slides up to my face.

  “Where are the others?” I say. “Alan? Baba?”

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  Her face changes.

  “What?” My heart tightens like a claw grips it.

  Now is the time for truths to be told.

  “They’re in the clinic,” she says.

  My world shrivels again. The tilting sky plum-

  mets. Shadows lose their immense and wondrous

  shapes. The urge is still in me, stronger now, burn-

  ing me up.

  “I know where the clinic is.”

  “Wait,” Dayah says.

  I grab her hand. Drag her toward the clinic.

  We hurry past shelters, the wooden toilet hut. The

  kitchens. The food centers. Dayah pulls back a little.

  Slows me down.

  “The foreign doctor will help,” I say.

  “Slow down,” Dayah says.

  We pass diggers and tractors tearing up the earth,

  expanding the camp.

  “He speaks good Arabic. He smells nice. We’re

  almost there,” I say.

  The clinic is crowded with patients and familiar

  smells and medics I recognize. My eyes search for

  Baba. Bushra. Dapir. Most of all for Alan.

  There they are! There they are! I breathe again.

  I’m complete.

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  Baba is talking with the doctor, Bushra next to him. She looks different somehow. Newer. I’ve

  never felt such happiness to see my sister. My sister!

  But she isn’t the one I’m looking for. Bushra startles

  when she sees me. I pass her. Sense her reach for me,

  hear my name on her lips.

  “Ghalib—” Baba says.