‘Yes,’ said the Kurd. ‘Pray and pay. Very good.’
He put the passports firmly back into his glovebox. Clearly his next passengers would need the potato stamp.
I felt sick. Everybody was out for money in this game, and we were very easy targets.
After about half a day we arrived at Van. We drove through a series of dilapidated neighbourhoods before pulling into a complex of abandoned workshops. We all climbed out and waited in the shade as the driver approached a tall, thin man in a Western-style pinstripe suit.
They shook hands and had a short conversation before the driver got back in his car and departed. ‘Pray and pay,’ he shouted, by way of farewell.
The tall man looked very Turkish, yet he spoke to us in Iranian Farsi. ‘I am Malik. This is my operation. In a few minutes, one of my men will transfer you to a minibus, which will take you to a house in the suburbs. There you will be able to rest, before your journey continues.’
I thought he looked very impressive. He carried a leather briefcase and exuded the air of a man who was very much the boss. In fact, I realized he was a Turkish version of Black Wolf. I started to imagine how nice it would be to stay in a decent place again.
I got very excited when we saw the house. It was large, sitting behind a high wall, and there were many shady trees in the garden. It looked beautiful. I was already planning to lie beneath a tree on the cool grass.
Our driver pulled up right outside. ‘Go quickly – but don’t run.’
As I stepped through the small visitor’s door on the main gate, however, my heart sank. There were two burly guys standing there, neither of whom looked friendly.
‘Come. Around the back.’
The two guys manhandled us, pushing us along a narrow passage that ran between the house and the high brick wall. At the rear of the property stood a little shack.
Baryalai was the first to speak.
‘It’s a bloody chicken coop.’
Chapter Eight
Fifteen people were to sleep in that chicken coop – cramped, filthy and starving. The four of us, and the eleven dead-eyed others who were already there.
‘Welcome to hell,’ said a red-haired man with a straggly beard as we entered.
A few mattresses covered the floor, but there was not enough room for all of us to lie down. There was barely even room to sit, but we squashed ourselves in anyway. A tiny, plastic-covered window gave a blurry view of the trees in the garden.
Previous residents had written on the broken door which swung despondently, hanging off its hinges. Some had chosen to write their names and the dates they had been there, using the Afghan calendar. All the entries were written in either Pashtu or Dari.
Hamid Shah. Herat. 1384.
Khalid Kakar. Kabul.
Others offered advice or warnings:
‘Trust no one.’
‘Do not pay ferry man.’
‘Life is cheap and so are smugglers.’
‘Malik is a bastard.’
In the coming days, I learned the truths on that door.
A scruffy, bald man in a dressing gown brought us some food: boiled rice and Turkish bread. The rice was dry and the bread looked stale; nor was there nearly enough to go around. He didn’t speak a word as he roughly plonked the dishes on the doorstep.
After he left, the others let rip.
‘This bastard has no manners.’
‘He treats us like animals. Get used to it.’
‘He’s a filthy drunk.’
They said they’d been there for three weeks, yet Malik had promised them it was only supposed to be overnight. They were waiting to go to Istanbul, on the next leg of the journey. I assumed from this that Istanbul was to be our next destination too.
We were not allowed outside that chicken coop. We had a single pipe that only dribbled water for half an hour twice a day; we never knew what times it would be turned on so when it did splutter to life we would scramble to wash our faces and rub a toothbrush through our stale mouths.
A lot of time was spent trying to control our bodily functions. Just once every twenty-four hours we were taken in groups of three to use a stinking toilet. There was never toilet paper, and the tap for washing yourself often didn’t work, forcing desperate men to wipe themselves clean on the streaked walls. It wasn’t long before people started to get sick. I don’t know what was worse – the horror of watching someone vomit in such close confines, or the embarrassment of the man who soils himself in front of his travel companions.
For the entire time we were there, we got very little food – a few mouthfuls of rice each per day, if we were lucky. When we complained, the bald man said he’d bring us a roast chicken if we paid him. He charged the equivalent of US$5. I was shocked – my mother could have fed our family for days with that money. But I was starving, and my body was craving protein, so I spent some of my precious money and ate my little share of the chicken greedily.
I did my best to cheer everyone up by trying to tell jokes or reminding them of one of my favourite Pashtu sayings: ‘If the heart is big enough, the space is never too small.’ I can’t say my efforts really worked.
From our few toilet breaks, we worked out that the bald man lived with his elderly mother. Occasionally there were a few kids about. I could see, too, why the others had called the man a drunk: he stank of stale alcohol and was always wearing his dressing gown. This made me dislike him even more – I completely disapproved of any Muslim drinking alcohol. His speech was permanently mumbled and he seemed strangely blind to the appalling situation we were in. This man was capable of such cruelty, but the odd thing was that he seemed numb to what he was doing.
Fortunately for me, the elderly mother noticed how young I was. She did not shy from showing her affections, and I had already learned at Black Wolf’s compound the benefits of ingratiating myself with the women of the house.
We had no means of communication, however, so without a common language we resorted to a kind of sign language.
I pointed at myself. ‘I am Gulwali.’
‘Gulwali,’ she repeated, struggling with my accent. Then, ‘Gu-wal-i,’ she said again, breaking it into syllables.
I nodded enthusiastically.
She smiled a toothy smile and pointed at her chest. ‘Ma-ree-ammm. Ma-reee-ammm.’
‘Mariam?’
She seemed pleased with my progress. Then she pointed at the bald man. ‘My son.’ At that, she rolled her eyes then pointed to her temple and twirled her finger in a circular motion, as if to show he was mad.
I sensed an ally. ‘I am twelve years old,’ I said, explaining it by pointing at my chest flashing first ten, then two fingers.
Her face erupted with concern and surprise. She pointed at the dilapidated shed and waved her index finger horizontally to show the universal sign of matriarchal displeasure. Then she drew her finger towards the back door of the house and pointed to a small patch of carpet in the family living room. She stabbed her finger at the floor, then placed her hands palm-together and rested her cheek upon them.
‘You want me to sleep in there?’ I asked, repeating the gestures back at her.
She nodded enthusiastically.
I broke into a huge smile and, without a moment’s thought, gave her a huge hug. ‘Thank you.’
I will never forget the kindness and gentleness that old lady showed me. In addition to the safe place to sleep away from the hell of the chicken coop, she also sneaked me into her kitchen and forced bowls of rice and vegetables, Turkish bread and steaming sweet tea into my hands.
Those left in the coop were furious that I was allowed to sleep inside; it made no difference to them that I was a child. I’m sure they suspected I was getting fed well too. They thought I was manipulating the family to get special privileges. Maybe I was. But would those men have done any differently in my situation? I wa
s a little boy, and I was fast learning it was the only card I had to play.
I think the truth was that we were all so desperate that we quickly came to resent anybody who had something we did not – the extra mouthful of water, a tiny bit more floor space, a filthy pillow or a few grains of rice. Our humanity was slipping away – being stolen away. Perhaps that was the real price of this journey.
The resentment grew as the situation inside the chicken coop deteriorated. We had been there more than a week and some of the men were beginning to reach breaking point. Starved, thirsty and packed into filthy conditions, they became increasingly desperate. At least I was able to use my position inside the house to help my friends a little bit, sneaking in extra food and water.
Early one morning, a man turned up in the yard carrying several lengths of heavy polythene sheeting. He balanced on an old chair and began to cast the sheeting on to the roof of the shed, like a fisherman casting his net. Satisfied with how he had laid it, he then lobbed half-a-dozen broken bricks on top to hold it in place.
The thump-thump-thump on the flimsy structure woke several of the occupants inside.
The bald man, who had come down to watch him work, grunted and pointed, directing their gaze to the new roof covering. The builder wore the half-smile of a man who has done a good job. ‘Now that I have fixed your dog kennel, I will be able to get another twenty or thirty dogs to join you, no problem.’
It was too much for the men to hear. One of them lunged forwards, grabbing a brick from the pile on the floor. ‘Where is that liar, Malik?’ He grabbed our drunken host by the wrist, turning the half-brick towards his face. ‘Maybe I should knock some sense into you instead?’
Two other men surrounded the builder.
There was a short pause and then, without warning, the builder suddenly crouched into a ball and flew at them, sending them flying on to their backs.
Everyone else began kicking and punching.
It was madness. We would be discovered, I was sure of it, so I shouted at the top of my lungs: ‘Stop it. Stop it.’
‘Stay out of it, boy, or you’ll get a slap too.’
I backed away just as two other men – the ones in charge of the main gate – ran into the yard. They both had sticks, which they used to beat my friends until they lay whimpering on the ground. They were about to come for me but Mariam pulled my face into her bosom and wagged her finger at them.
They shouted something back at her in Turkish, waved their sticks once more then took out cigarettes, lit them, and swaggered back to their guard post.
Mariam took me inside and insisted I drink some tea.
A little later one of the guards came and thrust a mobile phone into my hands.
‘Salaam, Gulwali. This is Malik.’
I held the phone in silence.
He continued to elaborate, in Farsi: ‘Gulwali. I heard about what happened this morning. And I hear you have all been complaining. This is not good. I want you to talk to the others and inform everyone that I am trying to get you out of there as soon as I can.’
‘OK,’ I said, unsure about why I needed to be the messenger.
‘I am arranging a luxury coach for the next leg of your journey. Lots of room, air conditioning, comfortable seats. But such luxury does not come easy here – I need a little more time to organize this. So tell everyone to be patient, because otherwise they will have to travel in the back of a smelly truck.’
‘OK,’ I repeated. ‘I will tell them.’
‘Good boy. And don’t forget – it will be a luxury bus. Air conditioning and all that.’
I soon realized why Malik hadn’t wanted to deliver his news in person: the men glared at me with pure hatred.
‘And you believed him? You stupid, foolish boy.’
‘I don’t care how we travel. I just want to get out of this stinking, shit-filled cage. But I suppose you didn’t tell him that?’
‘And besides, what do you care? Tucked up inside with your foster mother dropping morsels down your scheming little throat. I should choke you like a chicken.’
‘Leave the boy alone,’ said Baryalai. ‘Can’t you see he’s no more to blame for this than ourselves? Until we reach our destination, we are at the mercy of these people. They own us, and can treat us as they will. You’d better get used to that.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ snapped one of the eleven. ‘You’ve only been here one week. We’ve been here for almost a month now. And it’s more than half a year since I last saw my wife and children.’
Later that day, Malik himself strolled into the yard. He was all smiles and greasy charisma. ‘And how has the food been, boys? Has the man been feeding you properly? You look as though you’ve put on weight.’
At that, the men couldn’t contain themselves a moment longer. They railed at Malik, listing their grievances one by one, careful to highlight the near-starvation conditions we had been forced to endure.
‘I am as shocked as you are,’ exclaimed Malik, holding his hand to his heart. He loosed a storm of abuse at the bald man, who had come out to the yard with him. He was clearly drunk again, and you could see he was confused. I found it hard to believe that Malik didn’t know exactly what was going on – he struck me as the kind of man who kept a close eye on his business.
I concluded that Malik was shifting the blame. He clearly liked to protect his self-image of a successful, maybe even legitimate, businessman. Any failings were out of his hands – he was trying to do right by us. But even in my child’s mind I knew our misery paid for those expensive suits.
As he left, he gave a curt promise: ‘The situation is urgent and I will deal with it accordingly.’
The following afternoon we were ordered out of the property.
Chapter Nine
Our departure was so sudden I didn’t even have time to say a proper goodbye to Mariam.
I owe her so much – her kindness may have literally saved my life, as I’m not sure I could have survived in the shed with the men. I also felt sorry for her: she clearly wasn’t pleased with having a bunch of undocumented migrants in her backyard, but with a useless, alcoholic son in charge, what power did she have to say no?
We were driven to the outskirts of the city. By now, I understood fully that behind all the noble talk, the only thing that mattered to any of these people was money. This was a business, where profit was the only motive and people were of value only for as long as they could keep on paying. But there is more than one way to make money out of migrants – as I was about to discover when we pulled up outside a large, ramshackle hostel building, just off a ring road.
‘I think I have died and gone to heaven,’ joked Mehran. He stood, slack-jawed, staring at three girls bending over tables collecting dirty plastic plates and cups.
I had never seen a blonde woman before. It shocked me – not so much the colour of her hair, but rather that she made so little effort to keep herself covered. She was wearing a skirt that barely reached her knees, and a tight T-shirt that left nothing to the imagination. To me she was as good as naked.
‘I doubt these women are virgins,’ snorted Abdul. He looked at the women in a way I thought was very bad, and I shot him an admonishing look.
As we walked down a long corridor inside, I could see various rooms off to the side. There must have been over a hundred people staying there – the cacophony of different languages filled the air.
Dozens, perhaps more than fifty people, sat on the floor of one of the largest rooms. Mostly men and boys like ourselves, they ate with a concentration that comes from constant hunger.
A young Persian woman with eyes the colour of Turkish coffee and an elegant oval face called out to us in Farsi: ‘Come. Sit and eat.’ There was a sadness to her, and a heavy layer of make-up did little to hide the swelling under her eye. The bruising on her upper arm also spoke of violence.
&
nbsp; ‘These women are filthy whores,’ said a man loudly, as if condemning their morality might make him a better human.
‘Then don’t eat their food,’ said Baryalai. He smiled graciously at a woman as she handed him a heaped plate of delicious-looking red peppers stuffed with vegetables and rice. She was a little older than the others – fairer than most, too.
‘She’s European, I am sure of it,’ he said, as if he could read my mind.
‘They should cover their hair,’ I said. ‘Are they not ashamed to disgrace their families by dressing in such a way?’ For me, modesty and honour were two sides of the same coin.
As we crossed our legs and began shovelling in food – I hadn’t eaten properly in weeks – Abdul looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Gulwali,’ he said, through a mouthful of food. ‘How did you come to be here?’
‘You know this. My mother sent me and my brother. We had to leave.’
‘Yet you think these girls are here by their own choice?’
‘No, I’m just saying they should cover themselves. Their families—’
‘We’re a long way from home now, Gulwali. This is not Afghanistan. None of us have families. Are these women not showing you kindness?’
‘Yes.’
‘But still you would condemn them as immoral?’
Abdul didn’t speak much, but when he did, I have to admit it was usually with wisdom.
Mehran sat himself down next to us. ‘I can’t decide which one to marry first. The Persian is kind and beautiful.’ He took a mouthful and continued: ‘She is sweet and a little shy. She would make a good wife, I think.’
Baryalai looked at him. ‘I don’t think these women are open to marriage. Or, more likely, whoever owns them has plans for them that don’t involve marrying a penniless Afghan sneaking his way to Europe.’
I smiled. ‘You sound like my grandmother.’
We all laughed.
‘Clearly a wise woman.’
As I ate, I remembered how the sheep used to know the sound of my whistle. I had been their master. Now we were the sheep, and our master’s voice was currently the lilting baritone of Malik and his purring lies. Was he also the master to these women? Did the business of prostitution pay for his smart suits and leather briefcase? I couldn’t have hated him more at that moment if I had tried; he was the epitome of immorality to me. This was everything my family and my culture stood against.
The Lightless Sky Page 9