by Prue Mason
‘Ahlan wa sahlan, welcome. I see you’ve already met my daughter, Eleni,’ she said. ‘Please come in. It is a pleasure to have you and your family visit our house.’ Her Arabic was excellent.
As the adults introduced themselves Eleni turned to Zafir. ‘You must be Zafir,’ she said. She wasn’t like any of the Syrian girls he’d met at his school. She was more like the girls in Dubai. He hoped she wouldn’t giggle. She didn’t, but after she put her board in a cupboard by the door she turned and looked him up and down and frowned. ‘But I thought you were younger,’ she said. ‘How old are you?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Same as me. I’m glad you speak English. My Arabic is terrible.’ She went on. ‘I have to tell you, you’re not going to get along with my twin brothers. They’re only ten years old and they’re little pests.’
As she said that, two boys who looked identical raced up to them.
‘Are you going to be—’ said the first one.
‘Eleni’s boyfriend?’ the second finished.
Eleni rolled her eyes, and Zafir understood what she meant.
Then they started chanting. ‘Eleni’s got a boyfriend! Eleni’s got a boyfriend!’
Zafir felt his face burning.
‘Boys, bas, enough!’ A loud voice boomed through the dark hallway and the boys ran towards it, giggling. Out of the darkness loomed a tall man with a long dark beard. He was wearing a black cassock and a cross on a chain that hung around his neck. The boys hid behind him.
‘Reverend Father, may I receive your blessings,’ said Tetah, bowing down so her right hand briefly touched the floor. As she rose she put her hands out towards the priest with her palms upwards.
‘May the Lord bless you all and welcome to our home,’ replied Father Papadopoulos, making the sign of the cross with his hands.
Tetah moved forward and kissed the priest’s hands. ‘I would like you to meet my son, Paul, his wife, Nadia and my grandson, Zafir.’
‘It’s so good of you to come,’ said Father Papadopoulos. He laughed a loud, happy sound. ‘It will be good for the children to become friends,’ he said, laying his hands on the shoulders of each of the twins, who were now acting as innocent as angels. ‘Alex and Georges have each other, but it’s difficult for Eleni. She misses her friends back in Sydney. As does my wife.’
‘I’d like to hear about Australia,’ said Mum, smiling at Presbytera Sophia.
‘I’ll tell you all about it over tea,’ said Presbytera Sophia. ‘Please come this way.’
She showed them to a room full of overstuffed couches and dark wooden furniture. A table in the middle of the room was laid with plates of sweets and small sandwiches. Zafir was pleased to see baklava – one of his favourites. Nearby was a large samovar lit with a small flame to keep the water boiling in the silver pot.
Presbytera Sophia poured tea and Eleni offered a tray of sweets to the adults. Soon, they were chatting like old friends. Zafir wasn’t sure what to do. Should he stay standing like the adults and wait for Eleni to serve him? Or help himself like the twins and sit down? He glanced over at the boys. At least eating the food they’d piled up on a plate was keeping them quiet.
‘Would you like some baklava?’ asked Eleni, holding out the tray towards Zafir. ‘Mum and I made it this morning, especially.’
‘Shukran,’ said Zafir, picking up a sticky pastry.
‘Have some more,’ said Eleni. She put the tray on a couch and plopped down beside it. ‘These couches aren’t very comfortable but it’s better than standing up.’ Zafir sat down.
‘You don’t say much, do you?’ Eleni went on. ‘But that’s probably because I’m talking too much.’ She laughed. ‘I do that when I’m nervous. Mum says I’m too nosy. She says I’m always asking questions, but you can start if you like. Ask me something.’
That was easy.
‘Have you upgraded the trucks on your skateboard?’ said Zafir. ‘That wasn’t a bad power slide before.’
‘Do you skate?’
‘Yeah. I’ve got a Blind – Jake Brown Eternal Life.’
Eleni nodded approvingly and soon they were talking about the best grip tape. Zafir said he’d cut a circle in his tape to show the Blind logo. Eleni said she’d once used clear grip to show off the bright purple of the deck, but it didn’t work as well so she’d gone back to the normal black.
Zafir was amazed at how easy it was to talk to Eleni. He felt sorry for her when she told him she was homesick for Australia and missed her friends. She had no chance to make any new friends in Syria because she was being homeschooled by her mum.
The afternoon had turned out to be a lot better than he’d expected. Mum had a good time with Presbytera Sophia and Pops got on well with Father Papadopoulos. When they finally realised it was time to go, Tetah looked pleased with herself.
‘Please call me,’ Mum said to Presbytera Sophia. ‘I can help with your Arabic lessons.’
‘I will. We must have coffee soon.’
‘I might see you next weekend when we come to Tetah’s,’ Zafir said to Eleni. ‘I’ll bring my board.’
Eleni grinned. ‘Sweet.’
Zafir was surprised at how disappointed he was the next Friday when Tetah rang and said not to come because she didn’t feel well.
‘Now what are we going to do?’ he asked.
‘It’ll be nice to have a day at home,’ said Pops, stretching. ‘I’ll get the Friday papers and some zatar, bread and fresh cheese and olives for breakfast. We can have a lazy day.’
‘I’m going to spend the day in bed doing research,’ said Mum after breakfast.
‘I’m going to read these papers from cover to cover,’ said Pops.
‘What am I going to do?’ asked Zafir. He could go and skate around the carpark but he didn’t feel like it.
‘Why don’t you check your emails?’ said Mum and she smiled. Zafir knew something was up, but he didn’t check his emails straight away because Rami sent a text message to see if Zafir wanted to play one of his favourite online war games. When they heard the call to prayer, Rami had to go.
Finally, Zafir checked his inbox. Nothing new there. Then he decided to clean out his junk mail. There were heaps of messages in that folder. He was about to delete them all when his eye caught on an email address: [email protected].
He clicked the message.
Hi Zaf,
Gr8 to meet u. C u soon ;)
Eleni
The message had been sent last Tuesday – the day Mum had met Eleni’s mother for coffee and to teach Eleni and her brothers Arabic. Zafir hit ‘this is not junk mail’ and then when the message appeared in his inbox he hit ‘reply’. He typed:
Hi Eleni,
I just found your message. It was in my junk mail!!!
Tetah is sick so we’re not coming over today.
Ashufik, see you.
Zaf.
He pressed ‘send’ and less than a minute later another email from skateleniroo99 arrived.
Looking in your junk mail? You must be as bored as I am today.
Yes.
The emails zipped back and forth. They chatted about skating, Australia, Dubai, taking photos, and even about how Great Lent was starting on Monday and Eleni was going to give up eating sweets for the whole forty days. Zafir told her about how they were getting a holiday from school on Tuesday to celebrate Revolution Day when the Ba’ath Party took over the government of Syria. He didn’t realise how long he’d been at the computer until he heard adhan al-mahgrib, sunset call to prayer.
It hadn’t been such a boring Friday at home after all.
‘How’s your girlfriend?’ asked Rami, kicking the football to Zafir. Rami wasn’t great at football but playing it was another way they could talk privately.
‘I haven’t got a girlfriend.’
‘So why do you always go Eleni says this, Eleni says that.’
‘I don’t!’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘Ibn al Homar, son of a don
key!’ Zafir was angry. Sure, he might have mentioned how Eleni wasn’t that bad at skateboarding and how she was starting to like living in Syria – but she wasn’t his girlfriend. ‘She’s just a friend,’ he said.
Zafir kicked the ball back to Rami, high and hard. It passed over Rami’s head, and went straight towards a group of boys walking in the other direction.
Murshid and his gang.
‘Shuf ya, hey look!’ yelled Zafir. They turned and he saw their startled faces. Murshid reacted like a real footballer. He headed the ball to one of the other guys, who let it drop and then kicked it to another. They all started playing, leaving Zafir and Rami out.
‘Give us our ball.’ Zafir was still feeling angry – with everyone, but especially with Rami.
‘Did you hear that? Ibn al Homar’s friend wants the football,’ jeered Mustafa.
‘They can have it,’ said Murshid. ‘It’s probably got donkey muck on it.’ The boys laughed and Mustafa, showing off, juggled the football on his ankle. Without letting it drop to the ground, he kicked it back to Zafir. It was a terrible kick, low and wide. Zafir had to run then leap sideways to catch it. As he landed, he slid full-length on the grass but he managed to keep the ball firmly in his grasp.
When he stood up he was surprised to see Murshid coming towards him.
‘That was a good take, Haddad,’ he said. ‘Our goalie is out with a bad knee. We need you on the team. Come to training next Tuesday after school.’ The way Murshid spoke made it sound like Zafir didn’t have a choice.
It was the last thing Zafir had expected. When he’d first come to the school he’d hoped to get in with a gang, but he didn’t like the way Murshid just expected he’d do what he said. He clutched the football to his chest and shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said.
Murshid raised his eyebrows. ‘It’d be great if you came,’ he said. ‘The team needs you.’ He was grinning at Zafir in a way that made Zafir think they could even be friends.
Zafir nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said.
‘Good. But, make sure you come on your own.’
‘Yeah, don’t bring Ibn al Homar,’ said Mustafa.
Zafir felt his blood rising. ‘Why? What is this all about?’
No one spoke for a minute.
‘Someone should’ve told you.’ Murshid’s voice was cold. ‘His father went to prison because he’s a traitor. Now he lives in exile. He isn’t wanted in this country.’
‘My father was innocent!’ yelled Rami. He turned and ran, but not before Zafir saw the tears in his eyes.
‘We don’t like traitors,’ said Murshid, ‘and he’s the son of one. No matter how much he tries to make up for it he’ll always be the son of a traitor. It’s up to you. If you want to play football in our team …’
Murshid didn’t finish the sentence but Zafir understood. If he stayed friends with Rami then he wouldn’t be able to join the team.
Murshid and his gang walked off.
It was Thursday, the last day of school before the weekend. Zafir had five days to make up his mind about whether or not he would play football. First he needed to talk to Rami, but Rami avoided Zafir for the rest of the day and Zafir didn’t hear from him over the weekend. He sent texts, but Rami never answered. He even tried ringing, but all he got was Rami’s voicemail.
The rest of the weekend wasn’t great either. They didn’t stay at Tetah’s on Friday because Pops was leaving for Damascus to do some training at a hospital for two weeks. Mum was cross because it meant he wouldn’t be home on Mother’s Day. No one was happy when the white government car came to pick up Pops.
Rami wasn’t at school on Sunday but when Abu Moussa dropped Zafir off on Monday he saw Rami hurrying up the path. He could tell it was Rami because of the solar panels on his backpack catching the sun.
Zafir jumped out of the taxi but Rami was too far ahead. But when Zafir ran into the locker room, Rami was coming out.
‘We’ve got to talk,’ said Zafir, grabbing him by the arm.
‘There’s a letter in your locker.’ Rami didn’t look at Zafir as he pulled away.
Zafir rammed his bag into the locker and saw an envelope on the shelf. He ripped it open and pulled out a page. Rami’s writing was neat and small.
Uqsimu billah, I swear to God this is the truth. Destroy this letter as soon as you have read it!
One year ago I discovered the Naqib was not my father when I won a scholarship to attend this school and on the first day Murshid called me the ‘son of a traitor’. I didn’t understand but he said everyone in Homs knew about my true father. When I asked my mother all she would say is that I must consider myself fortunate to have the Naqib as a father now. I had to find out for myself the secret my family kept from me. I discovered that my true father was a human rights lawyer in Damascus. He was arrested for criticising the government and my mother didn’t know where he was taken. I was born seven months after his arrest and he never knew about me because my mother came back to her family in Homs. They made her divorce him and marry the Naqib. My father was finally sentenced by the Security Court to ten years’ imprisonment for spreading false information, weakening national morale and slandering a government institution. After my father was released he went to live in America where he speaks out against the al-Assad regime. On his blog he says Syrians live behind a Wall of Fear that must be broken down. The Syrian people must rise up and demand the resignation of the president to rid this country of this family and his followers who treat Syria as if it is their own private fiefdom.
When I turn thirteen, I’m going to live with him. I don’t want to grow up in this country because here everyone turns into a maa’ez or a wolf. That’s the problem with Syria. The only choices we have are to be a wolf or its prey.
DESTROY THIS LETTER IMMEDIATELY!
Zafir felt like the paper were about to burn his hands. Everything Rami wrote had to be true because he had used a sacred oath. As he reread it he felt angry with his friend for not telling him the truth before and angry at Murshid and Mustafa for being bullies and even angry with Mum and Pops for making him come to live in Syria where bad things like this happened. Then he felt scared. What if someone caught him with the letter? Rami had said to destroy it immediately.
Zafir crumpled the paper in his fist and ran to the toilet block. He locked himself in a cubicle, ripped the letter up into the smallest pieces and dropped them into the bowl. The scraps of paper whirled around as they were flushed away. He couldn’t get the words ‘wolf or its prey’ out of his mind. Which one would he be?
‘Zafir!’ Mum called out. ‘Time to get up.’
Zafir was awake already. He’d gone to bed thinking about how he wished everything could be different and the thoughts had disturbed his sleep. Today was Tuesday, training day, the day Zafir had to choose which side to be on. If he chose Murshid, he would be accepted by a new gang of friends. Or if he chose Rami, then from today he would be treated like the son of a traitor too. The worst thing was that ever since starting school in Homs he’d wanted to become friends with a gang like he’d had in Dubai, but that would mean he could no longer be friends with Rami. All night he’d tossed and turned and thought about what it would be like if he did go to training. Would he really be a wolf if he joined them? It was easy to say that he didn’t want to be one, but he didn’t want to be its prey either. He wished there was another choice.
‘Oh, this kandisha, evil spirit. I do hate it!’ Mum sounded as if she was about to cry.
Zafir could smell diesel fumes but there was also an acrid burning smell. He pushed the blankets back and ran across the freezing marble floor into the main room where he found Mum on her knees mopping up diesel that she’d spilt on the floor. She was in her dressing gown and her hair was messy. She looked up at Zafir.
‘I wish your father was here.’
‘Let me do it,’ Zafir said. ‘I’ve watched Pops plenty of times. I know what to do.’
‘Maybe we should leave it off,’ said Mum. ‘With all that d
ripping fuel it might blow up.’
‘It’s okay, I can start it,’ said Zafir. He peered into the bowl on top of the stove to see how much fuel was there. Then he carefully wiped around the bowl with a tissue to make sure there was no diesel that might accidentally catch on fire. He lit the tissue and dropped it into the chamber. At the same time he twisted the knob of the bowl to allow the slow drip of diesel that would keep the flame burning. It was tricky, but the stove flared and caught alight. As he stood back and felt the warmth creep outwards from the stove he felt pleased.
‘Alhamdulillah, praise God!’ said Mum. She looked up at the clock. ‘But you’d better get ready. Abu Moussa will be here shortly.’
‘Do I have to go to school today, Mum?’
As usual, she’d found out everything about Rami, Murshid and the football as soon as he’d got home from school last Thursday.
‘I’m proud of you,’ she said, patting his arm. ‘What happened to Rami’s father was a terrible injustice and Rami is also being treated unjustly. It’s only when people are brave enough to stand up to this bullying that anything will change.’
Zafir shrugged. ‘But Rami says it won’t change because the system is too strong. That’s why he wants to live with his father in America. Why did we come to Syria? Why didn’t we go to Australia or Canada?’
‘Because Syria is our homeland and one day, if we have courage, inshala, if God wills, we will also know freedom from oppression. But,’ she said, ‘I will tell you a small secret.’
‘Not more secrets.’ Zafir groaned.
‘This one is a good secret,’ she said and smiled at him. ‘Your father thinks that in Syria we are never going to agree about how the country is governed. He feels that we would all be happier in a new country and that he should apply for a work visa in Australia.’
‘Will we go to Sydney?’ asked Zafir. The future suddenly looked brighter.
Mum nodded. ‘Yes, now we have met the Papadopoulos family it would be good to go where we already have friends. But I believe that life here will be much better soon and we won’t want to leave. Besides, your father has a three-year contract so we will stay here for at least another two years.’