I was shocked. ‘What’s this? This isn’t enough for me to get to Italy. There’s a guy over there who charges one thousand dollars to go. You just said my family had already given you the money. Give me back what they paid.’
He got very angry at that. ‘I came here with my generosity. Shir Aga said you were a kid and I had to take care of you, but you are rude. If you want to take it, take it – if not, your choice.’
‘But you said my family paid. I want their money back.’
Hamid, who had been keeping watch again, could see things were getting tense. He walked over.
‘Give me the money. My family paid Qubat. I want their money.’ I was becoming hysterical.
‘Get out of my face, boy.’
‘Is everything OK here?’ Hamid was at my side.
‘No. This stupid kid thinks he can take Qubat’s money. We are generously giving him three hundred euros back, but he doesn’t seem to want it.’
‘But it’s my family’s money,’ I persisted.
Hamid grabbed my arm and turned to the man. ‘I’ll take care of him. Thank you, sir.’ With that he took the notes from the man and dragged me away. Once at a safe distance, he told me off: ‘I thought you’d be a bit wiser by now. You don’t argue with these people. He came to find you, to give you money, and you fight with him? Let’s get out of here.’
That evening we got a train to Patras, but when we got there, we found the conditions terrible. There was a glut of migrants living on the streets, under bits of tarpaulin or in tents made from branches. They cooked in the road. There was no clean water to drink and even less to wash with. It was raining the night we arrived and mud was everywhere, even where people were trying to sleep.
It was now the fifteenth day of Ramadan, halfway through the month-long fast. I had really wanted to continue fasting but there was no way it was possible in these circumstances. Food was scarce and, when and if we found it, we needed to eat it there and then.
I couldn’t believe this was Europe. We had had no idea what it was going to look like but when we saw migrants, their clothes and faces totally black with filth, openly trying to climb on top of or under lorries, our hearts sank. We’d all been so pleased with our smart new clothes and the trendy sunglasses perched on top of our heads. How silly and naïve we’d allowed ourselves to be for those two days in Athens. We really regretted leaving the camp.
When I saw the scene, watching my fellow migrants jumping on to trucks like monkeys, I lost all hope. That night, we slept on the concrete floor of a partly constructed building that had been abandoned. The other migrants told us their stories.
‘I’ve been here for a year now.’
‘This place is crawling with agents. Every one of them a liar.’
‘Trust no one.’
‘The police have sticks. They will kick and beat you.’
‘The police put my friend in hospital.’
‘We are on the shores of Italy. So much for Europe.’
It was a cold, miserable night. The building was opposite a wire fence which separated the dock entrance from the road. That specific area was referred to by the migrants simply as ‘The Fence’. All night long we could hear the shouts and screams of migrants being caught and thrown out of trucks.
In Athens, Ahmad and Engineer had been tipped off about a supposedly reliable local agent called Borat, operating in Patras. We asked around and it was easy to find him: his height and shaved head gave him a striking physical presence. We’d been told that for a price he could put us in a lorry and get us to Italy. He controlled a section of parking where the lorries waited to embark, and this was when he got his people on board. He claimed there was little security, and what guards there were didn’t pay much attention anyway.
‘It’s a bit chaotic, but I get the job done,’ he said proudly. ‘Some people try for six months or more to cross, but not with me.’
He said he could offer us the best deal in the area: ‘Five hundred euros each. I can accept an OK from Kabul or Europe.’ What he meant was something that I’d learned already about how the system worked: ‘Your family will keep the money with a third party acceptable to both sides. Only once you have passed through safely will the money come to me. If I fail you, your family don’t pay anything.’
None of us had that much money and, besides, I had no way of contacting my family, but we didn’t let him know that. We told him we’d think about it. As we prepared to leave and find somewhere to sleep for the night, Borat looked at me. ‘You. I think I know you from somewhere,’ he said.
‘I don’t think so,’ I replied, fairly confident I would have remembered this man had I seen him before.
‘Where are you from? You are very young to be making this journey.’
‘Nangarhar,’ I said, naming my province.
‘Wait a minute. I met a guy from there. In fact, that’s who I was thinking of. What was his name? You look like him. His name was Hazrat.’
‘Hazrat is my brother.’ This I couldn’t believe. ‘Where did you see him? When? Was he well? Where is he?’
‘Whoa, whoa,’ Borat said, laughing at my enthusiasm. ‘Slow down for a moment.’ He told me Hazrat had stayed with him for several months, about half a year previously.
‘Are you certain it was my brother?’
‘I am as certain as I can be,’ he said. ‘He had a picture of you, and I see the resemblance. I sent him to Italy. He was travelling with a friend of mine called Hodja. They got as far as Calais. I don’t know where Hazrat is now, but Hodja now lives in Rome.’
Once he knew I was Hazrat’s brother, everything changed. ‘For the sake of your brother, I will help you. Get some rest. Come to fence area B in the morning and I will show you how it’s done. Then maybe you will trust me and we can do business.’
That night we slept in the same building as before. In the morning, we could see people congregated in groups around the fence. It had been explained to us that each agent controlled a certain section. People were running everywhere, even after trucks that had stopped for petrol and climbing underneath. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was sure the truck would crush them.
Borat waved us all over to where he stood. ‘OK, so today I will show you so you understand my methods. Tomorrow we’ll do proper business together and soon after that, I will ensure that you will make Italy. It should only take a few days for you to learn this.’
He indicated to me, ‘Come, Hazrat’s brother.’ He took me through a gap in the fence to where all the lorries were parked. He opened the back doors of a lorry which was full of furniture and put me and three others inside, then shut the door. Before long it started moving. Almost as soon as it did, it stopped again.
The police opened the door.
‘Get out.’
The other guys ran; I followed. The police chased us. I didn’t know how to get out of the fenced area so I just ran from side to side trying to escape the police. Hamid was still at the fence edge by the gap we had entered. He screamed for me to run towards him.
Borat was waiting to greet me. ‘This is normal. Don’t expect to be in Italy the first try. It’s going to take a few days. But now you know how it’s done.’
‘I’m not doing that again. It’s too dangerous.’
He laughed. ‘OK, if you don’t want to go inside, try the other way.’
A lorry had just parked outside the perimeter fence at the petrol station, and the driver had gone inside. Borat pulled me over to it and pointed underneath. ‘There’s a small space near the tyres. Go under and find it.’
‘No way. I don’t want to die. I’m not doing it.’
‘Your choice.’ Before I knew it another migrant had dived under the lorry and was heading for the spot I’d just refused.
Borat looked at me disappointedly. ‘Your brother was more brave, Gulwali. If you don’t practise, you don’t learn,
and you’ll never make it.’
A few minutes later he called me again. I was getting tired already, and was really sick of this. He took me to another lorry and pointed to the gap between the driver’s cabin and the trailer. There was a piece of metal connecting the two parts.
‘OK, try this way. Sit on top of that.’
I looked at him in disgust. But his words about my brother being braver had stung me – the Pashtun pride runs deep. I squeezed myself into the space. The metal was unbearably hot, so I put my bag underneath my legs to keep from burning them.
I think there were other people in the trailer. Police officers or soldiers were shouting. I heard strains of Pashtu and doors slamming. No one came near my hiding place.
The lorry lurched forward. Hot engine fumes hurt my throat and eyes. As we moved, the tyre noise changed, and I could hear metal plates clanking beneath the wheels of the lorry.
The engine stopped and I could hear European voices.
I was on the boat. Borat had told me I could get out and rest at this point. But, despite a waft of the tempting smell of hot food, I didn’t dare. Instead, I tried to sleep. At least my hiding place got cooler with every passing minute.
Two hours later, the lorry drove me into Italy. I couldn’t believe I had made it. The stories I’d heard had been so discouraging, but here I was – all thanks to Borat, who was as good as his word. I was sad to think I’d left all my friends behind, but what choice had I had?
We were moving quite fast now; the engine was unbearably hot. I took a rock from my bag, which was now starting to smell scorched, and banged it hard against the engine casing, again and again. The truck slowed to a stop.
I scrambled out of my hiding place just as the driver climbed from the cab. The look of shock on his face at being confronted by a filthy child said it all.
I was dazed, and couldn’t think clearly – perhaps it was the heat and fumes. Instead of running, I just wandered the verge, staring at the distant farmhouses, rolling pasture and neat rows of grapes.
Soon the police arrived, and led me to their car. They took me to a police station. They were gentle with me and treated me with decency. They were able to ask me some basic questions: what was my name? Where was I from?
They knew I had come from Greece, but had no proof of this. Otherwise they would have deported me back.
One of the officers made eating gestures. I nodded. We got back into the car and drove near the port. I thought they were going to send me back on a return ferry but, a moment later, we pulled up outside a café, where they bought me biscuits, croissants and milk.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The sprawling outskirts of the port gave way to a recently built industrial estate. There were grey warehouses, and the biggest industrial supermarket I had ever seen.
I had seen plenty of deserts before – sparse, empty landscapes – but this felt altogether different. It was filled with signs of civilization, yet devoid of life at the same time.
It made me feel lonely.
Finally the police car stopped outside yet another featureless building. We were met inside it by two women. One was slightly older. She smiled and pointed to her chest. ‘I am Sabina.’ The other one was a bit younger, and greeted me with a broad smile. She was pretty, with dark hair tied back in a ponytail. After my childhood of seeing women cover their heads, I still found the way European women left their hair free a little strange.
‘Ciao, Gulwali,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Alexandria.’
I smiled and pressed my palm to hers.
She was the first woman I ever shook hands with.
She took me into a large beige room with comfortable brown sofas and a television in the corner, which was showing some kind of strange-sounding game show. She smiled, sweeping her arms in high arcs to make me feel at home. She was very expressive, using gestures as we couldn’t speak to one another.
‘Thenk-you, Sabina.’ I tried to communicate using the few words of English I knew by now.
Smiling once more, she ushered me down the broad hall. It was lined with doors, and light flooded in from a skylight above.
High-pitched laughter spilled out of a doorway the moment a door swung open. It revealed a slim, blonde girl just a few years older than me.
‘Katia,’ Sabina said. ‘Gulwali.’ She looked at us both. ‘Katia, Russki. Gulwali, Afghanistan.’
I held a hand up.
A darker, fuller face appeared at the door.
‘Ciao, Gabriella. Permette che mi presenti Gulwali.’
Suddenly I didn’t want to shake this girl’s hand. I didn’t want to be introduced to anyone. I was depressed at being alone and having lost all my travel companions. It was still Ramadan and I wanted to be fasting. In fact, I wished I was back in the prison in Greece.
The two girls ducked back inside laughing, and shut the door. Hard.
Sabina smiled and gestured to me to come.
We walked to the end of the corridor, and into a bathroom. More gesturing followed as she directed my attention to the toilet and showers.
Doubling back into the hall, we entered a bedroom – I assumed much like the one the girls had slammed the door on. It was small, also beige, with a window looking on to a car park. There was a single bed with two white towels folded on the end. A wardrobe stood in the corner and there was a chair next to it with a neat pile of wash cloth, toothbrush, toothpaste, soap and deodorant.
‘OK?’ she said.
I nodded, and she began backing out of the room, pausing only to mime the option of having the door open or closed.
I returned in kind – closed.
When it shut with a secure clunk, I looked around the room once more. The wardrobe contained nothing but a few plastic clothes hangers. It didn’t matter to me, I only had the clothes I wore and a couple of T-shirts in my backpack.
I picked up the soap and sniffed it. It smelled sickly sweet. Throwing the towels on to the chair, I collapsed on the bed and fell into a depressed sleep.
I awoke sharply and very disorientated in the half-light. It took me a few moments to place myself. I guessed it was early evening.
The hallway was deserted, but I could hear the television playing loudly. A cold floor could not spoil the pleasure of the clean, lockable toilet and shower. Although I had managed to wash my face in the police station I was still covered in grease from the lorry. The hot shower felt wonderful, washing away the grime, but it did not wash away my distress.
I was very hungry now, but was anxious about the common room. Making a cautious entrance, I found Katia and two teenage girls sprawled over the furniture. They were wearing tight jeans and cropped tops. Once that might have offended me, but I was so down I barely even noticed. And by now I was accepting that in Europe people dressed differently.
They barely noticed when I walked in. Instead, they were transfixed by a group of young men dancing and singing loudly across the television screen. The music sounded alien to me, and I felt oddly dehumanized, the way I entered and exited the room as if invisible.
I could smell food and hoped perhaps I might find Sabina or Alexandria.
My nose led me to an open-plan kitchen and dining room. A silver-haired man sat at a large wooden table, reading a newspaper. He looked up.
‘Ciao, Gulwali.’ He manoeuvred out of his seat and thrust a heavy palm at me. ‘I am Davide.’
Ushering me to the table, he returned with a plate of pasta, chicken and salad. I nodded my thanks, then stared at the chicken. Using my few words of English, I tried to explain I couldn’t eat it if it wasn’t halal. ‘I am Muslim.’
He understood, and gestured to me to only eat the pasta and salad.
After I’d scoffed that, he took the plate and returned with a sliced orange and a bowl of vanilla ice cream. That disappeared in seconds too.
When I had finished eating, Davide tried to engage me in conversation. Obviously I couldn’t speak Italian, but he persisted, trying in English. But, really, I only had a couple of words so I couldn’t make out anything he was saying.
It was kind of him to make the effort but I was not in the mood to communicate with anybody. We sat and stared at each other for a while. My stomach was full and heavy, and pretty soon it dragged my eyelids down.
When I woke in my bed, it was because of a nightmare, and I was screaming. Alexandria ran in to find me on the floor, having knocked the bedside table over. I was in a heap, crying and shaking.
She switched on the light.
‘Gulwali.’
I was so embarrassed for her to find me like this but I hoped she understood that I had had a bad dream.
The next day Sabina – I think she was the manager – brought me some new clothes: new jeans, a T-shirt, several pairs of underwear and a pair of trainers two sizes too large for me. I put the clothes on, but chose to stick with my boots from Athens instead. They also brought me pyjamas for sleeping in. I thought they were a bit strange – the idea of a separate suit of clothing just to sleep in didn’t really make sense to me.
I was safe, clean, clothed and well fed. These people were clearly trying to help me but I was as confused and anxious as I had ever been. No one could explain to me what was happening or how long I would be there. And I couldn’t stop worrying about Hazrat. Since learning he was alive, all I could think about was finding Hodja, the man in Rome who Borat, my Greek agent, had told me had travelled with my brother. If I could find this man he might lead me to Hazrat.
Because of the language barrier, I couldn’t explain any of this to these people, so what was supposed to be a kind of sanctuary actually felt like a prison to me.
The sad truth is, in my mind, the lack of information didn’t make it feel that different to being with the smugglers – even though I know they truly tried their best for me.
Alexandria was in the living room talking to two teenage boys when I burst in and fired a string of questions at her in Pashtu: ‘What am I doing here? How long will I be here? Are you going to deport me? I want to go to Rome. I need to find my brother.’
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