The Lightless Sky

by Gulwali Passarlay

  The guard who brought my meagre rations of food refused to even look at me.

  After a couple of days, they told us we were going back to Turkey. I knew what to expect because I’d heard it all already from the stories: the Bulgarians sent people back over the border without the knowledge of the Turkish authorities.

  From Sofia, we were put on a police bus and driven for several hours to a forest. Half-a-dozen guards pointed to the trees – we were expected to walk back to Turkey.

  I think it was probably around January or February by then, and there was heavy snow on the ground.

  We hesitated. They pointed their rifles at us.

  It was pretty clear we had no choice but to move.

  We walked into the trees, not knowing what direction to take. It was so very cold. My boots – ‘my best friends’ as I jokingly called them – were holding up well, but my thin clothes were filthy and ripped after jumping from the train and our stay in the cells.

  Of our party, there were three who had leapt from the train with me, some of the least injured. I didn’t know about the others from the train – most likely they were in hospital, but I couldn’t say for sure. The rest of the shambling column was made up of other migrants from the prison.

  How I missed my three friends. I missed their company, and their help and support. Maybe I wasn’t as grown up as I had tried to convince myself I was.

  We walked through the snow for several hours. My toes went numb, along with my face and fingers. I wondered if my fate would be that of the Pakistani man who lost his fingers. Would I go home to my mother with some terrible injury, rendering me a burden for the rest of my life?

  Eventually, the trees began to thin out and we reached a small village. A flag above one of the rooftops told us we were back in Turkey. Although I was going backwards not forwards, I didn’t mind; I wanted to cry with relief at having escaped Bulgaria: the train had clearly been the first step of that notorious overland route to Greece via Bulgaria and Macedonia that I’d been warned about. The train had almost killed me; I’m certain that I would not have survived the rest of the journey.

  At the village, the three of us from the train separated from the rest and got a taxi to a larger town. From there, we used my Turkish lira – the money I had exchanged on the shopping trip with the Afghan agents – to buy bus tickets. The other two only had dollars, but they promised to pay me back once we reached Istanbul.

  Before we got on the bus, I used a pay phone to call Zamir. I had his number written in my pocket on a piece of paper he’d given me. He had said he’d send someone to the station to meet us.

  ‘But why aren’t you in Bulgaria?’

  This made me so angry. ‘Why aren’t I in Bulgaria? Because one of your friends threw me off the train. Then we got put in prison. Then we marched through the snow like the Soviet army retreating from Afghanistan. How could you send me on my own like that? That was not good of you.’

  ‘Calm down, Gulwali. You’re all right now, aren’t you? You did agree to go. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘I agreed to go to Greece. Now I am in Turkey.’

  ‘Well. This was the way to Greece. So it didn’t work. Not a big deal. We’ll try it again.’

  ‘I am not going that way again. People were hurt.’

  ‘Really? I must say that is very unusual. Let’s not discuss it now. We’ll talk about it when you return.’

  He sent one of his thugs to pick us up, and we were taken back to the same place as before. Baryalai, Mehran and Abdul were still there.

  I was so relieved to see them.

  The day after my return from Bulgaria, Zamir passed us on to another agent, an associate of his, a Turkish Kurd.

  He came to pick the four of us up in a taxi. I was just grateful I wasn’t being separated from my friends again.

  This new agent didn’t bother to tell us his name. He was about the same age as Zamir and similarly dressed, in a tight open-necked shirt, denim jeans and pointy leather shoes. He reeked of cheap aftershave.

  In the taxi, he spoke to us in what was by now becoming a typical mixture of Farsi and Kurdish: ‘We need to wait until night. Then I will take you to a place where you can get the boat to Greece. We will wait at a place I know.’

  Given what had happened to me in Bulgaria, I did not trust a word he said. And I knew for sure we’d been lied to when he directed the taxi to a shop in the middle of town, opposite a petrol station. This exact location had been described in minute detail to us by other migrants. It was the smugglers’ holding centre everyone dreaded the most, one of the places they kept you before sending you overland on the second route – the journey which took you over the heavily militarized Turkish–Greek border.

  We were led up a metal staircase at the back of the shop to a scruffy apartment. There were already forty or so migrants there, who looked to be a mix of nationalities. Everyone was sitting on the floor in silence, their heads down.

  We tried to get away before we got trapped: as we neared the door and saw the scene inside, those at the front turned to go back down the stairs – but the agent was standing behind them, blocking their way. Abdul had grabbed my sleeve to try and pull me back when a guard by the doorway yanked me inside by my arm.

  We were pretty much forced in and told to take our places on the floor with the other people. The Kurdish agent spoke briefly to the guards, then left us. We never saw him again.

  There was no food or water, and it was freezing cold despite the number of densely packed bodies. The atmosphere was awful, depression and sadness hanging in the air like a black cloud. I think every man in the room had an idea of the fate that was about to befall us.

  I sat as close to my three friends as I could; no way was I being separated from them now. We sat in silence, lost in our thoughts, for a couple of hours. I tried to perk myself up, telling myself I might survive this, and that I had to try, at least. But it didn’t really work: my thoughts kept taking me back home – I thought of my little siblings and how they were growing up without me; I thought of my second brother Noor, so close in age to Hazrat and me, but who had been left behind to become the man of the house, aged just eleven. How had he reacted when he was finally told that Hazrat and I weren’t coming back from our trip to Waziristan? How betrayed had he felt when he was told he’d never see his older brothers again?

  ‘Psst.’

  I looked up. Abdul was trying to get my attention.

  ‘Shut up.’ The guard glanced at him in warning.

  Abdul ignored him and continued to whisper: ‘What are we doing, sitting here like dead men? Let’s just go. They can’t force us to stay here.’

  He was right. My eyes met Baryalai’s questioningly. He nodded.

  I stood up first. I almost wanted to laugh. Abdul was right. Were we lambs to the slaughter? No. We were human beings, free to choose our own destiny. We would stroll out of there and find a way to manage on our own.

  The cupped palm collided with my ear, sending a shockwave of pain through my skull. I fell on to a patch of dirty carpet and rolled into a ball, seeing, through watering eyes, the guard slump back down heavily on to his chair.

  ‘Leave the boy alone,’ said Baryalai.

  I lifted my head just as the guard’s leg flashed like a cobra, sinking its teeth in the small of my friend’s back. He let out a yelp of pain and writhed on the floor, clutching a hand to his spine.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  The room was suddenly flooded with panic.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  ‘Someone’s at the door.’

  ‘Shut up – they’ll hear you.’

  A hollow voice boomed in Turkish. We were trying to stay quiet so no one translated for me, but I could read the others’ reactions and knew enough words of Turkish by now to work it out.

  ‘This
is the police. We know you are in there. Open the door now.’

  The guard replied in Kurdish: ‘I can’t. I, er, I lost my key.’ He turned wide-eyed to his colleagues, shrugging his shoulders. They nodded at him, gesturing at him to carry on. ‘My friend locked it when he went out, forgetting that I am still in here. He is a bit stupid like that sometimes. He will be back later tonight – you really shouldn’t trouble yourselves to wait so long.’

  There was no answer. Instead, an axe head split the door in two, and then a dozen men stormed into the room, shouting, ‘Police. Don’t move. Lie on the floor.’

  They had guns and wore bulletproof vests, but weren’t in uniform, which only compounded the sense of panic.

  ‘Kidnappers.’

  Some people tried to escape through the back, or get to the window. The men screamed and pointed their guns at them, telling them not to move.

  Uniformed officers then flooded into the flat, adding to the chaos.

  Men flung themselves out of the way in terror, but there was nowhere to move to. I half expected the police to start shooting at any second.

  I’d just been in a Bulgarian prison, and I didn’t want to be jailed again but, as I placed my hands on my head as they demanded, I felt a surge of pure relief and gratitude. I definitely hadn’t wanted to go on the overland route.

  We sat on the floor, arms on our heads, for an hour or so. ­Eventually, we were loaded into the back of a police van and driven to a large police station and prison complex somewhere near the centre of Istanbul.

  We were asked our name, age and country of origin, then taken up two flights of stairs, where we were seated in a large hallway. There were no chairs so we sat on the floor, tightly packed together. A couple of officers stood watch.

  With the lack of space, the way we were sitting in silence and the guards, it didn’t feel much different to the place from which we’d just been rescued.

  Six hours later I was quivering, alone and afraid, in an interrogation room. Somewhere over my head a striplight made a little plink-plink-pink sound, a bit like my grandfather tuning his rabab, an Afghan lute. I could see the stuttering bulb in the interrogation room’s mirrored walls, and jumped each time I caught my own reflection looking at me – as if the red-eyed stranger staring back at me might take offence.

  A young, uniformed officer entered the room. ‘So,’ he said, scraping his chair on the floor as he pulled it out, and slapping a notebook down. He spoke in Turkish, but the basic questions I could understand.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Gulwali.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twelve and a half.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Mauritania.’

  He sighed. Then he turned to a second man, who was not in uniform, and shook his head.

  The second man spoke to me in Farsi. ‘You are our seventeenth interview this morning. Are you going to waste our time with lies, too? Or are you going to be a good boy and tell me the truth?’

  I understood the translator perfectly well, but I had to stick to my story. Other migrants had warned me that if I ever got arrested in Turkey, I should say I was from Mauritania. I didn’t know why, or even where the place was, but word was that they might let you stay in Turkey if that’s what you said.

  I pretended I didn’t understand him and started waving my arms around, as if I was doing sign language.

  Now it was the translator’s turn to shake his head. ‘I know you understand me. Where are you from?’

  ‘Mauritania.’

  The notebook slapped me in the face. Suddenly, I could feel tears coming. I was a young boy searching for safety – my only crime was to be travelling without the right documents. He let out a little laugh. ‘Mauritania, you say? So, let’s continue this conversation in French. Je parle assez pour vous comprendre.’

  Why was he saying that? I didn’t speak a single word of French.

  I just continued to wave my arms. I hoped, if I was lucky, he might think I was mentally ill.

  He paused, gave a sneer at my obvious incomprehension, and called out sharply to the mirrored wall.

  The door opened. I watched in the mirrors as two more uniformed officers, tall men with hard faces, walked in and stood behind me.

  My mouth went dry.

  ‘Take him outside.’

  The pair walked me back up the stairs to where the others were sitting. I made to sit back down.

  ‘No. Keep walking.’

  They walked me up another two flights until we stood at the very top of the stairwell. There, they spun me around, and while I was still fighting for balance, shoved me backwards. ‘Look down.’

  Three strong hands gripped my skull; the fourth grabbed a fistful of my hair at my temples and twisted hard.

  It felt as if they were peeling the skin from my head and I screamed – more in shock and fear than pain.

  Then they marched me back down to the interrogation room to face the first two officers. But this time the second pair stayed, standing over me.

  I told them the truth. ‘I’m from Afghanistan. I am Gulwali from Afghanistan.’

  One of the men behind me threw me forward suddenly so that my cheekbone crunched on to the tabletop.

  I looked up at the two interviewing officers, dazed and petrified. There was no holding back the tears. I mopped my eyes and nose with the back of my grubby sleeve.

  ‘Tell me about the smugglers.’

  ‘What?’ I said. The question didn’t seem to make sense.

  ‘Where did you stay?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know, I promise.’

  The hands locked themselves to my head again, twisting my hair so hard it came out.

  ‘Please. Stop it. It hurts.’

  ‘Who were the men? Who did you pay?’

  ‘I don’t know. Please. I don’t know.’

  They released their grip and my head fell forward again. I spluttered tears and snot all over the table.

  ‘Get him out of here. Let’s see what the next idiot has to say.’

  I was taken back to the waiting area, where several of the men had swelling to their faces or bleeding lips.

  Every so often, the officers would drop a sweaty man off and pick a fresh candidate to take with them.

  Mehran was sitting next to me. He hadn’t been interviewed yet. ‘Did you say Mauritania?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t work. Don’t even say it.’

  ‘Oh, so you don’t want me to be free?’

  ‘Go ahead then, say it. Tell them that. If you like pain.’

  It was several hours later, almost morning, by the time all the interviews had finished. We had been sitting there without food, water or sleep all night.

  A young man in a shiny blue suit appeared on the stairwell, flanked by the Farsi-speaking officer. ‘I am from the Afghan embassy.’ Hopeful eyes turned to look at him. ‘You are to be taken to prison, where you will be held until the Turkish authorities are ready to deport you.’

  ‘Please,’ someone said, ‘can’t you help us?’

  ‘You are here illegally, without documentation,’ said the diplomat, adjusting his dark grey pencil tie. ‘What do you expect the embassy to do?’

  ‘We expect you to do your job. We are Afghans, your citizens. You are sworn to serve the nation,’ Baryalai spoke up suddenly, his face flushing with anger.

  ‘Don’t,’ I hissed, mindful of the interrogation room and the hovering guards.

  The diplomat swallowed hard. He looked at Baryalai. ‘I am sorry, my friend. But do you have an Afghan passport on you?’

  Baryalai said nothing.

  Satisfied his tie was straight, the diplomat spun on his leather heel and clattered off down the corridor.

  The guards waited a moment,
then grabbed Baryalai by the shoulders, pulling him to his feet.

  He struggled for a moment. ‘Get your hands off me.’

  This didn’t feel good. We had no idea where he was being taken.

  ‘We’ll be thinking of you. Please be careful,’ I called to him. A guard looked over his shoulder at me and I dropped my eyes, rubbing my throbbing scalp.

  Baryalai was our unofficial leader. Abdul, Mehran and I stared at each other helplessly.

  We were then ordered to stand up and told we would be taken to the cell block next door.

  The holding cell was huge. It was packed with men of many different nationalities, who sat huddled in ethnic groups of African, Arab, Persian or Asian descent. There were a few bunk beds around the corners, all occupied.

  Many of the faces bore witness to recent questioning.

  We found a small piece of empty cell near the door, the only floor space available.

  ‘Please, can we have blankets?’

  ‘No.’

  As I tried to go to sleep on the concrete floor, my head still aching from the interrogation, misery began to creep in. Was this really what my mother had sent me away for? How could this be better, or safer, than what I had left behind? Would the foreign forces in Afghanistan have treated me worse if they had been questioning me? I wanted to believe so, but the cold floor sucked any certainty from me.

  In the morning, I woke to feet stumbling over me. Food was being served right where we were lying. We had to get out of the way, fast.

  I looked around the cell properly for the first time. I could see the faces of the whole world there, each nation sitting in its own area of the room.

  ‘Get some food before it goes.’ Mehran handed me a little metal bowl of rice.

  I fell on it, wolfing it down gratefully.

  For the next few days we were told nothing. I had no idea what was happening, but some of the prisoners did seem to show genuine concern for me.

  ‘You should be in the kids’ prison.’

  ‘What are you doing here with us?’

  One of the prisoners, an Iranian called Bernard, was small, dark haired and kind. He told us he was sometimes asked to help translate during interrogations. As such, he had information for us.