Without Refuge

by Jane Mitchell

  “Can we visit Safaa and Amin, Ghalib?” he says.

  At the children’s center, Alan and Amin are awk-

  ward and shy with each other, unsure what to say. I

  feel the same with Safaa. It’s easier to focus on the

  two boys instead of talking with her. Amin jumps

  up and down with excitement. He strokes Alan’s

  face and the front of his new tracksuit. Alan looks at

  Amin, smiling. He says nothing at first.

  “You’re doing well, Alan,” Safaa says.

  “He needs to fatten up to fill out his tracksuit,”

  I say.

  Alan acts like a baby, trying to climb into Safaa’s

  arms as he’s seen Amin do. Pretending to be younger

  than he is. He’s playing it up. His weak arm is more

  hooked than ever.

  “You’ll never be good at soccer if you don’t prac-

  tice your skills,” I say. “Straighten your arm and

  show Safaa how good you are.”

  He pulls a face and stretches out his hand. He and

  Amin run off to find a ball. Minutes later, they’re

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  playing an awkward game with a half-deflated soccer ball—Alan with his gimpy leg and crooked arm,

  Amin with two left feet and uncoordinated tackles.

  “They’ll never make the national team,” I say.

  Safaa’s laughter shatters our awkwardness like

  glass breaking. From that moment, we’re comfort-

  able again, sitting on the broken-down fence. The

  disquiet of recent days burns away like morning mist.

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  17

  “Not again,” Bushra says.

  It’s dark. We’re curled up in our blankets, almost

  asleep. I turn to where Baba and Dayah lie.

  “I don’t want to go again, Baba,” I say.

  Now we are all awake. Even Alan. Baba turns on

  his little battery flashlight so we can see him—this

  is an important conversation. His face glows ghostly

  white.

  “Keep your voices down,” he says.

  He gestures toward the hanging blankets divid-

  ing the tent. Other families might be asleep, but I

  doubt it. They’re probably wide awake listening to

  us. Hearing this big news at the same time we are.

  “I like it here,” Alan says. “Can’t we stay, Dayah?”

  “This is no place to grow up,” Dayah says.

  “I don’t want to grow up,” Alan says.

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  “We don’t have to stay forever,” I say. “Just a while.”

  “In a refugee camp?” Dayah says.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Where do you want me to start?” Dayah says.

  “There’s no privacy. No proper toilets or kitchens.

  No facilities for a growing family.”

  “I have no work here,” Baba says. “The sanitation

  is terrible—it’s only a matter of time until one of us

  gets sick.”

  “I was sick already,” Alan says.

  “Bushra and I go to school here,” I say. “Before I

  got here, I hadn’t been to school for months.” Educa-

  tion is always a strong argument to put forward. I’ll

  never get to university on the education I’m getting

  here, but my parents don’t need to know that right

  now.

  “Why are we always leaving?” Alan says. “We

  left Kobani and Hamza. We left Syria and Dapir.

  Now we’re leaving here. Who will we leave behind

  this time?”

  He looks at us as though trying to decide who

  should be left behind.

  “We only came here to find Ghalib and get you

  well again,” Baba says. “We were always going to go

  farther than the first refugee camp.”

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  “There are nice people here,” Bushra says.

  “Kurdish people. I have friends again. Don’t you

  want me to have friends?”

  Bushra walks around the camp with girls from

  school, like I do with Safaa and Amin and Alan.

  She stopped laughing for a long time, but she laughs

  here, like she used to in Kobani.

  “Bushra is right,” I say. “She’s happy here.”

  Bushra looks at me to check that I’m not teasing

  her. Seemingly satisfied, she turns back to Dayah.

  “Don’t you want me to be happy?”

  “There are no bombs. No airstrikes,” I say. “No

  ISIS fighters.”

  Baba shakes his head at us. “This isn’t a safe place

  at night.”

  “In Kobani it was dangerous day and night.”

  “We have to find a permanent home where we

  can settle and stay,” Baba says.

  Dayah looks at Bushra: “A home with new

  friends to make you happy.” She looks at me: “Good

  schooling so you can go to university.” She looks

  at Alan: “And where you don’t have to leave again,

  even if you don’t want to grow up.”

  Bushra scowls. “You worked this all out,” she says.

  Here we go, I think.

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  “You and Baba are ganging up on us about this.” She looks at them closely, screwing up her

  eyes. “You planned this whole conversation. There’s

  nothing Ghalib and I can say to make you change

  your minds.”

  “Or me,” Alan says.

  “Or Alan,” Bushra says.

  “What are you talking about, Bushra?” Baba says.

  “You figured out every argument we could put

  up against leaving and worked out an answer before

  we even thought of the arguments,” Bushra says.

  She turns to me. “There’s no point even try-

  ing, Ghalib. No matter what we say, they’ll have an

  answer for it. Just go along with them. They’ll win

  anyway. They’re parents.”

  She emphasizes the last word— parents—as if it’s

  the worst thing in the world. Bushra is being dra-

  matic. My parents have to make decisions that are

  best for us. Leaving the refugee camp is probably the

  best decision, though it’s a hard one.

  “We didn’t plan anything, Bushra,” Dayah says.

  “We wanted to talk to you all about it.”

  I always knew we wouldn’t stay here forever, but

  I didn’t want to think about it. It’s easier to not go

  anywhere. To write stories in school and walk with

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  Safaa and Amin and Alan. To line up for water and showers and burners and food rations. To shut ourselves inside overnight.

  “I don’t want to leave either, Bushra,” I say. “I

  hate being on the road, but I don’t want to grow up

  here. I still want to be a pharmacist. You still want to be an engineer. We’ll never reach our dreams here.”

  “I left my dreams in Kobani,” Bushra says.

  “You have your whole life to weave new dreams,”

  Baba says. “We’re leaving for Europe.”

  “Europe?” Bushra says.

  “Our final destination all along. It’s mostly safe

  and peaceful, with work opportunities and good

  schools.”

  “What if Europe doesn’t want us?” Bushra says.

  “It’s closing its borders to people like us.”

  I stare at her. “How can a whole continent lock

  people out?”

  “We’ll claim refugee status in Europe,” Baba

/>   says. “They have to protect us. To settle us with

  homes and jobs. You can go to school. Make friends.

  Stay in one place.”

  “Where did you hear all that?” Bushra says.

  “From the smugglers who wanted gold for fence

  clippers to cut into Turkey? It’s not like that, Baba.

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  Europe is sending refugees back to where they came from. On planes and boats. Under armed guard.”

  Bushra is annoying me now, or maybe she’s scar-

  ing me. I’m not sure which.

  “Dayah and Baba are trying their best,” I say.

  “All you can do is moan and make stupid comments.

  Why can’t you be positive for once? Why can’t you

  just get on with things?”

  “Don’t get upset, Ghalib,” Baba says.

  But it’s not me who’s upset. To my astonish-

  ment, Bushra’s eyes fill with tears. They glitter in

  the wavering torchlight.

  “Europeans don’t know anything about Kurd-

  ish ways. They don’t want us, Ghalib. Nobody

  wants us. They all speak different languages so we

  won’t understand anyone and nobody will under-

  stand us. They’ll stare at my headscarf and Kurdish

  clothes. They’ll send us back to Syria, where we’ll be

  bombed.”

  Bushra stops talking. In the breath-held silence

  that follows her outburst, she buries her face in her

  blanket. Her shoulders shake as she sobs. If the other

  families in the tent were asleep before, they’re defi-

  nitely wide awake now. They’ll have plenty to talk

  about tomorrow.

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  I stare at my sister. “It’s not my fault we’re Kurdish,” I say. “Don’t blame me!”

  “That’s enough,” Dayah says.

  “Everyone’s tired,” Baba says. “We’ll talk again

  in the morning.”

  That ends the conversation. Baba turns the lit-

  tle flashlight off and we lie down. In the darkness,

  Dayah murmurs soft words to Bushra, comforting

  her. Nobody comforts me. I can’t see their faces

  and gestures, their fear and anger, but everything

  knots inside me. There’s a hard ball in my belly. I

  lie in the dark and listen to my family breathing. I

  think they’re like me, with aching hearts and racing

  thoughts. My head fills with thinking until it hurts.

  Maybe Bushra is right. Maybe nobody in Europe

  wants people who’ve had to run away from ISIS,

  from bombs and airstrikes. Maybe they believe we

  deserve to be blown up. Part of me is relieved to be

  leaving camp; most of me is terrified. I’m scared of

  my future. Where will I end up? What kind of life

  will I have?

  And then there are Safaa and Amin. Baba

  never mentioned them coming with us. Now that

  we’re friends again, they come around most days

  after school. They help prepare food and, some

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  evenings, even share our meals. Surely we can’t leave them behind?

  Next morning, none of us talks about leaving

  camp. Everyone looks tired and red-eyed, Bushra

  most of all. I don’t think she got much sleep. She

  walks to school ahead of Alan and me, her head

  down. I leave her to it. I don’t want to listen to her

  scary talk and angry outbursts this morning. I don’t

  want to talk to my family about leaving either, but

  it’s entirely different with Safaa. During our after-

  noon walk, as soon as Amin and Alan run ahead to

  collect stones and twigs to build their own refugee

  camp, I burst out with the news: “We are leaving

  here for Europe.”

  “Families always leave,” Safaa says.

  “Will you come with us?” I say. “I haven’t asked

  Baba, but he won’t mind.”

  “We can only leave with our own family.”

  But Safaa has no family other than Amin. “What

  will happen, then?”

  “We’ll stay here,” she says. “And you’ll be gone.”

  Her words hold the same deep sadness and anger

  as her eyes, and perhaps even a little of their wildness. I don’t want to leave them here. I especially don’t want

  to leave her here. I want to say things—important 199

  things—but can’t find the right words. I don’t want them to come out wrong.

  “If you were allowed . . . ”

  I stop. Try to think. Safaa waits.

  “If you were allowed to leave camp . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “I would like you to be with me. I mean, with

  us. With my family.” My cheeks are hot.

  Safaa smiles. “I know.”

  She’s like Bushra: she knows things before I

  know them. Maybe all girls are like this. Smart. Able

  to read a boy’s thoughts before he even has them.

  “You know?” I say.

  “Of course,” she says. “We’re together every day.

  You’re the closest thing to family we have.”

  I wait.

  “If we were allowed to leave camp . . . ” she says.

  “Yes?”

  “I would like to be with you.”

  She smiles. Her cheeks are pink. She looks away,

  pulling those dark eyes from me and taking my heart

  with them.

  “Not only with your family, Ghalib,” she says.

  “But especially with you.”

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  18

  Getting ready to leave Reyhanli Refugee Camp is

  nothing like getting ready to leave Kobani. We only

  have one corner of our shared tent to clear out. Dayah

  gives most of our belongings to the other family:

  extra blankets and cushions, cooking pots and water

  containers, old clothes and food. A few scraps belong-

  ing to Dapir. I think the other family is happy to see

  us go, and even happier to take what we leave behind.

  They’re kind enough to give us their blessing.

  “I hope they enjoy the extra space while they

  have it,” Baba says. “It won’t be long before a new

  family moves in.”

  Bushra looks at the bundle of goods I have ready

  to take. “You’ve changed since we left Kobani,

  Ghalib,” she says.

  “Two words, Bushra,” I say. “Bare. Essentials.”

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  I carry little this time. My bedroll, my blanket and towel, my zip-up wash-bag. My plastic bowl and

  woolly hat. Dayah gave me one of Dapir’s scarves,

  which I wear with pride around my neck to remind

  me of her.

  I wait until after school on my last day to speak

  with my teacher. “I’m pleased you’re leaving,” he

  says. “You’re a caged bird here, Ghalib—this camp

  clipped your wings. You have much to offer the

  world. Go and fly.”

  On my last evening with Safaa and Amin, I give

  Amin my sports watch and soccer cards, and Safaa

  my treasured pocketknife.

  “You don’t have your gun,” I say, “so this might

  come in useful. And maybe it can be something to

  remember me by.”

  “I would remember you even if you gave me

  nothing,” Safaa says. She smiles at me from beneath

  her wild hair.

  Dusk is closing around the camp as I walk
them

  back to the children’s center. I hug Amin tightly.

  “Eat your vegetables,” I say. “Get big and strong.”

  I turn to Safaa. I want to hug her too, but it

  wouldn’t be respectful. We’re uncomfortable and

  awkward.

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  “This is not the end,” Safaa says. “Our futures will entwine, Ghalib.”

  “I hope so,” I say. And I mean it.

  I can do nothing about leaving Safaa and Amin,

  but I’m a little comforted by the certainty that I will

  see them again. Sometime, somewhere, our paths

  will cross.

  We shake hands. Before I turn to leave, Safaa

  leans close to kiss me lightly and swiftly on the cheek, and then she’s gone, pulling Amin with her into the

  children’s center. It happens so quickly, I don’t have

  time to react. I look after her. I touch my cheek with

  my fingertips as fireworks pop in my blood. I run

  back to our tent, through the thickening dark. The

  whole way, all I can think is: Safaa kissed me!

  We leave the camp as early dawn pinks the sky

  in the east.

  We turn our backs on the unwinding of a new

  day and walk west into the dark of the still starry

  sky. To Europe. A few early risers stop to watch us

  walk through the night-blue air. They stare because

  we are leaving. People who leave are always worth

  staring at. People who leave are the ones with hopes.

  With dreams. With choices. I’ve done my share of

  staring too: when the family I crossed the border

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  with left a few weeks ago, I stared at them as they walked out the gate and I thought about the time I

  walked in with them.

  Bushra doesn’t like being stared at. “Do we have

  something stamped on our foreheads?”

  “People who leave are the fortunate ones,”

  Baba says.

  “I don’t feel fortunate,” Bushra says.

  “You have your freedom,” Baba says.

  “More than many people have,” Dayah says.

  “Nothing worse than moral lessons at dawn,”

  Bushra says. She shifts her bag to the other shoulder

  and marches ahead.

  I don’t look back. I don’t want to see the shel-

  ters and dirt paths, the makeshift lean-tos and Green

  River. I carry the smell of the camp on my skin and

  in my soul. It will always be with me. Now, I put

  my head down and lead Alan up the hill away from

  the entrance.

  At the junction, a rusted signpost points to Rey-

  hanli. I look at the painted plank of wood on the dirt