We stood and watched as the various agents, smugglers and brigands walked back to Iran. Serbest stopped and turned to wave us a cheery goodbye. Then he and the horse were gone from view.
Those of us left behind paused to rest a little longer before walking forwards into Turkey. But I still couldn’t understand just how this many people were supposed to walk right into Turkey undetected.
Spread out before me was a very different view to the one I had seen the first time I had stood in the no-man’s land between Turkey and Iran. Then, just a couple of weeks into my journey and still a frightened child, I had been transfixed as I had looked to one side of the horizon and seen night, on the other side day. This time the rocky landscape looked the same, and it was impossible to tell how and where Turkey differed from Iran.
But I felt a new sensation, as though I was standing between two worlds – the old and the new.
My old and my new.
I calculated it must be close to seven months since I had left my home and my family. I was still no closer to Western Europe. But I had changed. I was no longer a little boy. I might still look like one, but I certainly wasn’t one inside. How could I be? I had been beaten, abused, arrested. I had known hunger and fear and misery.
As I stood there, with Iran to one side of me and Turkey just a short walk on the other, I told myself that this was not a place I wanted to be in for the third time.
‘This time, Gulwali, you will make it to safety. You will.’
Chapter Nineteen
It was only when the Iranian guides and smugglers left that I had a chance to really see who else was with us.
There were a couple of hundred other people with us: most of them were huddled in small groups, just like Jawad, Mehran, me and the Iranians. Their ages spanned from teenagers to the elderly.
Many carried small shoulder bags and cases, no doubt filled with a lifetime’s possessions. Others had nothing but the clothes on their backs – as if they’d left their houses that morning, and were now stuck in Turkey. Some had sturdy boots like mine, which they peeled off, allowing their wet, blistered feet to breathe. Others had plastic sandals – how they managed to walk any distance in those, I don’t understand.
Most of the men were bearded. Shaving was an infrequent activity, and a low priority for most.
I was dismayed to see a couple of women with small children. The children were dirty, with runny noses and matted hair. One little girl wore a blue bobble hat, but only had a pair of leather sandals on her tiny frozen feet. My heart lurched when I saw that. I wanted to go and talk to her, to say something comforting. But the way her mother held her so close, so fiercely, stopped me. She watched the men around her with cold eyes. Like a lioness protecting her cubs, she just stared, looking for any signs of danger. I decided it was better to let the family have some privacy.
What quickly became very clear was that not a single person among us had any idea what would happen next. The Iranian guides had simply pointed down the mountainside and told us to continue the walk to Turkey.
‘Is this familiar?’ Jawad looked at me, as if I should know where we were.
‘How should I know? It looks nothing like the last time I was in Turkey.’
‘How do we find the agents?’ he persisted.
‘Why do you keep asking me? Do I look like I know?’ I know he wanted answers, but he was getting on my nerves.
A couple of groups stood up and started to walk away. In an information vacuum, even the appearance of knowledge has power. I don’t really recall anyone else saying much, but the rag-tag herd of human beings got in line and followed.
After a short distance, we could see men in brown uniforms approaching us on horses. They were armed.
I began to panic. Their uniforms didn’t look like any I’d seen before – none of their clothing matched properly.
Mehran and I were right at the front of the column. We started to hold back, getting ready to run into the trees if things turned bad.
The riders waved and gestured us to come close.
I recoiled: Mafia kidnappers – I was certain of it.
They didn’t introduce themselves. They didn’t say a word – not even to check how many of us there were, or if we were safe. Neither did they wait to see if we followed – instead, they just turned their horses around and started down the hill.
I wanted to run. How could we trust them?
Jawad looked at Mehran and me, following our lead.
‘Stop,’ I said. ‘They are kidnappers. Let’s run back.’
He paused. ‘I don’t think so. This is all too organized.’
‘Don’t risk it. Let’s go back. Come on.’ I tugged at his hand, trying to pull him away.
‘Gulwali, I think it’s OK. If they were kidnappers, there would be more of them.’
‘It’s not OK. They will kill us. Do you want them to cut off your ears? Come on, let’s go.’
As I made to leave, Mehran yanked my arm back so that I was standing in front of him. He was always quick to anger: ‘Go back where, Gulwali?’ he shouted, his face flushed.
He had a point.
‘Do you want to go back to Iran? Walk back over the mountain? You have no horse now. We’ve just walked for a whole night, from only God knows where. So do you suggest we go back to God knows where?’
‘I know. But if they kidnap us—’
I didn’t like the fact that I was being held responsible for this decision. The truth was, I had no idea whether it was a good idea to follow them or not.
As the other men streamed slowly past us, reluctantly I fell into line behind them. Like lambs to the slaughter, we carried on down the mountain.
For the next couple of hours, 200 exhausted people walked behind the men in the homemade, fake-looking uniforms. The night had been so cold, but by now the harsh mountain light was beginning to sting my eyes. I was worried that the authorities would see so many people in broad daylight and arrest us, but the men leading didn’t seem bothered at all.
We continued to walk, until we reached a handful of filthy cattle trucks. The waiting drivers herded us up the ramps and into the back. They pushed and shoved until the truck was so crammed there was standing room only. It was impossible to breathe and my ribs ached we were packed so tight. There was a huge diversity of nationalities among our number – the hundreds of people represented the collective enterprise of different agents: each one had their own little flock. As far as I knew, Qubat, back in Kabul, was still our main agent.
Whose hands we’d be passed into next, I had no idea.
The journey on the trucks quickly became unbearable. We’d had no food or clean water during the night – the only time we’d drunk was from mountain streams. I hadn’t eaten properly since our final meal at Serbest’s house in Iran. The drivers set off without giving us anything.
Our convoy wove through mountain passes and valleys. After a couple of hours, we pulled over into a lay-by and were ordered to get down. Many of the passengers were now so weak they could barely stand, let alone jump out of the stinking truck.
The Afghans, who formed the majority of the crowd, were separated from the rest of the group by the drivers, while the Kurdish, Iranians, Iraqis and Pakistanis, along with the couple of young families, were immediately put back into one of the trucks and driven off. I caught only the briefest glimpse of the little girl in the blue hat. Her grubby face was wet with tears and my heart broke for her.
The other two trucks drove away empty.
A little further along the road we could see twenty or so Afghan men already there, sitting cross-legged or lying on the ground. The drivers had left us without instructions, so we walked over to them, assuming that was what we were supposed to do.
‘Brothers. Bad luck that they dropped you here,’ one of the migrants shouted in our direction. He spoke Pashtu. ‘W
e’ve been here a few days already. It’s bad luck.’
The group looked depressed and particularly hungry.
We sat down next to them.
They were as confused as we were about where they were. They had been there for days, sitting outside during the day without food or water. At night, an old man had come on horseback and taken them down the valley to his farm. There, in a stable piled high with dung, they had slept on tattered blankets and been given a tiny portion of what they described as ‘food so disgusting, just to look at it makes you sick’.
These guys were so dejected I felt sorry for them. But I was also irritated. We hadn’t exactly been having it easy ourselves, and they seemed to think we should know what was going on. ‘Who is in charge? How can we get out of here?’
I snapped, ‘We have just walked over the mountains. How do we know?’
I went to the stream and washed my feet in ablution. I needed to pray. The water was icy cold and clean. I drank my fill, then washed. It made me feel better.
Back at the group, I knew what I needed to do. ‘Brothers, who will lead us in prayer?’
No one offered. The first group looked at me blankly. Why was a kid asking this?
‘Jawad, please can you?’
He nodded and stood up, leading us in jammat, or congregational prayer. Usually for this type of prayer you have a mat for prostration – for putting your forehead to the floor. Instead, we used our clothes or bags. We supplicated God with our palms outstretched together.
After the prayer, I like to think some of their hopelessness dissipated. We sat in a circle working out a plan. There was a lot of debate and argument about what to do. It almost felt like a jirga – the traditional gathering of elders and respected men to resolve disputes and make judgements. In happier days I had observed many jirgas held in our house, listening to the men talk and debate unresolved community or political issues.
‘We have to get out of here as soon as we can,’ said one of the first group.
‘And how are we supposed to do that?’ asked Mehran, rolling his eyes.
‘Soon the old man will come. He will ask for money because he always does. Trust me, you don’t want to argue with him. You will be beaten.’
His friend nodded in agreement. ‘His men beat us when we disagree. Staying there at night is the worst thing that can happen to you.’
‘Just pay him the money and don’t argue with him. Whatever happens, you need to pay him.’
Mehran, Jawad and I were beginning to understand why these men looked so miserable. This was not a situation we wanted to be in any more than they did. But, through feeling calmer after my prayers, a sense of purpose came over me. Just as in the prison yard in Maku, when I had felt it my duty to negotiate our way out and take the people without money with me, I believed the three of us had come here for a reason: to rescue these men and take them with us.
On this journey everyone was out for themselves; in part that was because they were so helpless and powerless. No one ever believed they had the power to make change happen or influence the smugglers. I felt that by acting as a group we could make it through somehow. If we showed the old man a united front instead of everyone shouting, crying and pleading, we might get out of there. I wanted the old man to know we had nothing left to lose. And I wanted to look him in the eye and make him understand.
I was dozing when I heard the sound of hooves. A white-haired man appeared, sitting atop a grey horse. He looked old but strong, like a seasoned warrior. He reminded me of my grandfather. By his side were three or four younger men, also on sturdy horses.
The old man dismounted. From his saddle bag he took out a few pieces of bread and a couple of raw onions. He turned, about to throw the food in our direction. He wanted us to jump on it like animals.
‘Salaam, uncle.’
He looked at me, surprised.
‘Please give me the food. I will distribute it.’
He spoke back to me in a mixture of Kurdish and Farsi. ‘You are the new people. You don’t seem to know the rules.’
I glanced around: the others were all staring at the ground. I could feel the old man tensing with anger. I was truly scared, but I carried on. ‘Apologies, uncle. I only sought to help you.’
He frowned, then passed me the bread.
I gave it to Mehran and Jawad, who started tearing off pieces and handing it around.
The old man continued to glare in my direction, before his voice erupted like thunder. ‘You new people. You need to give me money for the food and shelter.’
At this Mehran snapped. ‘What shelter? And you call this food?’
The old man stared at Mehran, but let the slight pass for the moment. ‘Five dollars each man. No pay, no protection.’
That got the others started. Everyone started yelling at once, and several voices rose up in uproar.
‘You’ve already been paid.’
‘Why did you drop us here?’
‘What kind of trick is this?’
‘You are not getting a penny.’
‘You fed us food that wasn’t fit for animals.’
The old man looked completely unfazed. His men stood by, tensed like wild dogs about to pounce, waiting for instructions from their master.
‘No pay, no protection,’ he repeated, a calm menace in his voice.
Jawad reacted smartly to deflect the situation. ‘OK, uncle,’ he said. ‘Let me collect the money for you.’
The three of us walked around taking money from everyone.
Some looked at us with a sense of betrayal. No one wanted to pay, but something inside me told me I was doing the right thing. I just needed to stay calm and I could get us all through this.
Uncle stood quietly, watching us. He seemed almost amused by the scene.
Jawad and I walked over to him with the bundle of cash. We smiled with as much respect and politeness as we could muster. ‘Here you are, uncle.’ In our best Farsi, we thanked him for giving us his protection and for bringing us the food.
He eyed us suspiciously. Such obsequious behaviour was clearly not the norm.
I took a deep breath and prayed my plan was going to work. ‘Uncle, with respect, we would like to leave this place. Is it possible for you to arrange transport for us?’
For a few seconds he stared straight at me, then turned to his men. I was expecting the blows to come raining down at any second, but instead he burst out laughing. ‘Well, that is something. In all these days, I never saw the animals behave so calmly or obediently.’ He looked back at me. ‘I don’t know how you did that, child.’
He looked back at his men. They all laughed too, because he did. I got the sense that everyone, even his own people, were terrified of this old man.
‘As it happens,’ he continued, ‘I had planned to send you all tomorrow anyway. But seeing as the boy asked so nicely, I will allow you to move today.’ And with that, he and his men got back on their horses and cantered away.
As soon as they were out of earshot I turned to the others, expecting a round of applause.
‘You stupid little boy. Now he’s got our money and he won’t come back.’
‘You offended him. Now he’ll sell us on to who knows what.’
‘Are you so foolish as to believe his lies? He’s been telling us this every day.’
I sat down, completely despondent. I’d done my best to help. Couldn’t they see that?
As the hours wore on, the abuse continued.
‘So, where is your truck, Gulwali?’
‘I bet you made him so mad, we won’t even be allowed into the stable tonight.’
It was getting to me, and I shoved my face into my arms so no one could see my tears. I didn’t know why I had acted that way with the old man and, in hindsight, maybe I had been stupid. But, in the moment, it had felt so much
like the right thing to do.
The sun was setting when the sound of engines rumbled over the horizon.
Trucks.
As they approached us, a few of the others stood up and cheered. I stayed crouched, quiet and calm.
With a roar of crunching pebbles, two cargo trucks pulled in before us.
Chapter Twenty
We clambered on to the big trucks and headed off into the mountains.
I admit to feeling a little bit full of myself, but I was trying to stay humble.
Mehran was buzzing with excitement at what we’d managed to do. He slapped me on the back. ‘We are learning this game fast, brother.’
He was right. This time we knew where to sit on the truck – right at the back, near the driver’s seat. When the driver threw food and water into the back, we’d be the first to catch it.
Mehran started regaling some of the others with tales of our daring prison break: ‘The police were everywhere. But we just kept running.’ In his version, our bravery had increased somewhat. ‘Yeah, we were scared but, you know, sometimes you just have to take the risk like a man.’
I looked affectionately at my friend. He was exaggerating, completely failing to mention how utterly terrified we’d really been. But after the events of the past few days, he deserved this moment of distraction.
‘Any idea where we are, Gulwali?’ Jawad turned to me. The guy was always asking me questions, like I was some kind of geographical expert.
In truth, I wasn’t feeling relaxed either. Yes, we were moving. Yes, the old man had brought the trucks as promised…but it’s hard to describe the sense of confinement and worry as you are loaded on to a vehicle, locked in by a stranger, hungry, thirsty and with no idea where you were being taken, or for how long you might be confined.
The Lightless Sky Page 18