The Lightless Sky

by Gulwali Passarlay

  I listened to truly terrible tales of beatings, blackmail, women and children suffocating in trucks, or men being shot at point-blank range when they argued with their handlers. In some ways, I suppose it was helpful to be warned, but it only made me more scared – knowing that I might be tricked or physically hurt didn’t mean that I could prevent it. I was at the mercy of the drivers, guest-house owners and their bosses – the agents of the actual smugglers. And there was nothing I could do about it.

  Our current three agents continued to tell us they were working on a plan to get us to Greece. Every time they checked in on us we heard the same promise: ‘Tomorrow you will go to Greece.’

  But tomorrow was taking an awfully long time to come.

  Greece was a mythical, magical country I had read about in school. I knew it as an ancient civilization and the home of Alexander the Great, a man respected in Afghan history as a great warrior after marching through central Afghanistan in 330 bc. He famously wrote a letter to his mother about the bravery of the Afghan warriors he fought: ‘You have brought only one son into the world, but every man in this land could be called an Alexander.’ His blond-haired, blue-eyed descendants are still very visible in the areas where he and his men made camp.

  As a schoolboy, the idea of my visiting such an historic place as Greece would have been the dream of a lifetime.

  But not like this.

  Other migrants told us that from Istanbul the smugglers might take us one of three ways to Greece, and then on to mainland Europe.

  The easiest was across the Aegean Sea by boat. I heard that if you were lucky it would only take three hours, yet the journey was fraught with terrible dangers on overcrowded and unseaworthy vessels. As a child from a landlocked country who had no idea how to swim, this was beyond the wilds of my imagination. But if that sounded bad to me, the second route was worse – one hollow-eyed migrant described it to me as ‘the pathway to hell itself’. This route had to be done on foot, marching over dangerous mountains, hiding near borders, and crossing three countries, from Turkey into ­Bulgaria, then on to Macedonia, and finally into Greece. The third path was also an overground route, crossing a narrow, 12.5 kilometre strip of heavily militarized land which forms the direct border between Turkey and Greece.

  Everywhere we stayed, other migrants filled us with fear about the overground routes.

  ‘No roads, no tracks, only rocks and mountains.’

  ‘No way to get food when it runs out.’

  ‘Bodies were littered all along the pathway. No one will ever find them.’

  ‘It’s a wasteland of death.’

  I heard so many terrifying descriptions from those who had tried to make it, but had either been turned back by Bulgarian border guards or forced to retreat by the vicious weather, that I must have crossed both overground routes hundreds of times in my head. As scared as I was of the thought of a sea crossing, these other two routes filled me with absolute dread. I was told that both these routes could take weeks or even months to navigate, and that there were many rivers with terrible currents. Some you could only cross with a small speedboat, but the boats the smugglers provided were very old and they often capsized – and that meant certain death, dashed on the rocks by the fast-flowing waters. If there was no boat you had to try and cross on foot. I was told of smugglers who had forced screaming women and children into the water at gunpoint, only to watch them drown. Moreover, portions of both routes were said to have deadly land- or anti-vehicle mines. I knew all about landmines; they were one of the tragic legacies of the Afghan civil war: some 10–15 million mines were said to still litter the country in the year I was born. One of my closest friends at school only had one leg – the other had been blown off after he had stepped on a mine during a football game. And, according to pretty much everyone who had been that way, Bulgarian border guards were notorious for shooting at migrants. If you were lucky enough not to be shot, they might beat you before stealing your possessions and forcing you to walk back to Turkey.

  The worst story of all was told to me by a Pakistani man. He and his brother had attempted the third route in the middle of winter. They had become separated from their group and wandered through the snow until they were rescued by Greek soldiers. His brother had had such bad frostbite he had been taken to hospital by the soldiers, where his fingers were amputated. After he recovered, both brothers were deported back to Pakistan. And now the one telling me the story was here again, attempting the journey for the second time. ‘When we went home, my brother wasn’t sad for the loss of his hand. He was sad because he became useless, unable to support our family. I have to try again because if I don’t make it, who will feed us?’

  Hearing this story caused my brother Hazrat to haunt my dreams more than ever. Where was he now? Had he been tricked into taking one of the overground routes? Was my brother’s broken body lying on the bottom of a river bed somewhere? Had he been shot?

  Was he lying out there bleeding, calling for me?

  Chapter Eleven

  I was almost beginning to want to be caught: being deported surely had to be better than getting killed. But the thought that Hazrat was out there somewhere, lost and alone, stopped me. Hazrat would be looking for me too, I was certain of that. Besides, if I went home without him, I knew my mother would never forgive me.

  The only solace in my existence was that by now the three ­Istanbul-based Afghan agents trusted our little group and gave us more freedom, so we were able to go outside for a few hours a day. We walked through parks or drank Turkish coffee in pavement cafés – anything to help pass the time. On one of our walks we discovered an Afghan-run DVD rental and sale store, something that had Baryalai and Mehran practically whooping with joy. Films had also been banned under the Taliban but, once they had gone, bootleg movies had flooded the bazaar in our town. I hadn’t been able to see them, however, because my family didn’t have a TV, and my father didn’t approve of such things anyway.

  After chatting to the friendly shopkeeper at the store, Baryalai used some of his precious cash to purchase three copies of Bollywood movies. He was as excited as a little kid. ‘I saw this one three times in Peshawar. It’s so good. Trust me, little man, you are going to love it.’

  When we got back to the musafir khanna, he fiddled with the Chinese-made TV and DVD player that stood in one corner. It had a label on it which read: ‘Sonysonic’. Baryalai told me that was the maker. ‘Don’t you get it? It’s brilliant. The Chinese are so enterprising.’ He laughed, but I couldn’t understand why he found it so funny.

  The films were OK. They were in Hindi with English subtitles, so I couldn’t understand what was being said. There was a lot of singing and dancing and a big fight scene. I couldn’t really work out what was going on except that it was some kind of love story. I very nearly nodded off. When the closing credits rolled I looked over at my friend. He had tears running down his face.

  The next film was a historical action movie. Even though I still couldn’t understand the words I quite liked the fight scenes, and I much preferred this movie – so much so that by the time it ended, I was so utterly engrossed in it I had completely forgotten it was make-believe. The final epic battle had seen so many brave warriors fall that I turned to Mehran and said, ‘Is everyone in India dead now?’

  He bopped me over the head.

  Those few moments of light relief were rare. By now all four of us were completely fed up with the constant moving and changing of locations, and the anxiety and uncertainty it created. We complained to one of the Afghan trio. I begged them to contact Qubat and see how my family was.

  ‘We’ll try, but he’ll probably be too busy.’

  ‘But I need to tell them how I am.’

  They wouldn’t make the call for me but they did reassure me my family would know I was safe and where I was. They told me that every time I crossed into a new country my family would be informed
by Qubat or one of his representatives. This was because his next instalment of payment would be due. They explained that the money my family had paid was held by a mutually trusted third party, a kind of smuggling lay-away plan. Each time I crossed a new border, the third party handed over a little more to Qubat.

  That didn’t make me feel better, and I suspected they could have been lying to me. In fact, we complained so much that the trio said they were sick of us and were passing us on to a different Istanbul agent. We had little choice but to do as they said. All we knew – all they told us – was that we were expected to meet the new agent in a certain café.

  The new agent was another Afghan: Zamir. He was young, and smartly dressed in Western-style clothes. He wore a casual, open-necked shirt and gel in his fashionable haircut. Leather bracelets were wrapped around his wrists.

  ‘I’m taking you to a really good place. It’s the best musafir khanna in all of Istanbul.’

  I was coming to realize that the agents were the salesmen of the smuggling world. They have to sell their fat lies and thin hope to convince you to keep going – it’s in their interest, because if they don’t get you to the next location they don’t get paid. They will say anything to persuade you. But it’s the people below them – the employees, the drivers, the farmers with the cow sheds where the agents hid us – these were the ones who were the most brutal. They had already been paid by the agents, and so had nothing to lose. Often they subcontracted their work to family members or friends. That’s when it got really messy and you had no idea who was whom.

  Having to work out all of that was making me grow up very fast.

  There are exaggerations and then there are complete lies. As soon as Zamir delivered us to the new address, I knew it was a bad place. Our new hideout was guarded day and night by three nasty-looking Turks, who glowered at us menacingly. We didn’t see weapons but I am sure they had them, because one of them kept fingering the bulge in his pocket.

  It was another basement, already packed with twenty to thirty Afghans, who didn’t waste a second in letting us know what a mistake we’d made by coming there.

  ‘This man is a liar. Everything he says is pure bullshit.’

  ‘Months. I’ve been here for months.’

  ‘We are less than human.’

  Every time someone tried to speak, the thugs ordered silence.

  I was so depressed to be there. The basement had tiny, locked windows. There was no fan and it was brutally hot inside. So many times I thought I was going to faint. No one was allowed outside and the only food was takeaways, brought in daily by the thugs. And we had to pay for those with our own money. The others had been borrowing money from each other just to live.

  After one particularly noisy and restless night one guy got up and announced he’d had enough. ‘Fuck this, I’m leaving.’

  The guards punched him to the floor. ‘Think we’ll let you go and call the police?’

  My exit came when Zamir arrived one day and read out a list of ten names. He called my name, but not those of my three friends.

  ‘Don’t go, Gulwali,’ they all urged. ‘Stay with us so we can look after you.’

  I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t want to get stuck there for months either. I swallowed hard and summoned my courage. Looking Zamir square in the eye, I said, ‘If they don’t go, then I don’t go.’

  ‘Fine, it’s up to you,’ he replied, calling my bluff. ‘They’re not going. Stay if you want. But let me tell you, this is a guaranteed trip.’

  That made me stop and think. This was my journey. I had to continue. And I also wanted to prove something to myself: I had heard people whispering behind my back, saying how my friends had to look after me and what a little boy I was. It made me defensive and angry. I was determined to show I could manage on my own – to prove I was grown up.

  I went.

  Zamir’s men shoved us roughly into the back of a van and drove us to a train station. I had a very bad feeling that this was not the way to Greece – not by boat anyway. The train station was closed for the night but the railway security guards opened some gates at the back to allow our van in. They greeted our agents as if they were old friends and ushered us towards the rear of the station, where an empty train sat in the sidings.

  We hadn’t had food or water all day and I was wobbly with hunger.

  ‘You. The small one. Come here.’ A guard motioned me towards the train and into the driver’s cab. I clambered inside and took a seat.

  ‘No, not there. Here.’ He pointed to the ceiling.

  ‘What? I don’t understand.’

  He laughed long and hard, clutching his fat belly with a scaly hand. Then he stood on the seat and unscrewed a large acrylic panel which covered the ceiling light. ‘Up here.’

  How was I was supposed to fit in there?

  Warily, I climbed on to the seat. I tried to haul myself up as the guard gave me a vigorous shove up my backside. The cavity was pitch black and chokingly full of dust. My eyes could just about make out a tiny hollow next to the wiring of the light box. Surely not?

  ‘Get in. Hurry up.’

  With that he gave me another hard shove. By wiggling, I just about got my torso in. ‘I can’t get my legs in. It’s too small.’

  Another belly laugh. ‘Get in.’

  Somehow I managed to twist at the waist, contorting my legs in behind me. My eyes and nose filled with choking black dust and grime. It felt like a coffin. My coffin.

  I cried out in pain and fear as the guard stood on the chair again and began to screw the ceiling panel firmly back in place. ‘Please. No. Let me out. Please.’

  ‘Shut up, boy.’ He replaced the last screw, locking me firmly into the claustrophobic, filthy blackness.

  ‘Breathe, Gulwali. Keep breathing.’ Talking to myself made me feel calmer. ‘Stay alive. You can do it. Breathe.’

  I realized I was heading to Bulgaria.

  The train had begun to move. I didn’t know if any passengers had come on board because I couldn’t hear anything save for my own panicked breaths.

  I think I managed to breathe myself into some kind of trance because I don’t really know how long I was up there. I think it was a long time. The next thing I knew, the conductor was unscrewing the panel, revealing a dark landscape flashing past. ‘Get down. Come on. Down.’

  I tried to move my legs but they were stiff with cramp. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘For God’s sake, boy. Hurry.’ He grabbed at my legs, yanking me back through the tiny space.

  I fell out, bashing my torso on the sharp edge of the seat before hitting the floor. My body went into shock. I was gulping for air, hyperventilating.

  The train was still moving. But where were the others?

  ‘Hurry. Jump. Jump when I say.’

  ‘Jump? What—? I don’t…’

  Grabbing my shoulder, he yanked me up and towards the door of the driver’s cab. He flung the door open to reveal the ground moving swiftly beneath us. Rocks, grass and fields swam by my blurred vision in the twilight.

  If I jumped I’d surely die.

  I looked to my right and saw the others, all standing in the doorways of the next carriage. I could read the terror on their faces.

  ‘I can’t. Please, no. Don’t make me,’ I pleaded to the conductor.

  ‘There’s a checkpoint coming up, you stupid little fool. Get off my train.’

  As the train rounded a bend it slowed slightly. He tried to push me out. I fought back, trying desperately to cling on to both him and the train.

  ‘Gulwali, look out. Jump.’

  One of others was pointing up the tracks ahead of us. The landscape was changing. Grass and trees gave way to large, jagged rocks.

  Someone shouted, ‘In the name of Allah, jump now. Everybody jump now.’

  I don’t know if I jumped o
f my own accord, or if the conductor pushed me. All I remember is hurtling through the air and seeing the earth moving underneath me before crashing down in an agonized heap.

  I think I must have blacked out. When I came to, my head hurt so much I could barely lift it. Everyone else was screaming. It was still dark, and my eyes struggled to make out the shapes.

  ‘My leg. Allah. Help me. My leg.’

  Slowly I eased myself up. The train was hurtling into the distance. Scattered along the track were nine bodies in various states of brokenness.

  ‘Gulwali, help me. My leg.’

  I staggered over to Zia, an Iraqi. His leg was twisted at a sickening angle.

  I retched before collapsing and started to cry. My head hurt so much I thought I was dying.

  Two of the others appeared by our side. ‘Where is everyone else?’

  People were still screaming uncontrollably. Some of them looked really badly injured.

  After that it all became a blur. The police arrived with an ambulance at some point. The badly injured were taken away and I never saw any of them again.

  I was semi-conscious as I was bundled into a police car.

  Chapter Twelve

  When I awoke, I was alone in a Bulgarian police cell. Someone had placed me on a rickety iron bed with just a thin mattress and no bedding. Through the bars of my cell I could see others from the train lying in similar beds, in other cells.

  Istanbul had been so hot and stuffy; here, the air was freezing, but stank of rotting flesh. And it wasn’t just migrants in there; some of the other prisoners looked local and really scary. I don’t know if they were mad or drunk, but a few of them shouted out all night long.

  My head was hurting so much I could barely move. If I tried to stand I felt dizzy and had to lie back down. I tried using hand gestures and a mixture of different languages to appeal for help. ‘Please. I need a doctor. Help me. I’m begging you.’