‘Your friend. He has been taken to another prison.’
‘Baryalai?’
‘Yes. The guards suspect he is an agent. It is very serious for him.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked.
‘This is what one of the guards told me. Maybe he lies, but…’ He paused. ‘I thought you would want to know.’
A few days later, we were taken to a shower room. There were only a handful of them and we had to queue for ages. It was the first time I had seen a Western-style toilet – the type you sit on. This one was filthy.
None of the shower doors had locks, so Mehran and I took turns standing guard for each other. In my culture, this was a very humiliating thing. I was so embarrassed having to do such private things surrounded by so many people. It was the first shower I’d had for two weeks, but it wasn’t enjoyable. In the end it was a matter of necessity, rather than pleasure.
The water was freezing cold and there wasn’t any soap, but it did feel healing. My skin tingled. I washed my bruised face and head with care, and rinsed my mouth repeatedly, running a finger over my teeth and gums.
Back in the cell I did a little mental audit. I had about US$250 left. Some had gone in Turkey – a haircut, some new clothes. More clothes in Iran. I had spent money in Turkey and in Istanbul – mostly on food.
The prison was overflowing with refugees, the overwhelming majority of whom were Sudanese or Somalian. I hadn’t been around very many black people in my life; in Afghanistan there aren’t any, and although I’d seen a few Africans around Istanbul, I hadn’t got to know any. I felt so sorry for the ones in this prison – some of them had been here for years. I was told a few were there on drug charges.
I was managing to hide my money in my underwear, and I had some in my pocket. I had also given $50 to Mehran to look after for me. That got stolen.
Mehran was upset and angry. He thought maybe I believed he was lying to me and that he’d taken it. Of course I didn’t. I totally trusted him.
We went to see Bernard, the kindly Iranian. He shrugged his shoulders sadly. ‘These things happen in here. You have to accept your money has gone.’
After the horrible beating, days of little food and even less sleep, the disappearance of my money was too much. They were dollars my mother had given me. They had been a symbol of her hope for me, and the future she wished me to have. And now I had lost it. I couldn’t stop crying.
‘What’s up?’
I stared into a round, black face and a pair of the deepest, kindest eyes I had seen in a long time. Seeing a black person was still very unusual for me.
‘Why are you crying?’
‘It’s nothing,’ snapped Mehran. ‘Leave us alone.’
‘It doesn’t look like nothing. Tell me.’
The shock of him speaking a Persian language made me forget my tears. ‘How can you speak Farsi?’
He laughed and threw his arms wide. ‘I study here at this fine university. Nothing else to do. So, tell me. Why do you cry?’
‘Someone took my money.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’ I began to sob louder. ‘My mother gave me that money.’
‘I see. How much?’
‘Fifty dollars.’
‘I see. I’ll sort it out.’ He gave me a concerned stare. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Gulwali.’
‘I am Marrion. Don’t cry, little one. No more tears, OK? I will sort this out. I promise.’
I stared at the floor and bit my lip. When I looked up again, I was surprised to see Marrion’s tall form already striding back across the cell.
‘Do you think he’ll get it back?’
Mehran seemed unconvinced.
To be honest, so was I.
I lay down and fell into a depressed slumber. Proper sleep was all but impossible on that cold floor.
‘Gulwali.’
The voice crashed into my lovely daydream, in which it was Eid, and I was breaking fast with all my family. We were eating fat, juicy fresh dates. I was happy. We all were.
At the sound of my name, my family vanished.
My new friend Marrion stood over me. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I found it for you.’ He tossed a crumpled ball of green-grey paper to me, and I clutched my money to my chest. ‘The thief says he is very sorry. ’
‘Thank you.’ I nodded and smiled at him with gratitude.
‘It was my pleasure. See you later. No more crying, OK boss?’ He strode back to the African corner of the cell without another word.
I was so happy; suddenly, the world felt a good place. Mehran had cheered up, we had a new friend in the horrible prison, and I had my money. This money – the exact note that my mother had given me – was my last connection to her. And now I had it back. That was all that mattered.
There was some kind of commotion going on with the guards outside in the corridor, but I ignored it. I was exhausted from all my crying so I tried to sleep again. I was just managing to nod off when I heard some Pakistani prisoners telling Mehran about something.
‘No one could believe it.’
‘I know. When he started hitting his head on the sink I thought he was going to kill him.’
One of them threw me a glance. ‘You missed out on all the fun, boy.’
‘What happened?’
‘Two African guys had a massive fight in the showers.’
‘What? Just now?’
‘Yeah. Only, it wasn’t so much a fight. One of them beat the living shit out of the other. Only stopped to take something out of his pocket and then went.’
‘The guards did nothing. We were waiting outside and they stood there watching, like us. ’
I was too scared to ask.
‘Gulwali? Weren’t you listening?’ Mehran had clearly worked it out.
‘The big guy really gave it to him. He didn’t look good at the end.’
I felt vomit rising in my throat.
Marrion.
Chapter Thirteen
The news spread like wildfire throughout the block.
We couldn’t have known it before because we hadn’t been there long enough, but it turned out that Marrion was one of the longest-serving prisoners there, and pretty much ran the place. He was in on drug-smuggling charges and no one dared cross him, not even the guards. He claimed he’d killed hundreds of people. He came from the Democratic Republic of Congo, where it was rumoured he was wanted for war crimes, although some people said this was a whisper he himself had put about, so I don’t know for sure if that was true. He also spoke seven languages fluently.
I was sick to my stomach at the knowledge that a man had been beaten because of me. The money burned in my pocket like acid. Was this what a man’s life was worth? Fifty dollars?
Marrion was now a bad man in my eyes. He shouldn’t have hit the thief. And yet, he’d got my money back for me. And he’d been so kind to me…I couldn’t believe I’d imagined the softness and concern in his eyes.
Not only had the story of the beating spread, but also the reasons for it. It meant that every man in the cell knew I had money on me – but now that it was known I was under Marrion’s protection, no one dared touch me. I spent most of the next day on my knees, praying for the other man and asking for forgiveness.
Prison was an angry and frustrating time. The boredom was terrible – a waiting game for something unknown. Most of the men played card games or chatted. Bernard had kindly lent me a Quran, from which I took great comfort whilst reading it. I spent much of my time praying, walking around the cell thinking about life and reflecting on the purpose Allah had for me. It felt like a test of my faith.
I met men from Iraq, Iran, India and Pakistan, and from all across Africa. Some of them, especially the Africans, told such terrible tales of poverty and hardship it made my own life sound ea
sy by comparison.
Many were dirt-poor fishermen or farmers. They had left behind their wives and children because they couldn’t make enough money to feed their families. I heard stories of toddlers dying of hunger in their parents’ arms, of wives falling sick with a simple fever and dying for lack of medicine, of babies stillborn to malnourished mothers. The only chance of their family surviving was if these men made it to Europe and found enough work to send money back home.
But not all were poor like that. Many of them were very inspirational people to me: lawyers, doctors, teachers, journalists or engineers. Often these were people who had been denied work or persecuted because of their political beliefs.
The most tragic story was that of my friend Bernard. He was a university professor from Shiraz. He told us he had helped to run an underground school, without government permission, educating Afghan refugee children. He had written a paper which was critical of the government and he’d been arrested and tortured. After being released he had fled the country, to Turkey.
I heard him crying on his bunk one day and I asked him what was wrong. Normally if you saw someone upset you wouldn’t say anything to them. Everyone kept respectful distances from emotion: we all knew we had our problems and prying wasn’t the done thing. I didn’t mean to be rude by intruding, though – I just wanted to know. I’d never heard a man cry before, not in this way. He was sobbing so softly, yet as if the world was utterly without hope.
‘Why do you cry, uncle?’
‘They are sending me back to Iran.’
‘But you will be going home and out of this jail…maybe that’s a good thing—?’
‘They say that I damage the minds of my students. They made me confess – electrocuted me – and made me sign my name, like a criminal. I escaped once. This time I won’t. They will hurt me again. They might even kill me.’
‘Tell the guards this. They cannot send you back.’
‘I have told them and begged them, with a lawyer. There are such lawyers here who would help me.’ He sighed. ‘And you’d think after all the help I give the guards they’d do something for me, wouldn’t you? But no. They laugh, and pretend that I should be packing for a long holiday.’
He wept tears of fear, not self-pity.
‘I’m sorry, uncle.’
He sat up on the bunk and offered me a dignified handshake. ‘Thank you. So am I.’
The next morning I watched as the guards led Bernard out of the cell block. He didn’t look at me. He just stared at the ground mumbling to himself.
I don’t know what happened to him, or if he is a free man today. Maybe he’s dead. I wish I knew, because I think of him often. There was something about him that reminded me of my father.
I began to make plans – I was not going to end up like Bernard: I had to get out, to survive. The authorities could not be trusted any more than the people-smugglers. They were all liars, and were only looking to take advantage of the human river that ran beneath their feet. My greatest fear was to be sent back home: it would have felt like such failure. As much as I longed to see my mother and family, I did not want to shame myself or them. As hard as my journey was, they had invested everything in my success.
I thought maybe I could try again: I could walk to Afghanistan’s western border with Iran, as my old friend Shah had done. Maybe I could even still get to Europe and find Hazrat. I could find a job and save money. Find Black Wolf – maybe he would help me? My mind was racing, none of my thoughts realistic.
Several of the Afghan prisoners who had arrived in jail at the same time as me had already been given the paperwork confirming their deportations, but there was a catch: the Afghan embassy would help arrange their flights, but they had to pay for it themselves. If they couldn’t, they stayed in prison. There was a single pay phone near the toilets. From my sleeping space so close to the cell doorway, I could hear snippets of conversation as imprisoned men apologized to families already in debt to people-smugglers, and asked them to find the money to pay for an international flight. Listening to them talking to loved ones was like a double stab through my heart: their plight could so easily be my own – and yet I had no phone numbers or way of contacting my family.
Some of the men wept like babies as they came back. It was through this I learned that people-smugglers don’t pay refunds for failure. If you get caught and finish the game early, you still have to pay in full. The agents will normally offer a discounted deal to let you try for a second time, but if you don’t take that deal, your family’s money is forfeited.
As yet, I hadn’t been given any papers, so I had some hope that things might work out.
What I did have, however, was a piece of paper with a phone number for Zamir, the flashy young Afghan who had been our last agent but one. Abdul suggested we try calling him for help.
Mehran and I stood by the phone expectantly as Abdul spoke to him. We could see from his face it wasn’t going well.
‘What did he say?’ Mehran asked impatiently, as Abdul hung up.
‘He told me not to call him from prison. He was worried the police would trace his phone. Said it was our fault we got arrested.’
We had no way of contacting Qubat, the so-called ‘big guy’ in Kabul.
Abdul had asked Zamir to at least call him on our behalf and let him know where we were, but Zamir had said it wasn’t his responsibility before telling Abdul never to call him again and hanging up.
We also tried Malik, the besuited very first agent in Turkey, the one who had made us live in the chicken coop. But the number we had for him was now unobtainable.
I think I had been in prison for around two or three weeks – time dragged so slowly it was hard to know for sure – when the man from the embassy came again.
He explained that those of us who couldn’t afford flights were to be deported to Iran by coach the next day.
Just after breakfast the following day, the guards came to get us. ‘You men on the bus to Iran. Get ready. You have two minutes.’
I jumped up in a panic, as if I had lots to pack. Then I remembered I only had my small bag, containing all my possessions. ‘I’m ready.’
Before we left, Mehran, Abdul and I tried to ask the guards about Baryalai, saying we didn’t want to go without him.
‘Shut up, you’ll make them suspicious. It will be worse for him,’ another prisoner warned us.
Leaving without him and not knowing whether he was still in a different prison somewhere, or had already been deported, was horrible. But what choice did we have but to go?
Yet again I was going backwards on this twisted board game that had become my life – but part of me was happy, because at least I was getting out of prison. The confinement had been beginning to make me lose my mind.
Chapter Fourteen
After four days, I was starting to wish I was back in prison. Around fifty of us were packed into a large coach, two to a small seat, our sweat and breath intermingling. I sat next to Mehran. Every six hours we pulled over to go to the toilet. They gave us very little water, so it was hard to go.
I had lost all hope. I was going back to war and back to Afghanistan – where the Taliban would be waiting for me.
Some of the men started grumbling.
‘There are only four of them, and fifty of us. We can take them easily.’
‘At the next stop, five of us can grab each one – another five the driver.’
Maybe this sort of dissent was common at this point in the journey, because the guards, plain-clothed immigration officers with guns, seemed to know what was going on.
A guard pushed his way to the back of the bus, an anxious look on his face. ‘We’re almost there. Don’t get any clever ideas. Things can always get worse.’
He didn’t even bother to pat his gun. He didn’t have to. We’d all heard the stories from other prisoners. It was alleged th
at sometimes Turkish border guards sold migrants to the Kurdish criminal gangs. These gangs, which everyone referred to as mafia, would imprison you somewhere and then make you contact your family to demand they pay a ransom. We were told they always asked for a ridiculously high price, like $5,000 dollars, which you had to try and negotiate down. If you didn’t cooperate and refused to call your family, they made you walk barefoot into the mountains, where they beat you. In extreme cases, I’d heard of men having their noses or ears cut off because their relatives either couldn’t or wouldn’t pay. As ever, the ransoms were paid to a middleman with a bank account somewhere in Europe or Iran. Nothing could be linked back to the kidnappers directly.
For me at least, this meant I was on my best behaviour with the immigration officers. I didn’t want to be sold on like that. Aside from Black Wolf, my experiences of Kurdish smugglers and criminals so far had not been positive.
On the fourth day, when we were very close to the border, we were ordered off the bus to sit and wait for a few hours in what looked like some abandoned former military buildings. The whole area was covered with tiny bits of sharp gravel. It was too tiring to stand up all afternoon but it was painful to sit on, and I was like a chicken on a hot plate, constantly shifting and fidgeting as the gravel pricked my bottom and thighs.
As we boarded the bus, the count came back one person short.
‘Who is missing?’
Somehow one of us had managed to disappear. I looked around, but it was hard to tell who it was.
The guards stayed with us on the now stationary bus, but they informed the police in the local area.
Three hours later, the police returned with a guy called Zabi. He was also a Pashtun, from the city of Kandahar, and only a couple of years older than I was. He was bleeding and bruised, but still had some fight left in him: ‘Let me go, you bastards.’
The local police who had caught him shoved him hard into the side of the bus. ‘You stupid fool. Did you really think you could run away from us?’
The Lightless Sky Page 13