The Lightless Sky

by Gulwali Passarlay

  ‘Get up. Fast. Run.’

  We ran for so long through that valley I thought my chest was going to burst and my kidneys explode. Every single sinew, fibre and muscle in my body hummed with pain. I was desperate to stop and rest but I knew if I attempted to do so for even a second, the guide would leave me to the mercy of whoever was up there firing indiscriminately.

  Not for the first time I expected to be shot and killed at any second. I ran like one of the frightened wild rabbits that burrowed along the edge of the valley path – I had no idea where I was running to, only that I had to get away from the immediate danger. I knew with complete certainty that I didn’t want to die, not here, not like this. Running for my life was becoming all I knew.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t run any more and that I was going to fall behind, be shot and die alone on that path, we came to the end of the valley and on to a track where the same blue four-wheel drive we’d been in that morning was waiting. I could hardly breathe after so much running. My lungs felt as hot and tight as one of the brick kilns that scattered the countryside around my home in Nangarhar.

  ‘Get in the vehicle,’ a voice ordered.

  We all ran, cramming seven bodies in as fast as we could.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Even now, I have only half an understanding of the routes that I travelled; my memories are often a blur of faces, landscapes, half-formed thoughts, and then there are some moments that are etched on my mind for ever, ones I know I will never forget.

  Running for my life along that valley in the dead of night is one of them.

  As far as I could make out in the moonlight, as I gazed out of the car window, the landscape was very different from the terrain I’d seen when I first arrived in Iran from Afghanistan, and was taken to Black Wolf’s farm. It was less populated, the buildings were simpler, and it was much more arid. I guessed that we were now approaching the Turkish border through a different region.

  We spent a comfortable night hosted by a family who owned a fruit farm. The owner told us he was Afghan by descent but his family had lived in Iran for generations. His family may have been in Iran for a long time, but they still had the old ways: they made us proper Afghan-style eggs, served with delicious homemade bread and a salad of cucumber and tomatoes. It was some of the freshest, nicest food I had eaten in weeks.

  My stomach was slowly recovering from the meagre prison rations, so this time I was able to wolf it all down with gusto. The farmer was warm and polite, treating us like guests – he gave us some delicious oranges from his trees. After all that running I was so very thirsty, so it was a joy to feel the juicy fruit exploding across my tongue.

  It was surreal. One second I was being shot at; the next I was eating eggs and oranges.

  It still didn’t cease to amaze me how we had moments like this, or how many seemingly ordinary people and families along the way were involved in these smuggling operations, offering their homes for shelter or safe passage. I don’t know if the farmer was paid to host us or if he was doing it because he was a relative or friend of one of the smugglers – they weren’t questions we could ask.

  I did discover more about our new Iranian associates. They told us they were students and were fleeing Iran due to the political situation there. They were obviously very scared, made more so by being shot at. They said they would only be able to relax a little bit once they were out of their country and across the border into Turkey. I felt the same way.

  We got a decent night’s sleep in a comfortable anteroom at the back of the farmer’s house, and set off again in the middle of the next afternoon.

  We drove up ever higher winding tracks for the rest of the day. Through the windows I could see people working and watering the irrigated fields that stretched as far as the eye could see. The lengthening shadows told me it was the crossover between late afternoon and early evening, the time of day when the sun graces the earth with a golden goodbye before turning in for the night. Entire families tilled the fields, the women wearing brightly coloured head scarves. Children played among the crops as their parents toiled. An elderly man and a little boy herded a flock of sheep across the top of a field. The sight of them made my breath catch in my throat like a stone of grief. In another life, that would have been me and my grandfather.

  With a pang of guilt, I thought of my mother. During that last, awful twenty-four hours, running for my life, I had cursed her and questioned again and again why she had forced me to go away. Now I reminded myself that she had done it for me, for my safety. Once again I had survived, God had kept me safe. That had to be for a reason. I couldn’t let her down now. This journey had to mean something. Besides, my brother Hazrat was still out there somewhere, and I had to find him. There was no going back until I did.

  As the sun bowed its golden crown into a gloriously beautiful dusk, we continued up the rough gravel mountain roads until we reached a very small and pretty hamlet, nestled up high, with little stone houses carved into the rocks.

  We were led into a house, where an intoxicating aroma of cooking tantalized our grateful senses. And, after a wonderful meal of roast chicken, rice and naan – our second great meal in less than twenty-four hours – I began to feel so much better. I had a sense that this family were gentle people, something that became clearer when, after the meal, they began to talk to us.

  They told us we were in a village above Maku, in the remote mountains surrounding the city. This was news I didn’t enjoy hearing – Maku was where I had been imprisoned. I hadn’t expected to be going back there, not after that dramatic escape. But I reasoned that if it was where I had been deported back into Iran from Turkey, then it was also where I could get back across the very same border and into Europe again.

  The family was made up of a youngish couple with their two small children, and the man’s elderly mother. As the food had been served, I had noticed the old lady giving me glances of concern throughout. She spoke only a thickly accented Kurdish which I couldn’t understand, and no Farsi, but her son, who did speak Farsi, translated for me.

  ‘You are so young. Where are you going from here?’ she asked.

  That question threw me. I’d been running so long I had no idea. I had stopped thinking further ahead than the next minute. ‘I don’t know.’

  She said something back to her son, who nodded at her, sadly. With that, she gathered up her robes and left the room as her son translated for me: ‘My mother said you should not be travelling alone. It’s not right for a child.’

  There was nothing I could say to that. She was right, but how could I begin to explain? The man told us his name was Serbest, laughing when he said it meant ‘royalty’ in Kurdish. Serbest told us his mother didn’t want him to do this type of work, explaining that it was very dangerous for him. Not only did he risk arrest from the authorities for sheltering illegals, he lived in fear of the power­ful regional agents and the various local smugglers and drivers who worked for them. While it was the local-level smugglers who brought their charges to him, he knew they worked for the more powerful, wealthy people – people who could easily do him harm if they so wished.

  He said the smugglers often tried to cheat him – paying for two guests but instead bringing ten. He said in those circumstances he was left with no choice but to feed the extra mouths. His mother would not allow it any other way.

  Serbest’s honesty and vulnerability made us all like him. We too knew what it was like to be tricked by the smiling liars in leather jackets and Land Cruisers. I thought back to our first ever Turkish agent, Malik, the liar in the smart suit who was also involved in trafficking women across borders to work in brothels. I recalled the awful chicken coop he’d kept us locked up in. I thought too of the family living there – the kind old lady who had been so nice to me, and her useless, drunken son. Both that old lady and her son, and Serbest and his family, were making their living from harbouring despera
te migrants, but they were different, somehow, from the agents we had met. They certainly weren’t getting rich from it. They were poor people who needed work and money. Were they really so different from us?

  Serbest explained there was no other option for him. During harvest time there was some work on the farms, but it was occasional and didn’t pay enough for him to save the money to see his family through the long, cold winters they endured. If a family didn’t have enough wood, grain and rice stored, they would go hungry and cold.

  It made me realize that life in the remote Kurdish-inhabited parts of Iran or Turkey was no different to that of rural Afghanistan. Yes, there were some bad people – criminals and kidnappers, but most people were decent. Living the same, hand-to-mouth existence, they put family, morality and duty first. And through that they survived.

  We all said evening prayers together, then Serbest told us to get some rest because we’d be leaving within the hour.

  I groaned inwardly – ‘Please, not another journey into the dark.’ I was too nervous about what was to come to rest properly. Instead, I reflected on the people I had met over the past few months and all the things I had seen – the brutality, the injustice, the poverty, the kindnesses, the mixed objectives that most people had. The little rural and conservative boy from Afghanistan had seen and heard so much. This journey, as awful as it was, was certainly opening my eyes and my mind to the world.

  Meeting nice people like Serbest helped. And all sorts of things, from seeing how other cultures lived, to hearing stories of poverty in Africa, and praying with Shia Muslims, had most certainly changed my views and opinions of the world for the better. I was no longer the baby fundamentalist I once was. The boy who used to boss his aunts around was long gone. If only they could see me now.

  At that moment, for some inexplicable reason, my maternal grandfather’s face came before me – the grandfather who was an imam. I heard his voice in my head so loudly and clearly I will never forget it: ‘Life is an education, Gulwali. And all life must have a purpose.’

  The wind was whistling through the trees outside when the old lady came to wake us. It was time to leave. As we left the house, she and Serbest’s wife held a Quran above our heads which we walked underneath as they said prayers of supplication, asking for God to keep us safe, and for our return. My grandmother had said similar prayers, a tradition for travellers, before Hazrat and I had left our house for Waziristan and the start of our journey – when I had thought my journey was just for a holiday and that I would be home soon. The memory was heartbreaking but I was so touched by the fact that these people bothered to pray for strangers like us.

  The old lady placed a work-coarsened, wizened hand to my cheek and stared at me with tears in her rheumy eyes.

  I heard the sound of hooves and whinnying.

  Serbest grinned. ‘That will be your gift.’ He slipped into the darkness. A few minutes later, he came back riding a grey horse, holding on to the reins of a second, sturdy-looking brown horse behind his. Both horses wore an embroidered bridle that brought back memories of my grandparents’ kuchi ‘gypsy’ tent. He smiled at me. ‘It’s for you. You are too young – you will not be able to walk this path.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘It will help. Trust me. But I am sorry, I cannot pay for him. He will cost you twenty-five dollars.’

  ‘No. Forget the money. Forget the horse.’

  I still had my dollars so I could pay for it, but in no way did I want to: I had been around donkeys and horses as a boy, but I had never really liked them. They scared me.

  Everyone was laughing at me and my face burned red with angry humiliation as I backed away. ‘No. No. No.’

  Mehran just stood smiling, trying to hold back his laughter.

  Serbest held out the reins again. ‘Come on, I will help you up.’

  ‘I said NO.’

  An hour later I was sitting on the horse, filled with oceans of gratitude for Serbest and the animal.

  The journey was brutal.

  From the village we set off on our way, crisscrossing the landscape. The irrigated valleys and fields below had given way to sharp rocks and steep little donkey tracks that were barely passable by foot. The sure-footed hooves of my mount were far steadier than my boots, my so-called best friends, could ever have been.

  ‘Get off for a bit, Gulwali. I need a turn.’

  I turned to Mehran. ‘Sure.’

  As I got off, I tried not to let everyone see how the pain in the backs of my thighs was making me walk funnily.

  It was only a couple of hours’ walk before we reached what Serbest said was the meeting point.

  It was like an ancient battle scene or, rather, a battle-preparation scene. Literally hundreds of people, men and women, were gathered in a clearing. Some were resting under trees, bundled clothing under their heads; others were preparing themselves – lacing up boots and putting on warm clothes.

  It must have been close to midnight, but the moon was bright and I could tell that all of these people wore the same tired and confused expressions as I did. They were migrants. I tried to work out where they might be from. No Africans this time, but lots of Arabs and Asians – Afghans, Pakistanis, Iraqis and what looked like more Iranians. Their local guides, whoever their Serbests were, stood beside them, watering their horses, preparing saddles and packs for the journey ahead. I seemed to be the only migrant on horseback.

  We waited there for over an hour, giving me time to absorb the whole scene. More and more people started to arrive on foot, a few on donkeys. The clearing was totally inaccessible by vehicle.

  What I didn’t understand was how so many people could be there without anyone seeing us; there was so much noise I was sure the whole city of Maku, somewhere below us, would hear. I was so scared the horsewhip-carrying police, or worse, the kidnappers, would come any second.

  I also thought about the first time I crossed from Kurdish Iran into Turkey. Then, we had walked across the border on an ancient trading route. This time there were no jovial, singing merchants trading their wares. I recalled Black Wolf’s nephew theatrically banging on his drum as he sat astride his horse like a tenth century warlord. This time, however, the mood matched the dry arid landscape. It felt sombre, almost doom-laden.

  I don’t know who gave the orders for when to set off, but it seemed that someone was in control because when we moved, everyone started walking together – a long line of bodies, mules and horses winding up the trails, across roads and rivers. We were quite close to the front of the group and, as I looked behind me, all I could make out was a long trail of exhausted people.

  Serbest was a good and generous guide. He rode his own horse close to us, and kept checking to see if I was OK.

  ‘Good boy. Thank you, boy.’ I patted my horse. Without him, I am not sure I could have made it. At times the passes were so steep that people had to hold hands to avoid falling down on to the rocks below. Mehran, Jawad and I shared the horse; whoever wasn’t riding him held on to his tail for safety.

  The journey went on for most of the night as we wound around tracks that took us higher and higher, to where the air got so cold it was hard to breathe. Unbelievably, at some point in the night, we crossed over two busy roads, cars coming from both directions. How could these hundreds of the walking hopeless and hungry not be detected?

  A frightened voice suddenly rang out in the darkness: ‘Get back. Back. Everyone move back.’

  There was no way back, other than down the narrow track – the way we’d come. All I could see behind me was more people. Confusion reigned. It was pitch black and no one could see anything as they tried to follow the order, scrambling to turn around. Miraculously, the horse found its way to the side, behind some rocks, where we both sheltered.

  As quickly as the order had come to move back, a new order came to continue moving. I am absolutely sure some people
got left behind in the confusion.

  We had walked steadily for another thirty minutes or so when a shot rang out.

  ‘Take cover. Cover.’

  Most people managed to hide behind boulders. I was thankful the horse stayed calm – I suspected it wasn’t the first time my trusty mount had heard gunfire. As we tried to shelter, some people said the shots were coming from quite far away, from the other side of the cliffs, on the Iranian side.

  I couldn’t understand that. Our army of the desperate was clearly walking away from Iran into Turkey, so why shoot at people who were leaving?

  In the chaos, we lost Serbest. I panicked, trying to control the reins so I could find him. ‘Serbest. Where are you? Help me.’

  When his horse caught up with us, his face was ashen with worry. ‘Little one, thank God you are safe – my mother would never have forgiven me. Keep your horse behind me and don’t fall back.’

  As the sun awoke to a new day and peeped through the veil of darkness to bring dawn, I saw that we were almost at the top of a mountain range.

  ‘Here is Turkey, here is Iran.’ Serbest gestured first to the east, then towards the west. All I could see was mountains and more mountains.

  He told us we were only a few miles from Turkey now. Europe was once more in reach.

  We had made it.

  Serbest pulled the reins of my horse to a stop. He dismounted from his own and began shaking hands with his seven charges one by one. ‘This is where I say goodbye. Farewell, my brothers. God will be with you. Stay on top of the game.’ He turned to me. ‘And especially you. Go well, little boy. Go well.’

  I was sad to say goodbye to our new friend; I had liked Serbest very much indeed. But if I was sad to say goodbye to him, then I was surprised to learn that I felt even more sad to say farewell to my horse.

  ‘Goodbye boy. Goodbye. I hope you get home safely.’ I patted him on the neck as he peered at me with curious brown eyes. That horse, the simple creature that I had been angry at being forced to ride, had been my saviour that long night. He was so gentle with me, and so sure-footed, and sitting astride his back had been the closest thing to safe and secure that I had felt in a long time. Now I couldn’t bear to see him go. I was annoyed to realize I was fighting back tears. ‘Don’t be a baby, Gulwali. It’s just a horse,’ I chastised myself.