Without Refuge

by Jane Mitchell

  “For better or worse,” Bushra said.

  Sometimes Dayah took the phone while Baba

  slept, but even then, it wasn’t restful sleep. He lay

  down for minutes at a time, and started at every

  sound. He constantly checked the phone’s battery,

  the signal, for missed calls. Now he peers at me.

  “We leave tonight,” he says. His voice is a

  whisper.

  I swallow the sickness in my throat. My skin

  feels as though ants are crawling under it. My blood

  itches. I roll my blankets.

  “Leave them,” Baba says. “Nothing goes in the

  boat.”

  He wakes Dayah and Bushra. We let Alan sleep

  a little longer.

  “Bring the blankets and bedrolls,” Dayah says.

  “It might be cold on the truck.”

  We’re quiet as we get ready. The square is full

  of people sleeping in the open after handing over

  all their gold and money to the Turk. All through

  the last two nights, other phones rang, other people

  around us got ready to depart. We listened to them

  leaving. We waited for our call. I wonder if they all

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  got to Europe, if Greece allowed them to land on its shores. Now it’s our turn. We’re not alone. Ring-tones cut through the darkness, breaking the sleep of

  a dozen other people in the square, people who will

  travel with us. They too gather their families and

  their belongings. Baraa and his wife, Rawan, have

  been in the guesthouse by the waterfront since the

  first night. Their sons in Germany sent them money

  for a bed.

  “They’re old,” Dayah says. “They wouldn’t man-

  age to sleep on the ground.”

  “They could offer to help us,” Bushra says. She

  hasn’t liked Baraa since he suggested she be left

  behind. “They could bring us bread. Store our bags

  in their room.”

  “He’s traditional and conservative in his views,”

  Dayah says. “He knows no different.”

  “He knew to come to us looking for someone to

  travel with,” Bushra says.

  I think of Baraa answering his phone in his pri-

  vate guesthouse, only to end up with us in the same

  boat to Europe.

  When we’re ready to leave, Baba lifts Alan in

  his arms and we join the straggle of people walking

  to the end of the street to meet the delivery truck.

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  We hear the grinding engine long before it pulls around the corner. Canvas sides are stretched over a

  metal frame, like dozens we saw crossing the border

  between Turkey and Syria at Bab al-Hawa. Its head-

  lights are off. Three Turks get out of the cab to open

  the rear doors; the driver stays behind the wheel.

  “Why so many Turks?” Bushra says.

  Everyone crowds close, but the Turks don’t allow

  anyone near the truck. They push people away. Clear

  a space at the back. One Turk calls family names,

  the others count people getting on. Families with

  children. A group of four men. A young couple with

  a baby.

  The Turk calls out our family name.

  Baba and Dayah step forward, ushering us ahead

  of them. Bushra plucks at my shirt. I reach back and

  touch her fingertips. Alan peers at me over Baba’s

  shoulder, eyes wide and frightened.

  “Man, woman, three children,” the Turk says.

  His Arabic is bad.

  He counts us, pushes us toward another Turk

  who helps us climb the tailgate. Inside is black. I

  stumble over someone’s feet.

  “Here, Ghalib.” Dayah reaches for me.

  “Where’s Bushra?” I can’t see her in the dark.

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  “I’m here.”

  We hunker together, spreading bedrolls on the

  planks. Alan clambers off Baba to nestle against me. I

  watch the silhouettes of other travelers as they climb

  on and find their places. The back of the truck is full

  and yet the Turk still calls names. A baby cries.

  “I hope it’s a big boat,” I say.

  “I hope there’s more than one boat,” a voice says.

  Baraa! My heart tightens. None of us says any-

  thing: I think everyone in my family recognizes his

  voice. Maybe there was a separate collection for peo-

  ple in guesthouses.

  Bushra whispers in my ear so nobody can hear.

  “We’re all equal in the boat.”

  When no one else will fit in, the Turks slam shut

  the tailgate and slide the bolt. Their cigarette smoke

  drifts through the air. The truck rocks as they climb

  into the cab, then the engine coughs into life. The

  driver slams it into gear and we roar into the dark.

  “How far?” I whisper.

  “Three and a half hours,” Baba says.

  Izmir is a different city at night. Loud music

  rocks the air as we pass late-night bars and night-

  clubs. Flashes of colored light gleam through gaps in

  the canvas to slide across our faces: young and old,

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  dark and pale. Everyone’s face lifts upward to the unexpected brightness, eyes wide. Voices and laughter, cigarette smoke and strange sweet smells I don’t

  recognize wash through sudden bursts of music and

  electric light. Alan clings to me, tighter with every

  explosion of sound and life from outside.

  “It’s only parties,” I say.

  We soon leave the nightclubs and late-night parties

  behind. We drive on smooth concrete until the driver

  turns off the highway to lurch over dirt roads. The

  loud music and shouts of laughter are replaced with a

  sleepy silence, all the deeper in the truck. There’s little talk. Sometimes a soft word, a reassuring comment,

  passes between families, but mostly we’re inside our

  own heads, thinking of what lies ahead. Even Baraa

  has run out of things to say. Alan falls asleep on my

  lap. I lean against Dayah, but it’s not easy to doze in

  the back of a pitching truck. It’s not easy to sleep with sickness in my belly and blackness in my blood.

  ---

  When the truck finally stops and the engine turns

  off, my ears throb with abrupt silence that rushes

  into my head. “Where are we?”

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  “Assos,” Baba says. “I hope.”

  “I need to pee,” Alan says.

  “As soon as we get out,” I say.

  People gather themselves, break open unused

  voices after the long journey. The bolt slams back.

  The tailgate swings down. A bright fresh tang swims

  into the truck.

  “What’s that smell?” Alan says.

  “Salt water,” says Bushra.

  I inhale deeply. The sea smell cools my heated

  blood.

  We climb out, drowsy after sitting for so long.

  Alan stumbles until his feet find themselves. By the

  light of the moon, I bring him to a stand of small

  trees where we both relieve ourselves. Everyone is

  standing around when we get back. The baby cries

  again. I see her in her mother’s arms.

  The Turks carry large plastic sacks and thick

  sticks. The moonlight glints on long knives tucked

  into t
heir belts. I nudge Bushra to show her.

  “What are those for?” she says.

  We trudge after the Turks along a narrow road.

  The ground is soft beneath my feet but it doesn’t

  feel like dirt. It takes me a few minutes to realize it’s sand. Beach sand. Tall slender grasses whisper and

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  rasp as we turn off the road to push through them.

  They prickle my ankles above my trainers. Their

  sharp tips itch my arms. Dayah guides Baraa’s wife,

  Rawan. Baraa walks next to Baba.

  It’s dark out, but not black like it was in the

  truck. The moon spills its cool light to make shadows

  darker than sin. It sparkles the sand with tiny glints.

  We climb a dune, and a black sheet of sea spreads

  before us, its ripples silver-bright in the moonlight.

  Waves fizz and melt into the black sand. “I can’t see

  lights on the horizon,” I say. “Where’s Greece?”

  “The Turk said we would see it from the shore,”

  Bushra says. Her voice is tight.

  We turn along the beach and round a small head-

  land. Assos nestles in a circular bay, its streetlights

  glimmering. A dozen boats bob on the waters of a

  small harbor.

  “Are we going in one of those?” I say.

  Bushra punches me in the arm and hisses in my

  ear. “Don’t make yourself out to be even more stupid

  than you are.”

  “I only asked!”

  “Don’t you two start,” Dayah says.

  I didn’t know she was right behind us. Bushra

  and I shut up and stumble on, sliding and sinking

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  in the soft sand. Dayah walks more slowly over the dunes with Rawan. The gap between us widens.

  Bushra digs me in the ribs. “Those private boats

  belong to rich people and tourists.”

  “How was I supposed to know?”

  “Our boat will be a leaking old tub.”

  We walk under trees at the back of the beach.

  Moonlight can’t get through the leaves. Several peo-

  ple curse as they trip on roots and fallen branches.

  Without warning, Alan butts against me, pushing

  me aside.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  “There’s a man asleep,” he says. “I didn’t want to

  walk on him.”

  I glance back and see the silhouette of someone

  curled up against a tree trunk.

  “There’s another,” Bushra says.

  Lots of people are sleeping among the trees. Oth-

  ers hunker low on the ground, watching us. A bad

  feeling creeps through me.

  “Who are they?” I say.

  “Maybe other people trying to get to Greece,”

  Bushra says.

  The reek of wood smoke and human waste and

  bad food thickens the air. It lingers beneath the trees

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  where the sea tang can’t reach. I hold my breath.

  I know that stench too well.

  “A settlement,” I say.

  We pass tents and tarpaulin shelters, lean-tos and

  cooking fires. People lie in sleeping bags, surrounded

  by car tires and orange life jackets, empty food pack-

  ages, crumpled papers, water bottles and crushed

  cans. Like Reyhanli Refugee Camp, but dirtier

  and more disorganized. And the smell. Everywhere

  the smell.

  “Like the Syrian border,” Bushra says.

  Baraa’s voice carries through the dark. “I didn’t

  pay to be brought to a shantytown. Where are we

  going?”

  Nobody answers.

  Men with dark skins and long beards squat

  around the fires, watching us. Their eyes shine white

  in the glow from the embers. Some have blankets

  draped over their shoulders. Some are smoking, the

  burning tips of cigarettes bright in the black. They

  stand up as we pass, hitching grubby jeans over

  narrow hips and muttering to each other. The bad

  feeling in me rises.

  “Don’t look, Ghalib,” Baba says. “Keep close

  to me.”

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  The four Turks with us have spread along the length of our group. They hold their sticks in their

  fists and march us on, heads down. I’m glad they’re

  with us. The Turk leading the group picks up the

  pace. We clear the tents and cooking fires. I look

  back. Men from the camp collect at the fringes of the

  trees to watch our group.

  “Will they follow us?” I say.

  “I hope not,” Bushra says.

  I hurry on.

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  22

  Once we’re back on the beach again, the Turks relax

  a little. We slow down. We’re at a different part of

  the shore. A stiff breeze comes off the sea to lift a

  sting of fine sand. The strong salty ocean rushes at us

  in pale broken rages. It paws the dark shore like an

  animal about to charge. Its mood has changed from

  the smooth silvery water where we got off the truck.

  Waves sizzle into the sand to gather and rush again.

  This is an angry, dangerous sea, whipped up by the

  onshore wind.

  We walk along the water’s edge over stones

  and shells and damp knotted seaweed. I sense the

  strength of the sea. Its cold depths. Its restlessness. I think of its strange creatures. Of its hunger for boats

  and people, swallowing them whole so they’re never

  seen again. My belly tightens. I lean away from the

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  breeze, its saltiness gritty on my skin, clumping my hair.

  Bushra holds her scarf in place with one hand,

  grips my jacket with the other. Alan clings to me,

  hand deep in mine. His little hooked arm is curled

  tight against his body like an extraordinary seashell,

  pale and fragile. He tries to twist his legs through

  mine to get closer and closer again. Some of the

  twisting is from his gimpy leg, which throws him

  off balance when we walk on an uneven surface, but

  most of it is Alan pressing himself against me when

  he could walk straighter if he tried.

  “Stop, Alan,” I say. “We’ll both fall and then

  what would happen?”

  I untangle him, make him walk beside me. But

  he still leans against me, away from the dark sea and

  the blackness, as though trying to imprint himself

  into me so that we become one.

  The Turks stop. Waves slop and hiss at my feet.

  Rawan leans on Dayah’s arm. Baraa, for all his blus-

  ter, looks old and anxious next to Baba. Everyone

  gathers close. We stare at the water.

  A man turns on his phone light. He shines the

  beam through the windy dark to see the churning

  water.

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  “What are you doing?” A Turk grabs the phone.

  “No lights!” says another Turk.

  The phone goes black. “Sorry,” the man says.

  “Do you want us to be caught?” the first Turk says.

  “Why do you think we are doing this at night?”

  the second Turk says.

  “They definitely don’t want any lights,” Bushra

  says in my ear.

  I can’t laugh. My muscles are rigid. “I saw the

  boat,” I say.

  In the brief flash of
brightness, it was on

  show until the phone light was quenched. I know

  now why the Turks want no lights. The boat is a

  wreck. Wet slippery sides. Repair patches all over

  it. It’s hardly a proper boat at all—just an inflated

  dinghy—and certainly not big enough for all of us.

  Even when we’re plunged into darkness again, the

  ghostly outline of the raft, its rope held in the fist of a Turk who stands knee-deep in seawater, burns into

  my memory.

  “Did you see it?” I say to Bushra.

  She didn’t, but she hears the terror in my words.

  The Turks tip their plastic sacks onto the sand:

  tire tubes and life jackets. They kick them apart.

  Straighten straps. Sort them out.

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  When a Turk calls out our family name, we cluster around. My shins tremble. Life jackets hang

  across the man’s arm: one, two, three, four. Baba

  counts them.

  “I paid for five,” he says.

  The Turk is already strapping Bushra into hers.

  He pulls the cords hard. Ties them at the side. Bushra

  grunts and huffs. This is really happening. Faster

  than I’m ready for.

  “Where is the fifth?” Baba says.

  The Turk jerks his head toward Alan. “Too

  small. Nothing fits.”

  I pull Alan against me.

  “I paid for five,” Baba says. “You saw him in the

  restaurant. You knew he would be coming.”

  “I got the smallest jacket,” the Turk says.

  “Where is it?” Baba says.

  The Turk holds it up. “Still too big.”

  “You said nothing about him being too small,”

  Baba says.

  “Not my fault he’s so skinny,” the Turk says.

  He pushes Bushra aside. I look at my sister, fat

  and uncomfortable as she now is, stuffed in the bright

  orange jacket. “I can’t breathe,” she says.

  Laughter fizzes inside me. Terrified laughter.

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  “You took money for five people,” Baba says.

  “I want five life jackets.”

  The Turk starts strapping Dayah into her jacket.

  He looks at Baba.

  “You paid for five people in boat,” he says. “You

  get five people in boat. This is not cruise. Take it or

  leave it.”

  “I want a life jacket for my son,” Baba says. His

  voice is hard. Low. Edged. I’ve only heard Baba speak

  like this a few times. If I were that Turk, I would

  give Baba a fifth life jacket. But the Turk thinks oth-

  erwise. He stops strapping. He stares at Baba.

  “Then give him your jacket,” he says. “You want