Zafir

by Prue Mason

  It was just after salat el aser, afternoon prayer time, and Mr Al Hamra had rung Uncle Ghazi to say the minibus his brother was driving had arrived.

  ‘Please, can’t I stay here with you?’ Zafir begged.

  ‘It’s arranged now. You’ve got the papers to say you’re Zafir Al Hamra,’ said Uncle Ghazi. He picked up Zafir’s suitcase. ‘Wadi Khaled isn’t far away. It’s only an hour-and-a-half’s drive from here and it will only be for a couple of weeks. By the time your mum is out of hospital, inshala, this war might even be over.’

  But it wasn’t just the thought of being with strangers. ‘What if something happens to you when I’m not here?’

  ‘Then it will be better for you that you’re not here,’ said Uncle Ghazi.

  Zafir looked away. He could feel tears in his eyes and he didn’t want Uncle Ghazi to see them.

  ‘Truthfully, I don’t want you to go either,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘But right now Homs is too dangerous. People have started fighting back and soldiers are being killed. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you. What would I say to your mum and dad?’

  Zafir shrugged but didn’t speak.

  ‘Just think, Zafir, when you’re in the country you can pick mulberries and figs straight from the trees. It’ll be like a summer outing, every day.’ Uncle Ghazi stood at the opened door. ‘Come on, Zaf. We have to go. I’ll say goodbye to Azzam Azzad for you.’

  Zafir knew he had no choice but he stalled for another minute. ‘Maybe I’ll take my skateboard,’ he said picking it up.

  ‘Remember, when everything is back to normal I’ll buy a new one for you,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘I promise.’

  As they stepped out into the street from the laneway they saw a crowd around the minibus. Mr Al Hamra and his brother Abu Faisal looked like identical twins. They were busy pushing a clanking bundle of pots tied up in a blanket onto the roof. On the ground was a sewing machine wrapped in a thin mattress. An old woman in a long gown and a burqa was sitting cross-legged on a sajda, prayer rug, mumbling as she fingered her beads. Zafir guessed she was Mr Al Hamra and Abu Faisal’s mother, Um Omar. Mr Al Hamra’s wife and sister-in-law were tall compared to their husbands. Both were wearing gowns and scarves tied securely around their head, and both were carrying a wailing baby. Behind them was a line of children who all looked to be under seven years old.

  ‘Hey,’ said Uncle Ghazi, looking around at the scene. ‘I just had a thought. You can take photos of what it’s like at the farm and send them to me and I can add them to Facebook and the blog. This could be a good story, Zaf – residents of Homs forced to leave the war zone. You could be our citizen journalist out there.’

  Zafir nodded. He liked Uncle Ghazi’s idea.

  ‘I’ll send you photos every day.’ Now he had a proper job to do he felt better about leaving Homs. ‘I won’t need the skateboard. It’s just going to take up room.’ He handed the board to Uncle Ghazi.

  Mr Al Hamra came over to them. He was short and hunched over with a pale puffy face, thin hair and a closely trimmed beard and moustache.

  ‘Salaam aleiykum, sayidi, sir,’ Mr Al Hamra greeted them politely. ‘Come, come, you must get on the bus. But let’s firstly put your bags on the roof.’

  ‘No … I want to keep them with me,’ said Zafir. He held onto his schoolbag tightly. Inside was the slightly dented helmet that had saved his life, Rami’s solar cap and, wrapped safely inside both, the miracle red egg.

  ‘Wise fata, young man,’ said Mr Al Hamra. ‘It seems you have learned the lesson already that to trust people is like trusting water in a sieve.’ He laughed in a way that reminded Zafir of Abu Moussa and his jokes. He hoped the old taxi driver and his family were okay.

  ‘Only this, then,’ said Uncle Ghazi, handing over the suitcase of clothes.

  ‘Abu Faisal, here is our new nephew,’ Mr Al Hamra called up to his brother who was busy tying a tandoor oven to the racks on the roof.

  ‘Where is your sajda?’ Abu Faisal asked Zafir, as if amazed it wasn’t rolled up under his arm.

  ‘Er …’ Zafir wasn’t sure how to reply. He used to have one. Giddo had given it to him but it had stayed rolled up when they’d come to Homs. Without Giddo around, Zafir had never used it anymore. It was probably buried under the rubble at Tetah’s house.

  ‘The house was bombed. Most of Zafir’s things weren’t found,’ said Uncle Ghazi quickly.

  ‘But how can he make a clean place for praying without a sajda?’

  ‘I have some offcuts of suit material in the shop that can be used,’ said Mr Al Hamra. ‘It is not so important what a mat is made from but that it is clean and only used to pray on.’

  As he hurried off Zafir realised he was going to have to get used to saying his prayers more regularly while he was staying with these people. All the same they seemed to be kind.

  ‘There is no charge,’ said Mr Al Hamra, smiling, when he came back with the sadja and Uncle Ghazi tried to pay for it. ‘Praying is free.’

  ‘We must leave now,’ said Abu Faisal. He tied one last knot in the bundle on the roof and leapt down. ‘It will be dark by the time we arrive.’ Everyone except for Zafir and the two men were already on the bus.

  ‘There is a seat for you, young sayidi, next to Um Omar and my nephew Faisal,’ said Mr Al Hamra, standing aside so Zafir could get on board.

  ‘Wait. I have to say goodbye to Uncle Ghazi.’

  Zafir turned to his uncle. How could he say everything that he wanted to? From his earliest memory, his uncle had been there, teasing him, getting cross with him for being a pest, but always there for him. If only they were back in Dubai with Giddo and Siti. But that life was over now.

  Uncle Ghazi grasped Zafir by the shoulders. They were almost eye to eye, and Zafir realised that now he was nearly as tall as his uncle. He could see Uncle Ghazi’s eyes were watery. So were his own, but Zafir couldn’t cry. Not in front of everyone.

  ‘It won’t be long,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of weeks and we’ll go to Beirut.’ He pulled Zafir into a hug.

  ‘Giddo and Siti would be proud of what you’re doing,’ Zafir whispered into his uncle’s ear. As they pulled apart they grinned and fist bumped.

  ‘Ma’a salaama, God go with you, Zaf.’

  ‘Ma’a salaama, and with you,’ replied Zafir.

  Zafir got on the minibus and squeezed into his seat. He was stuck between Um Omar, who smelled of rosewater and garlic, and Faisal, a small, fat boy who had his face inside a packet of crisps that he didn’t look as if he wanted to share with anyone.

  Zafir found just enough space to shove his schoolbag under the seat.

  ‘Yallah, let us go with God,’ said Mr Al Hamra as he stepped on board and pulled the door closed.

  ‘Tawakkalna ala Allah, I place my absolute trust in God.’ Abu Faisal’s prayer was almost drowned out as the bus started up with a shake and a rattle.

  ‘Bismillah, in the name of Allah,’ mumbled Um Omar.

  Zafir waved to Uncle Ghazi who raised his hand. He stood alone on the street.

  There were a lot of roadblocks getting out of Baba Amr. As they came to the roundabout that connected Al-Korniche Street to the highway they had to pull up behind a queue of cars and buses.

  Everyone on the minibus stopped talking as they rolled slowly towards the checkpoint. It was built from sandbags and surrounded by soldiers wearing camouflage uniforms and carrying AK-47s. The air vents on the minibus didn’t work and with everyone squeezed inside it got hotter and hotter. Zafir started to sweat. What if the soldiers discovered his papers were false?

  ‘Salaam aleiykum, peace be upon you,’ Abu Faisal greeted the soldier politely when they reached the check point. ‘Warahmatu Allahi wa barakatuhu, Allah’s mercy and blessings. It is just my family onboard,’ he said as he handed over the papers.

  The soldier opened the door, looked inside and counted them, checking the papers in his hand. ‘There aren’t enough papers here. There is one perso
n too many,’ he said. ‘Everyone outside. Now.’ He waved his gun at them.

  ‘Off! Off!’ Mr Abu Faisal turned and yelled at them all. The little girl in front of Zafir began to cry.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ whispered Zafir. She stared at him like she didn’t believe him, but she stopped crying and held out her arms for him to take her. Holding her helped Zafir stop trembling.

  As they lined up a soldier checked the papers and counted them again.

  ‘Look at me,’ said the soldier. He stood in front of Zafir who still held the little girl in his arms. She was heavier than she looked.

  ‘Zafir Al Hamra – thirteen years old. Yes?’ the soldier barked.

  ‘Er … yes,’ said Zafir. The soldier put a tick by his name on the paper and moved on. It was only when the soldier arrived at Abu Faisal’s wife that he pointed to the baby. ‘There is no paper for this child.’

  ‘Sorry, sayidi, sir, for my stupidity,’ said Abu Faisal. ‘It is a girl and she was born not so long ago and with all the troubles—’

  The soldier hit Abu Faisal with the butt of his gun. Abu Faisal stumbled.

  ‘You have wasted my time, Ibn al Homar,’ shouted the soldier. ‘Go!’

  They all scrambled back into the minibus. As they headed out onto the highway, Zafir sent Uncle Ghazi a text to say all was well and then, while he knew he still able to get a signal, he sent Eleni a message telling her he was leaving Homs to stay on a farm somewhere in Wadi Khaled. She texted back immediately with a whole row of smiley faces.

  The minibus filled with the sound of talking and laughter. Everyone was relieved they had got through the checkpoint and were on their way – everyone except Um Omar. She had bent her head and was crying.

  ‘Ah,’ she moaned softly to herself. ‘Never in my life did I think I would become a refugee.’

  There was another checkpoint at the junction of the highway and the ring-road but because Abu Faisal said they were leaving town the soldier let them pass after briefly flicking through the papers.

  Back on the highway, they travelled towards the coast. Zafir saw the sun touch the horizon in the west.

  Abu Faisal pulled over.

  What now? Zafir looked outside. Why were they stopping?

  ‘Time to pray,’ said Abu Faisal.

  Zafir got out of the bus carrying his sajda. He could hear the muezzin’s call to prayer echoing through the valley. He looked back down the road towards Homs and prayed to God, the same God and Allah both Tetah and Giddo had prayed to, that Uncle Ghazi would stay safe and that soon the war would be over and the whole family would be together again.

  ‘Come this way,’ said Abu Faisal, beckoning to Zafir. ‘The men will pray at this end of the bus and the women must go to the back.’

  Zafir made wudu, cleansing himself by sprinkling water from a bottle Mr Al Hamra had given him over his hands and feet and washing his face, before he lay his sajda on the side of the road facing Mecca. With the other men, Zafir made salat in the way Giddo had taught him so long ago. Firstly he stood and recited the first chapter of the Qu’ran. He was surprised how the words came to him without thinking although the last time he’d been in the masjid was with Giddo in Dubai. After this he bowed, praising God, before kneeling with his forehead on the ground where he submitted himself to the will of God. Finally, as he sat on his knees, he testified that there were none worthy of worship but Him and he asked God to send peace and blessings to all.

  ‘Peace be upon you and the mercy of Allah,’ Zafir said to Mr Al Hamra who was on his right. He repeated the greeting to Faisal on his left and the greetings of peace were returned to him. For a few seconds after the prayer ended there was silence.

  As Zafir stood up, he looked at the highway ahead where the last rays of the sun made shafts of light pointing upwards into the darkening sky.

  Would the future bring the peace they had all just prayed for?

  Tonight Zafir wasn’t needed at the restaurant. It was a chance to rest. As he lay down, he looked around at the small room that was just big enough to hold the two camp beds. The floor was concrete and the walls were dirty. With only one arm, Mum had trouble doing the cleaning and Zafir was always too tired to help. Mum still managed to do the cooking in a space that was size of his wardrobe back in Al Waer. She said they were lucky because there were only two of them. Next door, a family of ten was living in the same sized space.

  He reached down under his bed for his maths book and set it on his knee. He remembered Rami in the locker room opening up this same book and using a maths equation to explain the shabiha. Zafir shut his eyes tightly to hold on to the image for as long as he could. I hope America is everything you dreamed it would be. Zafir sent the thought westwards. He hadn’t heard from Rami since Mum had sold their phones and they couldn’t afford to use the internet. But even before that Rami had not emailed much.

  So much had happened since the day he’d left Homs on the minibus. Most of it was bad – except for reuniting with Mum. They had been living in Beirut for nearly a year now. They were glad they lived in Ghawash because everyone in the jumble of cinderblock buildings agreed that it was much better than Shatila, in the south of Beirut, where most of the refugees lived.

  Mum had finally registered them with the United Nations as refugees. Before that, she’d kept saying they were just staying in Beirut until Pops got out of prison. But their savings had run out quickly. Rent was expensive and it was hard to get accommodation now that more people were arriving from Syria; the situation there had become worse than even Rami had said it would. The protesters had started fighting back and then jihadis from other countries had arrived. More people were being killed or fleeing across any border they could.

  Zafir opened the maths book and took out a sheet of notepaper to write to Eleni. She and her mum and the twins were back in Sydney but her dad was still in Syria. With so many different groups fighting in Homs and Aleppo and the surrounding countryside, some people were taking advantage of the breakdown of law and order and kidnapping foreigners for ransom. Father Papadopoulos had become a negotiator that all sides trusted.

  Zafir picked up his pencil and wrote:

  15 May 2012

  Hi Eleni,

  It was great to get your news.

  He stopped and re-read the sentence to make sure it was correct. Writing in English was harder these days because he didn’t go to school. The only time he used the language now was in letters with Eleni.

  What news did he have to tell her? He was still working long hours at the restaurant most evenings, and during the day he cleaned cars at Abdul Zahir’s garage. Lately, Abdul had been letting him do small jobs on the car engines as well and Zafir was learning a lot.

  Mum has a job teaching in an elementary school here and she really likes it.

  Best not to tell her how he might never have the chance to go back to school again. Mum said they had to live day by day. It was the only way. But how many more days were going to go by before the war in Syria would be over? Zafir used to think wars only happened in other people’s countries. Now he knew better.

  He picked up the envelope from Eleni’s last letter and pulled out the gum leaf she’d stuck inside. You couldn’t do that in a text or over the internet and the leaf made Australia feel like a real place, not just some fantasy country at the end of the world. He put the leaf up to his nose. It gave off a sharp, clean smell like antiseptic that reminded him of Pops. Unconsciously Zafir ran his fingers back through his hair. After six months without a trial Pops had finally been sentenced to five years for treason. Mum had gone to Damascus to see him once but it was too expensive and dangerous to travel there again. Zafir wrote regularly to him though and Pops sounded hopeful that some political prisoners would eventually be released and he might be one of them. But he’d said that nearly two months ago and nothing had happened since.

  Pops had been devastated when he found out that Tetah had died in a convent in the hills. It was Father Papadopoulos who fo
und out that her good friends, Ustaaz Farook and his sister, the nun, had been by her bedside. She had been at peace, he’d said. Zafir would never forget Tetah’s face or how comfortable she was to hug.

  Zafir picked up his pencil again.

  Mum says that when Pops gets out of prison we will apply for refugee status in Australia.

  He knew going to Australia was probably a dream, just like their dream of living on a farm. Reality is never the same. Wadi Khaled, where he’d gone with the Al Hamra family when he first left Homs, turned out to be a dry and dusty valley. The farm wasn’t anything like he and Uncle Ghazi had imagined, just a small patch of land where Mr Al Hamra’s sister and her husband grew potatoes that their eldest son drove to the market in Beirut. Everyone had been kind to Zafir, but it was a shock to be in a village with no electricity or running water. That’s when he’d really been grateful to Rami for the solar cap to charge his phone. Zafir frowned, thinking of how lazy he’d been, not even offering to help with the work. At the time, he hadn’t realised how much it would have cost them to look after him. He’d even gone crazy when Mr Al Hamra had suggested they sell Zafir’s watch at the market to help pay for food. They must have been glad when he left for Beirut to be with Mum after—

  Zafir waited for the sharp pain that always came when he thought of his uncle – his laughing, fun uncle, tall and slim, ponytail swinging and a camera slung around his neck. That was how Zafir always remembered him. He didn’t want to imagine him being blown apart by a shell when he was taking photos. But that’s what had happened. The ache was duller now but it was still there. He could picture Uncle Ghazi’s name on Azzam Azzad’s wall. Was Azzam Azzad still alive? For a while Zafir had followed his blog and the Facebook page but then he’d run out of credit. Knowing Azzam Azzad he’d probably gone to America like so many others. But maybe he was dead too.

  Everyone knew someone who had died in this war now. Mum had printed out a photo of Uncle Ghazi from her phone and hung it on the wall. She’d chosen the one she’d taken of Uncle Ghazi with the camera up to his eye. His face couldn’t be seen but Mum said that was how he’d like to be remembered. Zafir looked up at the picture and it was like Uncle Ghazi was taking a photo of him sitting on his camp bed.