Without Refuge
Page 17
Bushra and I share a seat in front of Dayah and
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Baba. We raise the armrest and Alan sits in the middle. Alan and I check out the gadgets: ashtray, foot-
rest, air vent, little net fixed to the back of the seat.
“For your water bottle,” I say.
Bushra is grumpy already. “Stay still!” she says.
“Do you have to jump around so much?”
“It’s going to be a long thirteen hours,” I say.
A green light above the driver turns red. After
a while, it goes green again as a man returns to his
seat from the back of the bus. “There’s a toilet at the
back,” I say.
“You’re not investigating it now,” Baba says.
An older couple gets on, arms full of bags. I
know immediately that they’re Syrian. This sur-
prises me. I wondered how the shouting man in the
otogar recognized us as Syrian but now that I see
this couple, it’s obvious that they look completely
different from Turks.
Bushra looks at them too. “Is it their clothes?”
she says. “Or their faces?”
Maybe it’s their uncertainty as they scan the bus.
“Do we look like that?”
“Maybe to others.”
“They wear the war,” Alan says. That’s the best
description of all.
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The couple finds their seats. I’m pleased we’re not the only Syrians on the bus.
We leave almost on time. The driver talks in
Turkish over the speaker as I gaze out the window.
Adana slides past, and I am not sorry to leave. I lay
my head on the headrest and think about crossing
the sea to Europe.
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20
All through that afternoon and into the night we
travel across Turkey. I half-wake each time we pull
into a garage for fuel or stop to let passengers on or
off. A breeze wafts through the open doors, the cabin
lights with sudden brightness, I’m aware of shadows
and voices. Most of the time, I sleep, slumped against
Alan or Bushra.
I wake as the sky pales. Alan is now between
Dayah and Baba. Bushra looks out the window. “See
the sea?” she says.
We drive along high cliffs. Reaching from the
cliff face to the far horizon is the bluest, flattest,
sweetest sight I’ve ever seen. The ocean is still and
calm, with a sparkle where the rising sun catches it.
Even in its stillness, a roll heaves beneath its vast surface like a giant turning over in his sleep. Its farthest 221
boundary is hazy. It melts into the morning sky. I’ve seen pictures of the sea. I’ve seen films and videos of
the sea. But I’ve never seen the sea. And there it is, shining beneath me.
“I can’t stop staring at it,” Bushra says.
“We’re going to cross it,” I say.
The bus trundles for another hour before we
reach the city of Izmir, where we disembark at the
otogar. Baba pulls our luggage from the hold. “See?”
he says to Dayah. “Nothing taken.”
“Nothing worth taking,” Dayah says.
The older Syrian couple we saw earlier approach
Baba and Dayah. The rest of us wait with the bags
while the adults talk quietly.
Dayah turns to us. “They will be joining us for a
while,” she says.
“Where are they from?” I say.
“Aleppo,” says Baba. “They’re traveling to their
sons in Germany.”
Izmir is a different city entirely from Adana and
Reyhanli. It’s buzzing and crowded, full of old build-
ings and open-air cafés, markets and green spaces.
There are foreign people everywhere, and not only
Syrians. People in skimpy clothes with sunburned
skin and peeling noses. People with blond hair and
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orange hair and even one with purple hair. People in sunglasses.
“Europeans on holidays,” Bushra says.
We see dark-skinned people with headscarves
and long robes, women with their faces covered and
children trailing behind them.
“Afghanis traveling to Europe,” Bushra says.
“What makes you an expert on every national-
ity?” I say.
“I know these things. I read the Internet.”
“That’s what we need now,” Baba says. He and
Dayah want to get news from home, so we find an
Internet café. The Syrian couple order Turkish cof-
fee and eggs while we log on to a computer. Baba
reads emails from the mukhtar, from Uncle Yousef,
from others at home.
“How’s Hamza?” I say,
“Alert and doing well. His burns are healing. He
might be strong enough to travel in a few months.”
“Months?” It seems like forever.
Dayah reads news from Kobani, after which
Bushra checks her social media. She’s on for ages.
“Hurry up,” I say.
“There’s a lot of news to read.”
“I get time too.”
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When she finally gets off, I check the teams on the Syrian Premier League. The connection is too
slow for gaming and none of my friends is online to
chat. I wish there was Wi-Fi in the refugee camp so I
could chat with Safaa and Amin. I want to tell them
what the sea looks like and about our bus journey
and the shouting man in Adana.
Once we’re finished, we have eggs and bread.
The older Syrian man introduces himself as Baraa
and his wife as Rawan. She wears a lot of gold jew-
elry. They both have gray hair and are dressed in
brightly colored clothes. They smoke a waterpipe.
I stare at the water bubbling through the blue glass
vase, the shining brass bowl with its wisp of smoke,
the long hose wound around with copper wire.
The smoke smells sweet and fruity. This couple
might be senior citizens, but they’re nothing like
Dapir. My Dapir would never smoke a waterpipe
in a million years.
“My sons tell us we must find the Sinbad Res-
taurant in Basmane Square,” Baraa says. He looks
around and drops his voice low. “Where Turks
arrange for Syrians to cross to Greece.”
“How much does it cost?” Baba says.
“More than most people have.” Baraa says. He
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rubs his belly. His wife turns gold rings on her fingers.
“There are only two of us,” Baraa says. “Are you
bringing all the children?” He looks at the three of
us. He drops his voice, but we hear him anyway.
“Would you not leave the girl?”
Bushra says nothing—which is hard for her—but
I see her jaw clench. She turns away. Baraa’s wander-
ing eye stops at Alan. He looks at his little hooked
hand. His gimpy leg. I stiffen. I know what he’s
about to say next. We’ve heard it many times before
in Kobani.
“And what use will that one be?” Baraa says.
“He’ll bring a curse on your family. Perhaps on
everyone in the boat.”
Dayah sits upright. She draws breath. “All my
children are precious. I don’t favor
one over the
other. I would stay behind in a heartbeat to let them
go if we didn’t have money for all of us.”
Baraa inclines his head to acknowledge my moth-
er’s words. He makes no further comment. Secretly,
I’m pleased he didn’t pick on me—I’ll definitely be
in the boat. But I’m annoyed for Bushra and Alan.
Baraa’s wife, Rawan, says nothing. She sucks on the
waterpipe and watches us silently, her jewelry glint-
ing in the sun.
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---
Plastic tables and chairs are set on the pavement
outside the Sinbad Restaurant. Crowds of people
stand around. Some look Syrian. Others have darker
skins, wear different clothing and speak unfamiliar
languages. A lot of them message or talk on their
phones.
Inside the restaurant, half a dozen Turkish men
watch from a small table. They spot us arriving.
They follow us with their eyes. They remind me of
Syrian shopkeepers who chased me and Hamza from
the burned-out stalls in the souq. Of Turkish border
guards with raised guns and loud voices who eyed
everyone up at the Bab al-Hawa Border Crossing.
Of the shouting café owner in Adana. Something
unpleasant is in the air around this place, like the
electric charge before a thunderstorm.
“The owner’s brother manages his business from
here,” Baraa says to Baba. “You and I need to talk
with him.”
“We’ll wait here,” Dayah says.
Rawan waits with us. She doesn’t speak, but
glances around with the same nervousness I first
noticed on the bus. A tall teenager approaches Baba
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and Baraa when they enter the restaurant. The hair on the back of my neck prickles and my skin tightens as I watch them, even though it’s bright day-
light with plenty of people around. Their discussion
doesn’t take long.
“We must wait until sunset,” Baraa says when he
and Baba return.
“And then?” Dayah says.
“We don’t know,” Baba says. “They won’t dis-
cuss anything.”
“But you’re sure this is the right place?”
“He wouldn’t confirm anything,” Baba says.
“Blanked us completely and only offered to take a
food order.”
“The authorities must be watching,” Baraa says.
I cast my gaze around the narrow streets, the tall
buildings, the knots of people. No police or officials
are around but, even so, a shadow crosses my heart.
We have no papers, no permission to be in Turkey.
We’re illegal.
“What will we do, Baba?” I say.
“Wait until dark.”
The sun is still high and a lot of day stretches
ahead. We settle at one of the plastic tables with our
bags. Nobody comes to take an order. After a while,
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the attention of our Turkish watchers moves on to someone else. We’re no longer the new arrivals. We
melt into the crowds. What seemed exciting and
adventurous this morning now has a sinister edge
to it. The thought of crossing a vast stretch of sea is
terrifying, especially if it happens after dark. I had
never considered it might happen at night, with so
many foreigners from unknown countries.
“I don’t want to go in the boat, Baba,” I say.
“We have no choice, Ghalib.”
Hamza’s words from another time, another place,
flash into my head: There’s always a choice, Ghalib.
“But at night! Can’t we choose a daytime
crossing?”
“It’s safer when we can’t be seen.”
And that’s the choice, which is not a choice at all.
“How will we know where to go?”
“These people arrange this all the time. They
know what to do.”
There’s little talk among us: everyone seems caught
up in private thoughts. Sometimes I tune into foreign
conversations. Sometimes I watch others around me.
Alan wanders among the scattering of tables, watch-
ing people curiously and smiling if they notice him.
Some ignore him; others have a friendly word. I watch
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their faces. I know what will happen every time. I wait for that instant when they become aware of his curling hand, his gimpy foot. I’ve seen people’s expres-
sions change so many times before. They stare at him.
Sometimes they pull back a little. They look to see
who he belongs to. Alan sees the change but I’m not
sure he understands it. My heart aches for him. He
circles back to our table every so often, as though for
comfort. He nuzzles Dayah or butts against me. When
he feels safe again, he resumes his wandering.
Mid-afternoon, Dayah orders chips and Turkish
pizza. None of us seems to have much appetite. We
pick at the food, push it around our plates. I watch
the sunlight slide between the narrow buildings.
Now that evening approaches, I wish time would
slow down.
“I feel sick,” Bushra says.
“Like you want to throw up?” I say.
“Like I’m facing the end.”
“Don’t say that, Bushra.”
“Baba,” she says. “Is there no other way?”
“This is how it has to be, Bushra.”
Darkness creeps through the streets too soon.
Twinkle lights come on in shops, strung around open
doors and windows to spill color onto the street.
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Waiters light candles on the tables outside their restaurants; bar owners turn on neon signs. Electric
light is everywhere, so different from the darkness
of Kobani and the refugee camp. I’m amazed by its
brightness, its colors, its warmth. But it does nothing
to lift the darkness in my blood.
Inside the Sinbad Restaurant, fluorescent tubes
flicker on. Blue light glares into the night, throwing
hard shadows around the crowds. People have been
arriving all afternoon, sitting on the ground in the
square. Now with the lights on, they shuffle closer,
drawn like moths to the moonlight. Baba and Baraa
join them. I feel the same sickness as Bushra.
---
Baraa and his wife, Rawan, finish their business
with the owner’s brother first. Now it’s our turn.
The Turk wants to meet all of us.
“Why?” Bushra says.
“To see our sizes, our weights,” Baba says. “For
the boat.” We’re silent as we think about this.
“If we must, we must,” Dayah says.
She ushers us into the Sinbad Restaurant. Turk-
ish men move back to give us space. The Turk sits at
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a table covered with a red plastic tablecloth, a teapot in front of him. He’s fat, with stains down the front
of his shirt. He looks at us with greasy eyes.
“What do you need from us?” Dayah says. The
Turk looks at Baba before he answers. “Weights,” he
says. “It’s all about bodies.”
Dayah looks sharply at him when he says that,
but the Turk doesn’t notice. Or if he does notice, he
must not care. He asks our ages, writes figures in his
grubby notebook with a short pencil.
“No food. No water. No bags,” he says to Baba.
It sounds like he repeats this a million times a day.
“Only people. No space for anything else. You
understand? Dump it all.”
“No water?” Dayah says.
“No water! No water!” the Turk says, speak-
ing into her face. “Why does everyone want water?
It’s only an hour, you understand? Lots of water in
Greece for everyone. Short journey—no water.”
Baba and Dayah stay to finish business while we
go outside. The dark feels safer than the brightness
inside the Sinbad Restaurant. Turkish men work
their way through the crowds outside, sorting them
into order, checking their reason for being here.
Anyone passing might think this is a restaurant for
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foreigners, with a lot of waiters. Battery lights flicker green and yellow in little glass vases on the tables.
Teenage boys serve dishes of food.
“We’re staying in a guesthouse by the seafront,”
Baraa says to me. He ignores Bushra and Alan, in
the same way he ignores his wife most of the time.
“Your parents are spending all their money on you.
I hope you’re grateful to them for giving you this
chance at a new life.”
He stands up and walks into the dark. Rawan
trots behind him, carrying their bags.
“I’m not surprised Baraa’s sons moved to Ger-
many,” Bushra says. “If he was my father, I would
move away too.”
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21
The Turk calls Baba on the third night.
It’s late and the square is dark. Bars and shops are
shuttered; the Sinbad Restaurant is closed. I’m lying
with Alan, Bushra, and Dayah on the ground, wrapped
in blankets. Baba has stayed up, waiting for the call.
My eyes fly open when the phone rings. Baba
fumbles in his pocket to answer. I sit up. Hear the
Turk’s voice, even though the phone is pressed to
Baba’s ear. Baba repeats the instructions.
“End of the street,” he says.
“Half an hour,” he says.
“Delivery truck,” he says.
The Turk hangs up. Baba’s face is pale and ghostly
under the streetlight, his eyes red and watery. He
hasn’t slept much since doing business with the Turk.
He was afraid he would miss the call.
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“This will change our lives forever,” he said to us the first night.