The Lightless Sky

by Gulwali Passarlay

  As Sean showed me around the house and where I might sleep, I was polite but firm: ‘Thank you, but I am not coming.’

  I was still insisting that I be allowed to live on my own. But Mrs Brodie knew me well enough by now to know I was my own worst enemy at times. She badgered away at me until she convinced me to give it a try.

  Just before Christmas, I moved in. What I couldn’t get my head around was that Sean was cooking the dinner, not Karen. I had changed so much and had my eyes opened to the world, but in some places, deep inside, I was still the same conservative village boy I had always been. I struggled to understand why any married man would cook when he had a wife. I thought this made Sean less of a man and, rudely, I didn’t want to eat his food.

  But that night, as he made sure I settled in, I was touched to see they had bought me a desk for my room. It was old, made of solid oak. I ran my fingers over it, thinking what a nice gesture it was.

  The next night I ate Sean’s food and told him it was delicious. I meant it. He offered to give me cooking lessons, which I accepted. Over the coming weeks he showed me how to cook curries, and Italian and Mexican food. He explained to me that he did all the cooking because he loved it and because Karen, or Aunty Karen as I called her out of respect, worked very long hours. He said marriage was about partnership and about being a team. As I observed Sean and Karen, who seemed very happy and in love, I began to think differently. I began to see that my views were borne of a different culture, a culture I still loved and believed passionately in, but that it was not how people lived here. I respected that. And I got it.

  I continued studying hard, and Sean helped me. One night, not long after I moved in, I handed him a piece of paper with a time­table on it: ‘Here you are. This is my homework schedule.’

  ‘This is for you, right? You want me to help you stick to it?’

  ‘No, it’s for you. These are the times I need you to help me with my homework.’

  He laughed so hard I thought he might fall off his chair. ‘Gulwali, this is a first. I’ve never had a foster kid give me my homework schedule before.’

  Living with Sean and Karen really helped me to settle at school and into life in Britain. I had love, warmth, and people to speak to each evening.

  By now, I was in year 11, and about to sit my GCSEs. I was made an ambassador for the whole of Essa Academy, a prefect, a school councillor – I threw myself into school life and I felt that I really belonged.

  I surprised my teachers with my GCSE results: I got an A in Urdu, and Bs and Cs in the other subjects. My head teacher, Mr Badat, couldn’t believe that I had managed a C in GCSE English; I was the only person in all of my core subject classes to get a C or above in everything. When I received a B in maths, having covered the whole syllabus in six weeks, the head of maths, Mr Hussein, named our year ‘Gulwali’s Year’.

  There were two other staff members who really helped me: Mrs Reid, one of the directors, and Mrs Bolton, the PA to the principal. They were really proud when they saw my results.

  In September 2011, I moved to Bolton College to take my A levels in politics, economics, philosophy and Urdu. I also took an extended research project in the issues young refugees face around education.

  I pursued my political activism outside school, too, becoming a regional advocate for children in care, mainly refugees. I stood for the UK youth parliament election. I lost but, as a result of it, I was asked to join the National Scrutiny Group, recruited by the British Youth Council, which had been set up to advise the government on policy and how it affected young people. I was one of only fifteen young people nationally on the panel. I also joined the youth wing of the Labour party.

  I don’t know how or why I was so driven at that point – it was just my way of giving back to British society. I had been given so much from the UK, I wanted to do something in return for my new country. And I also wanted to help other young people. I knew what it was like to have no one. I knew that, after all my awful experiences, I didn’t want to waste a single second. And I wanted to suck up every opportunity, every chance that came my way.

  On my weekends I attended an access course at Manchester University. It was designed to help get young people from disadvantaged backgrounds into top universities. If I passed that, it would add to my entry score. I was worried I might not get the grades I needed to follow my dream of studying politics, so it was my way of ensuring I got the place I wanted.

  In October 2012, I turned eighteen. I was now an adult in the eyes of the state and so I was no longer able to stay with Sean and Karen. It was time to move on again. I was given independent accommodation in Bolton town centre.

  I had spent two years with Sean and Karen and didn’t want to leave; it had been the happiest time in my life since I’d left home. But they remained very supportive and encouraged me to continue with my studies.

  In the end, my A level grades were better than expected: I was thrilled with one A and two Bs. I also got an A star for my extended study project on refugees, and was awarded a sixth-form excellence award. Not bad for a boy who just four years earlier had spoken only a few words of English and came to England in the back of a banana lorry.

  And then, finally, came the news I had been waiting for: I had won my appeal. I had been granted asylum. I wept with joy as, hands trembling, I read the letter over and over again.

  We have a saying in Pashtu: ‘Pa jamoo kai na zaydam.’ It roughly translates as: ‘Feeling too big for our clothes due to pride.’

  A full five years after that boat nearly capsized, I stood in Burnley town hall with my foster parents, Karen and Sean, by my side. I had clean, fresh clothes now, and I was definitely feeling too big for them. I, the once scrawny refugee, had been selected to carry the 2012 Olympic torch through Britain ahead of the London Olympic Games.

  Mrs Brodie, who by now I was so close to I called ‘Mummy number two’, had suggested I apply to do it: ‘Well, what have we got to lose, Gulwali?’

  I loved how she always referred to me as ‘we’. It made me feel special, loved.

  When I learned I had been selected I was so proud I thought I might burst, but also felt incredibly humbled.

  The day had begun early, with a forty-five-minute drive from Sean and Karen’s home in Bolton, to meet the rest of the Olympic relay team. The streets were lined with people cheering and waving flags. At that moment, I don’t think I could have loved my adopted country more. It was a day when Britons of all ages came together as one.

  As I set off, Karen warned me to walk slowly and savour the moment. Police were on all sides of me, the crowd ecstatic. I tried to walk slowly but in my excitement I was bouncing along. I kissed my torch, beaming with pride, with love, with recognition that this life-changing moment was one of the most special things I would ever do. At so many times on my journey to freedom I had felt hopeless, despondent and afraid. Many times I considered giving up and going home. But at those moments of weakness one thought had kept me going: my mother sent me away to save my life.

  My mother sent me away so she didn’t have to bury another person whom she loved. In doing so, she had made the ultimate sacri­fice any mother could ever make.

  As I ran through the streets of my adopted second home, the torch burning brightly, with people cheering and taking photos, I thought only of one thing – her.

  At that moment I knew, beyond all doubt, that I hadn’t failed her.

  I had made it.

  Epilogue

  There is another Pashtu saying: ‘There is not enough time in this life for love – I wonder how people find time for hate?’

  I could all too easily have lived a life of hate. I was twelve years old when my father and grandfather were massacred. All I cared about, loved, respected and was influenced by was torn away from me in a single instant.

  It would have been easier for me to choose anger. It’s in my genes
. As a Pashtu, the notions of honour and family are at the heart of my identity. We are attached to the concept of revenge and blood feuds, which can go on for generations.

  And then other men, soldiers from both sides of a conflict I was too young to understand, wanted to use my brother Hazrat and me as pawns in their game of war. Whichever side we would have chosen to work with, the result would have been the same – in all probability we’d be dead, and more people would have died with us. My mother would have had to bury more of her loved ones, more families would have wailed in grief, and my country would be no further along the road to peace.

  Violence begets violence.

  The choice to go away was not mine; it was my mother’s. She proved her wisdom beyond doubt when she sent my brother and me to Europe. She knew that, were we to stay, the outcome would have been bloody and ugly – not a thing of beauty, honour or justice. Yet, so many times, in my most desperate and loneliest moments, I was left bewildered, despairing and angry at her decision, my childhood a brutal game of survival. So many times on that awful journey I nearly didn’t make it – jumping from the speeding train, coming so close to drowning in Greece, on those endless treks without food or water when my young, exhausted body wanted to give up and fade into blackness.

  In part, I was saved by the warmth and kindness of the friends I made who looked out for me. More than anything, this book is about faith, hope and optimism. I hope too that it is about dedication and commitment towards fellow human beings. A story of kindness, love, humanity and brotherhood.

  Baryalai, the kind and lovely man who truly took this lost child under his protective wing, did make it to the UK. We found each other again in 2008 and we met up a few times. We lost contact about three years ago. He simply disappeared, and I fear he may have been deported or gone into hiding. His is one of the few names in the book that remains unchanged because I hope he will somehow read this, and that through his doing so, we may meet again.

  Mehran, the constant joker who kept me going with his humour, lives in Greater Manchester and works in hospitality. He’s doing just fine.

  Sadly, I haven’t seen or heard from Abdul, the fourth member of my original group, since the day I escaped from the police prison bus in Iran. I don’t know if he made it to safety or not.

  Nor have I seen Shah or Faizal since the day they were put into a separate vehicle from us, in Turkey.

  Tamim reached the UK in 2009 but I last saw him in 2012, and I don’t know how he is now. I fear he may also have been deported.

  Jawad I haven’t seen in person since he was left behind in the musafir khanna in Istanbul, but we are in contact by email. He made it as far as Greece, where he now lives and works.

  Hamid, ever the smart one, lives in London. He is also at university, studying to be a doctor, and I know he will go on to be a high achiever one day. He and his friend Ahmad arrived in the UK at the same time, having managed to stay together since I got into the back of a truck in Greece and they did not.

  Ahmad also lives in London and is awaiting the final Home Office decision on whether he will be allowed to stay in the UK.

  Jan, Qumandan and Engineer also made it here. I last saw Engineer in Manchester, in 2009. He had done OK and was studying at college, but then the Home Office refused his claim for asylum and he left Britain.

  Qumandan currently lives in Kent and also continues to fight the Home Office for the right to stay here.

  Shafique arrived in the UK one month after me and we were reunited in the Appledore immigration centre for unaccompanied children. We are still very close friends but, as yet, he does not have a final decision from the Home Office, and I am trying to help support him with that.

  Hazrat returned from Afghanistan in 2014, after three years back at home helping my family, at great risk to himself.

  I call my mother once a week. But perhaps the hardest thing of all that I have been through is that when we talk, we have so little understanding of each other. I try to talk to her about my political work, my university exams and my campaigning, but my life here in Britain is like a different planet from our old life in Afghanistan. By sending me away, she definitely saved her son, but she also lost him. She, of everyone, paid the heaviest price. But she will always remain my inspiration, as will my beloved grandmother, who passed away a couple of years ago. We were able to speak on the phone when she was dying. She told me she loved me, and I her. I ached to be able to hold her and stroke her hair as she breathed her last.

  Hopefully the opportunities and education I have been given here will allow me to get a job with something like the United Nations. I am currently studying politics at the University of Manchester. From that position, I hope to begin a slow reverse journey back home. If it becomes safe enough for me, I want to return to Afghanistan so I can help to rebuild it.

  I truly believe faith and fate brought me to this land, and I want to thank Great Britain from the bottom of my heart. I have done all I can to give back to it since I got the opportunity to do so. Through my political activism and community volunteering I hope I have helped to improve other young people’s lives and to help the public understand the plight of refugees and asylum seekers.

  Ultimately, that is why I wanted to write this book.

  But there are some days, even now, when I wake up after a particularly bad nightmare and it’s all I can do to get through the day. The nightmares will never leave me; nor will the memories of those I have lost, nor the faces of the terrified and vulnerable migrants I met on the road. Did the tiny little girl in the blue bobble hat I saw on the mountain crossing into Turkey ever reach safety? I have no idea who she was or what war-torn country her family had fled from, but her tear-stained, grubby face and scared eyes are for ever seared into my soul.

  On those days hate, bitterness and anger whisper my name, their tentacles stirring in my core, willing me to succumb to their poison. It would be so easy for me to do so. And that is when I must fight jihad.

  Jihad as ‘holy war’ is one of the most manipulated concepts in Islam today. A false and twisted version of it has been used by terrorists acting in the name of Islam to commit violent acts, aimed at the indiscriminate killing of innocent people.

  The literal meaning of jihad is ‘struggle’ or ‘effort’ – the holy war within oneself.

  I suppose you can call this the battle within all of us: it is a fight we all must fight in different ways – whatever faith we may come from.

  I fight my jihad so that I can go on loving.

  The enemy of love is not hate, it is indifference. The enemy of love is turning away from those in need. The enemy of love is doing nothing when you can help your fellow man.

  The refugee crisis, the greatest global crisis since World War II, has been caused by conflict, wars, poverty, injustice and oppression. It is our moral duty to treat these fleeing human beings with dignity and respect. We cannot shy away from the fact that recent wars in Iraq, Libya, Syria or Afghanistan have exacerbated this crisis. Nor can we pretend that the Western desire to buy cheap products or possess the latest must-have items at a bargain price does not contribute to poverty and inequality.

  True freedom and democracy demand that people educate them­selves about the world around them. That requires an honest and inquisitive mind – one that questions all opinions, yet hates none. If a person wishes to be free then they must understand the shackles that bind them. The internet, and the age of social media, makes the dissemination of ideas very easy. There is no way we can turn back the clock on this reality; instead, we must learn to live with it. It can be empowering, or it can be destructive. Causes are powerful – and now they travel vast distances instantly.

  Many extremists are drawn by the romantic notion of fighting, and maybe even dying, for a righteous cause. Perhaps that’s why young people from every walk of life are at risk of radicalization: whether they are a frustrated whit
e male who walks into a black congregation and starts shooting at innocent people, a desperate Somali fisherman’s son who opens fire in a Kenyan mall, or a French schoolgirl born of migrant parents who resents the strictures of life and seeks adventure and fulfilment in what she believes is the exciting new world offered by the false prophets of the so-called Islamic State – a group of people who in no way represent Islam.

  Assumed thinking creates assumed responses. Our world is a fast-changing place – but more and more people are becoming entrenched in the same mind-set as previous generations. I don’t see how this can be helpful.

  My journey nearly killed me, and it left mental, physical and emotional scars that I will bear for the rest of my life. Those moments that I was at my lowest, when I felt as though I could not keep going – those truly painful moments when death seemed the only solution – those moments almost entirely coincided with periods when I struggled to move forward. And so it is in life.

  I have had so many great friends on my journey who have helped me, and continue to do so. None of us travel alone in life. We all have the power to help those around us, or to harm them. It is the choices we make that define our walk, define our own personal journeys and make us the people we are.

  I want to thank you for reading my book and for being a part of my journey. Truly. Thank you. But please don’t change the world for me. Do it for the other children out there alone in the world, lost, afraid and trying to find safety. Do it for the mothers who would rather send their children into the unknown than to see them die of starvation or from bombs raining from the sky. Do it so that no other child has to wake up to another lightless sky in the way I did.

  If I have one single dream it is this: that a child in the future will read this book and ask, ‘What was a refugee?’

  We can change the world. All of us together. We can.

  We can end this.

  Acknowledgements