I also knew that if anything went wrong on this journey, I’d be the one they’d blame. Some of this group were so angry at their fate I feared I’d be ripped apart if that happened. I also prayed I’d make it out of Turkey safe and sound this time. Having been on the road for nearly seven months, and still just on the very edge of Europe, I could only reflect how the very first smuggler, the man who had taken me to Peshawar, had promised my mother it would take a few weeks. I now knew it could be months, if not years.
That’s if I made it at all.
For the next three or four days that truck became home, where we slept, ate and talked.
As we proceeded, I for once had a vague idea what was happening and where we were going: I was increasingly certain we were heading to the city of Van. That feeling intensified when we went back to the old routine of walking and driving. At various intervals along the route, the trucks would stop as the driver ordered us out to walk, then they met us ahead a couple of hours later. I had played this game the first time I had arrived in Turkey – it was all about avoiding the military or police checkpoints.
The tactics were the same now, but the countryside was different. The terrain was rockier, with slippery slopes and much longer periods of walking. And with two full trucks of people, it took longer too.
I think if it had been the first time I had done this I would have really struggled, but because I knew what to expect I was able to control my mind to push my body through. And, just as Baryalai had done before, Jawad was really helpful to me, holding my hand and pulling me along when I got too tired to put one foot in front of the other.
The only really risky moment came when our truck stopped on a roundabout, just outside the city of Van. Huddled under the tarpaulin of the open-roofed cargo truck, we knew it was morning rush hour.
When the driver stopped I couldn’t believe it.
‘This is madness. What is he doing?’
‘Maybe there’s a problem,’ Jawad volunteered.
‘Gulwali, why don’t you try to look?’
‘No way. I am not going back to prison.’
‘Get ready to run again,’ said Mehran. That seemed like good advice.
I couldn’t believe this was happening. We heard the tarpaulin rustle and the driver’s face appeared. He was pretending to look for something under it, and used the opportunity to whisper to us urgently: ‘Stay quiet. We’ve broken down.’ He looked white, as scared as we were.
Chinese Whispers-style, the message passed down the truck. Everyone held their breath in silence.
We could hear police arriving and talking to the driver. A couple of our group spoke Turkish, but the voices were too muffled to understand anything. We all knew that if the police wanted to search under the canvas we’d be rumbled.
To our amazement, they didn’t even come around to the back of the truck. It was a miracle that we weren’t caught.
Somehow we got moving again and were on our way.
By the third day, living inside the truck was becoming unbearable. The canvas roof made it suffocating, and the sickly sweet scent of sweat and urine permeated the little air we shared. The only time we could go to the toilet was at night, when we were walking, but even then we had to do it quickly to ensure we didn’t get lost or left behind.
For the final twenty-four hours, we didn’t walk at all: the driver didn’t stop once, but just kept going. I was so thirsty, but I couldn’t drink anything because my bladder was full to bursting. It was pure agony.
I had guessed correctly that we were driving towards Van, but we didn’t stop there.
We continued on to Istanbul, some 1,200 kilometres away.
Just when I felt I couldn’t take it any longer, we reached our destination – a small industrial suburb on the outermost outskirts of Istanbul. When we arrived in the evening of that fifth day, my stomach was distended, swollen and very painful. My relief as we unloaded was short-lived; I still couldn’t pee.
We were taken to a huge sprawling complex of industrial buildings, situated by a noisy main road. Whatever industry had once happened in these buildings had long been replaced by a new trade in humanity, our bodies replacing the goods kept inside the store rooms. About eighty men, women and children were already inside, sitting on the floor, all with exhausted eyes. Most of them looked Iraqi. At that time – spring 2007 – it was the height of the conflict, following the Iraq invasion in 2003. Hundreds of thousands of Iraqi refugee families were on the move, seeking safety.
It was the second time in a few days I had encountered children. Seeing children was rare, because usually the agents and the smugglers who worked for them kept them separate from the men – I didn’t count, I suppose, because I wasn’t travelling with a woman. I wasn’t much older than some of the kids there, but I was so sad for them and their lost innocence. I didn’t see myself as the same as them – my journey and especially my three prison stints in Bulgaria, Turkey and Iran, had stopped me thinking of myself a child.
I stank. And I was soaked with sweat. I hadn’t washed since leaving Iran. That was a whole week ago: one night and day to cross the border, a day with the old man just after entering Turkey, and then five days in the truck. In that week I had climbed mountains, fallen over in mud, ridden a horse for several hours and slept next to a hundred other unwashed bodies. All in the same set of clothes. No wonder I smelled so bad that even I gagged when I caught a whiff of myself.
For Muslims, being dirty is a great shame. The reason we take ablution before our five daily prayers is to stand clean before our Creator. Not being able to wash myself was a great source of distress for me, as I’m sure it was for all of the other human cattle kept in that vast, damp room.
At that moment, I felt less than human.
I wanted to run from that place as soon as I could. I did consider it, because by then I had a good idea of how to find my way around Istanbul, so I figured I’d be able to cope. I think I would have persuaded Mehran and Jawad to try and run with me, but the doors were blocked by burly guards carrying guns. All I could do was sit down and wait.
If my life wasn’t about running, then it was about waiting.
My stomach was still in agony. An old man – an Iraqi Kurd – suggested that I eat yoghurt, as it might help. He offered to translate to the guards, who were clearly Turkish Kurds, to bring me some.
I watched as he approached them. ‘Excuse me. The boy is sick. He is in a lot of pain. Can you please bring him some yoghurt?’
‘This is not a shop.’
‘Please. He needs help. He’s a child.’
‘Sit down, old man. You’ll all be gone soon.’
There had been a total of about 130 men in both our trucks; with the 80 already there, we were a group of over 200 again. We weren’t given any food, but there were a couple of toilets and one shower – between all of us. With so many people attempting to use the toilets they were overflowing with filth. I wanted to keep trying to make my bladder work, but I really couldn’t face going in there. Besides, the queue was massive, and I wasn’t sure anyone would have let a child go to the front.
Little by little, all of the other people left, including the other men from our truck, as a variety of different agents came to collect their property. By midnight only three of us – Mehran, Jawad and I – were left.
After a while, it seemed the guards wanted rid of us. The one in charge came over to speak to us. He spoke in Turkish, and one of the others translated for us: ‘Your responsible person has been in contact. He says he cannot come tonight. You will have to stay here.’
I wasn’t having it. I don’t know what possessed me but I stood up and faced him. I shook my head firmly and made a telephone gesture to my ear, little finger and thumb extended. ‘Call him. I want to speak to him.’
Remarkably he did. He came back with a mobile phone and passed it to me.
The guy on the other end of the phone was Afghan. I presumed he was supposed to be our agent.
‘Are you the people of Qubat?’ The usual question. And I could tell from his voice that he was drunk.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘And may I ask who you are?’
‘Are you four?’
The question perplexed me. Then I remembered Tamim.
‘No, three. One was left in Iran.’
‘I have no money to come and pick you up tonight. It is far, I need a taxi.’
‘What are you saying? We need to leave here. Just give us the address and we will come to you ourselves.’
‘Qubat hasn’t paid me.’
Again, the usual. I was tired of hearing this.
‘That’s your problem, not ours. Our families paid him. We are getting out of here tonight. Tell me where to come.’
He slurred drunkenly. ‘Be patient. I will come for you tomorrow. Let me talk to Qubat.’
This was unacceptable. ‘No, I don’t care what you do. But I want to come there tonight.’
‘But it’s the middle of the night. Go to sleep,’ he slurred.
Eventually, he promised to send a taxi to pick us up, if we agreed to pay for it ourselves. None of us were happy about it but it was a better choice than staying there.
We used some of the US$100 we’d been given in Tehran to pay for it; the driver kindly exchanged what was left of our change into Turkish lira. We also stopped at an all-night café to get some food. Finally, I was able to go to the toilet, but the pain in my stomach hadn’t gone away.
The drunken agent’s musafir khanna was, at least, a clean and tidy two-bedroom fourth-floor apartment in yet another sprawling Istanbul suburb. It felt like déjà vu. As we entered, we woke up the other inhabitants, who weren’t very happy with us.
In the morning we chatted to them properly – they were five young Afghans.
The agent, his breath reeking of cigarettes and marijuana, arrived not long after we’d all woken. ‘I’m Amiri. You are the impatient ones. You were very rude last night.’
I couldn’t believe this man was chastising us, but I let it go. I could see there was no point in arguing with him.
He told us to keep a low profile and not to make noise, and be alert at all times. He gave us permission to go outside, but only if we really needed to.
‘Better to stay indoors for your own safety.’
The second time around, Istanbul felt more familiar. So too did the system. I fully expected to be moved around a lot. And I was right.
The good thing about that apartment was that it wasn’t overcrowded. We were able to cook for ourselves and eat reasonably well. Jawad was a great cook and we used the rest of the shared money to buy simple but tasty supplies.
The agent, however, was a nightmare. He would visit daily, complaining about Qubat and threatening us: ‘He still hasn’t paid me. I am not letting you leave here until I have my money.’
‘So what can we do?’ Jawad tried to reason with him. ‘We don’t even know who this guy is. It’s between you and him.’
He made me the most uncomfortable of all. Whenever he complained he looked at me directly, as if it was somehow my fault.
We got more worried when he moved us from the apartment into an overcrowded basement in a very rough suburb. Around fifteen people were housed in a one-bedroom apartment.
He told us Qubat still hadn’t paid, and we were being moved there because it was cheaper for him.
The other men in the small apartment were all from northern Afghanistan, and native Dari speakers. They were angry that their already over-crowded space now had to fit in eight more: me, Jawad, Mehran and the five young Afghans. They were also resentful that we had permission to go out to the shops and that Jawad had been given a key. They had a different agent who had, until then, kept them locked in. The anger spilled over in disputes about rivalry and ethnicity.
‘You Pashtuns represent the Taliban. It’s because of your people that we had to leave Afghanistan.’
The Pashtun are the traditional rulers of Afghanistan and it’s true the Taliban were predominantly Pashtuns. The leaders of the Northern Alliance, a group of non-Pashtun tribes in the north of the country, were resistant to the Taliban and it was they who helped the US to overthrow the Taliban.
These men saw the little apartment as a continuation of the war: ‘Why did you leave your country? Life was perfect for you people.’
The apartment got so hot and with it, the tension in it was like a pressure cooker waiting to explode.
I tried my best to keep the peace: ‘Look, we’re just like you. We’ve all left our homes. And we’re all Afghans. Do you think I left for no reason?’
‘Forget it, Gulwali,’ said Jawad. ‘The Northern Alliance are the ones in control now. And they know it.’
The fights raged for hours. Everyone would be yelling and insulting each other. They refused to share their food with us, so we cooked for ourselves on a gas cylinder. It was ridiculous – with both groups cooking separately, the apartment got even hotter.
As the atmosphere in the apartment became more and more toxic, we couldn’t handle it any more. Their agent was a friend of our agent, and both were called to try to resolve the situation.
They told us to put up and shut up. ‘This is not Afghanistan. I don’t want to hear this nonsense again.’
For once Amiri, a Hazara, was right. Here we were, all running for our lives, yet still arguing over the language and ethnic divisions that had destroyed our country and forced us to leave in the first place.
It actually got to the point where we were genuinely scared. We also knew Amiri was a cheat. Whenever we went to the shops, we discussed how to get away.
‘This bastard is a joke. Not only do we have to deal with these Northerners, I don’t believe he’s going to take us to Greece,’ Jawad complained.
‘If he couldn’t even pay for a taxi the first night, how can we expect anything from him?’ agreed Mehran.
‘But he won’t let us leave,’ I said. ‘We’ve cost him money.’
We all knew there was an unspoken rule: if you ran away from the control of one agent, the others would refuse to take you. It seemed they all knew each other and were interlinked in some way.
As ever, Jawad looked to me to make a plan. ‘So, Gulwali, what do you say we do?’
I really didn’t have a clue.
For the next few days we felt increasingly determined but helpless; then an idea came to me. I remembered the nice shopkeeper in Istanbul – from the DVD shop. He might help us.
We went to see him. He was kind and helpful, and gave us contacts for a few people – but most said they couldn’t help us without an agreement with Amiri.
In the end, we convinced one guy – Shir Aga – to help. He was really calm and considered, and was a Pashtu from Nangarhar, which also helped his sympathies for us. He suggested he speak to Qubat and persuade Qubat to pay him the money, instead of Amiri. I think Shir Aga knew Amiri was unreliable.
‘Do you understand how risky it is for me to take you?’ he asked.
We did.
He told us to go to an address on the other side of the city.
Amiri was constantly trying to ring us on the phone. We tried switching it off, but every time we turned it back on he rang again. In the end we threw away the sim card but kept the mobile handset.
The address we’d been given was the best yet. It was an apartment belonging to a really nice Afghan man called Nour. He was a Hazara, a musician and artist who’d been living in Istanbul for years. He was a friend of Shir Aga, and said this was the first time he’d sheltered migrants. He was clear it was a one-off and a favour to his friend, but he seemed relaxed and laidback about it. He treated us like friends.
Nour’s apartment was small – just one bedroom, a sitting
room, bathroom and kitchen. But there was a television, and it was comfortable.
We stayed there for a week. Then Shir Aga arrived. He started by reminding us what a risk he was taking by allowing us to leave Amiri, and we were relieved to learn that Qubat had agreed the deal and paid him for our stay there – and for the next leg of the journey, to Greece.
‘I’m working on a plan,’ he promised. ‘A guaranteed plan. Insha’Allah.’
Why was it that whenever an agent said something was guaranteed, I knew something was about to go wrong?
Chapter Twenty-One
We were sitting on the floor watching a film one evening, when Shir Aga turned up, beaming a big smile. ‘Good news. The game is direct to Greece.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll tell you on the way.’
As the three of us got up to get our stuff, he pointed at Jawad. ‘You stay back. Only these two for now.’
Jawad was furious: ‘I am coming too. You will not leave me here.’
‘Look, the boat is already overcrowded, and they only agreed to take the small two. But if they make it safely, you are definitely in the next game.’
Jawad was still not happy. ‘No. I want to come.’ He looked at both of us imploringly. ‘Don’t leave me alone. I want to stay with you.’
I gave Jawad a guilty look. I liked him and I didn’t want to leave him there on his own either, but at times like this survival trumped friendship. The game dictated that if one player got a chance to move forward, then he took it.
Mehran and I went with Shir Aga to his car. He pointed to a large BMW parked in the street.
I had yet to meet a regional agent who didn’t have a nice car.
We drove back into the city and on to another industrial estate, where we were led into a factory building. Inside were rows and rows of tables with sewing machines on them. Sitting at the tables were migrants, mostly Afghan men and women, making Western- style dresses.
I suddenly wasn’t convinced he was telling us the truth about going to Greece. ‘Shir Aga, are you honest with us? Are we definitely going in the boat?’
The Lightless Sky Page 19