by Hamed Amiri
All of that felt so far off right now as we lay in the cramped space, knowing there would be a long journey ahead of us.
We were unable to keep track of time, but after what must have been days we came to a stop. Outside the car we could hear a commotion, and the driver told us not to make a noise. I wanted to follow instructions to the letter, so I held my breath. Not breathing in through my nose was actually a relief, as the smell in the car had become pretty bad. Hussein and Hessam copied me, and there was complete silence in the compartment.
Outside the car we could hear bad language and men talking aggressively. They were swearing at each other, but then they laughed. Finally we were taken out, put into another van, and we started moving again.
Here we were allowed to sit in the back, and as I looked out of the car window I could see the sky was pitch black. It was freezing – the coldest it had been since we left home – and the road was much bumpier than before. After a while I could see lights, and there were buildings – taller than I’d ever seen before, and I wondered if we were in a city.
Soon after that we stopped and again were all told to get out. The only thing I remember is that every bit of my body, from my neck to my legs, clicked as I unfolded myself from the car. I actually quite enjoyed this, as I always loved clicking my knuckles to make my brothers groan.
We stepped out of the car into huge dirty piles of snow at the side of the road. That explained why we’d been so cold in the car for the last few hundred miles. Dad pointed towards a metal door by an entrance to an apartment and followed us to let us in.
‘Moscow.’ Dad said. ‘We’re almost there.’ I didn’t know what this meant. Almost where? We didn’t even know where we were going. He smiled brightly, but I could sense he was uneasy.
The apartment was pretty dreadful, but it was a roof over our heads after days and nights of being in the back of cars and vans, so we were just happy to be out of that cramped space.
That night we all had the best sleep we had had for a while. It felt so good to rest on an actual bed instead of being cramped in a tiny compartment in a moving van. I couldn’t help but imagine what lay ahead – we’d been dreaming of getting somewhere safe for every hour, minute we were on the road that I started to wonder whether such a place actually existed. And even if it did, would we ever get there? Would we ever be safe?
The next morning, as the sunlight came through the blinds I tried to fight against waking up. We were all desperate for more sleep, but soon I could hear Mum pottering about in the little kitchen. Before long familiar smells reached my nostrils.
I kicked my brothers awake, and we dragged ourselves to the rusty dining table to eat our first proper breakfast in what felt like ages. It was only tea, bread and cheese, but it was so good. We devoured everything, fighting over the last crumbs of bread as usual, and then bickered over who would help clear up.
There was a TV in the apartment, but when I turned it on all the channels were in Russian. We didn’t care too much, as having a working TV felt like luxury, even if it was in a different language. We found a show we liked about a man who talked to his car – it was sleek and black with red lights and we’d never seen anything like it. We were glued to it.
Dad decided to go for a walk, which was odd, because he only did this when he wanted to clear his head. I took my eyes off the TV for a second to watch after him and wondered what he was worrying about. Was it just the future, or had something happened that we didn’t know about? I hated being kept in the dark, and I was always worrying that Mum and Dad were hiding bad news from us. I always assumed the worst. Was Hussein getting worse? Were we being followed? It was Dad’s job to keep us safe, and he always had until now, but what about things that were out of his control? How could he keep us safe when he had no idea what was coming next?
The weather was freezing, and walking the snowy streets wasn’t my idea of fun, so we spent our time watching bad Russian TV, fighting and moping about. I don’t know how many days we were in the apartment, but since we’d got there Dad was the only one of us who’d been outside. Eventually, boredom got the better of us, and we decided to venture out.
Dad suggested that we go to the local market to buy essentials such as bread, cheese and milk. So we each put our two pairs of trousers on, together with all the sweaters we could find. We even wore two pairs of socks.
I’d noticed how the Russians seemed to love doors. At home we only had one door, and apart from during those final few days, it was more or less always open. Here, as soon as you walked out of one door there was immediately another one! A wooden door behind a metal door. These Russians certainly seemed to take their security seriously.
There was a cold wind when we stepped outside and it picked the snow dust off the ground and swirled it around. We’d never walked on a thick sheet of impacted snow before. The streets were so quiet they were spooky, and the city felt dangerous, even after our experience of living in Herat.
Mum told me not to be so silly, but Dad held our hands tightly as we walked through the streets to the market, and I could see that Mum was also nervous. I knew when we were getting close to the market, as I could smell all sorts of exotic foods being cooked.
‘Idi syuda, idi syuda’ (‘Come here’) was all I could hear from the shopkeepers. They were terrifying – much larger than the men we were used to in Afghanistan – and they looked so aggressive with all their shouting and gesturing.
But Hussein and Hessam and I were easily distracted by the colours and noise of the market, and before long we were running in and out of the stalls. Suddenly a gentle voice came behind us, ‘Ty khochesh’ sladkogo?’ (‘You want a sweet?’) and a tall man stood behind us, with three sweets held out in his palm. I didn’t hesitate, and grabbed the lollipop he was holding, unwrapping it and putting it straight in my mouth. Dad came rushing over, embarrassed, and offered money to the man in broken Russian, but he refused to take anything and just smiled at us.
We continued to wander through the market, in and out of the maze of busy stalls enjoying our sweets. Suddenly we realised we’d walked into quite a different area of the market. The atmosphere had changed – it wasn’t as warm as before, and I could feel people staring down at us. Was it the way we looked? Could they hear that we weren’t speaking in Russian? I started to realise that the people were mostly staring at Mum, at the scarf she used to cover her hair. I spat out the lollipop and put my hand in hers. But they kept on staring.
It was like a standoff. We stood there holding hands, and they stood there staring. Suddenly someone brushed past Mum’s handbag, and she shifted it across her body. She’d been holding on to it tightly the whole time we were at the market, as we knew there would be thieves about.
But then she checked her bag, opening it to feel inside. Her hand went straight out the other side. There was a perfectly clean cut on the outside of the bag, made by some sort of blade. The bag was empty.
We had been tricked. We quickly realised that the sweets had been a decoy – a distraction while the thief was at work. It wasn’t just the contents of a handbag, it was everything, all the money we had in the world. For a long time afterwards I would trust no one, and was always suspicious of someone doing a kind act.
Mum was patient as usual, but Dad was livid. It was his idea to leave the apartment and he hadn’t been able to protect us. We’d sold everything, left our family and friends, travelled hundreds of miles, and for what? Is this what our ‘safe haven’ looked like? How could someone do something like this?
Mum reminded him that for the people at the market, we were no different from any other foreigners. They didn’t know the trauma we’d been through already, that we’d had to leave our home and family.
It was then that we realised how alone we were. We had no home, no belongings, no identity. We were nobodies: stateless and on the run. Mum had stood up for what she believed in – what we all believed in – and as a result we had to leave everything we knew. It was so unfair. It felt like we
could be running forever, and that we’d never find a safe place to live. But Hussein needed somewhere he could get better, and every day of being on the road put an extra strain on his health. The longer we took, the longer it would be until he could get the treatment he needed.
So we left the market with less than we’d arrived with. We’d managed to buy some bread and some cheese before the money was stolen, and now we hadn’t got a penny. All the money we’d saved, everything we’d raised from selling our belongings, was gone.
We got back to the apartment, huddled together in the living room and turned on the TV. Watching the man with his car with the red lights again, we ate the cheese and bread together and went to bed.
The next morning we had a small breakfast of more bread and cheese, with Mum and Dad going without so there was enough for us. Dad left the apartment soon after breakfast to make some calls back home to try and get some money from one of our uncles. We couldn’t bear the idea of more bread and cheese.
Hours went by, but eventually Dad returned with a smile on his face.
‘I managed to make some calls,’ he said. ‘And I’ve got us enough money to last us the next few weeks.’
The relief was immediate. We didn’t know what would happen after that, but for now we were okay. We decided to celebrate by going on a trip, so once again we doubled up our clothes, looking around for anything else we could put on to avoid the cold.
All wrapped up, we left the apartment through the prison-like doors again and walked to the nearest bus stop.
Mum was anxious and kept reminding us that every stranger could be a thief. I imagined every passer-by to be a potential attacker too, inspired by the TV shows we’d been watching. I stayed glued to Mum and slightly behind the rest of the family. Hussein held Hessam’s hand and stuck close to Dad.
After a few bus stops and a short walk, we found ourselves in a different part of town. Above and around us were golden buildings, taller and grander than anything we’d seen before. I still stuck close to Mum, but was distracted by the amazing scenery of the Kremlin and St Basil’s Cathedral.
As we were enjoying the sights and the novelty of there being no snow on the pavements, I suddenly felt the sensation of being watched. Sure enough, across the street was a group of policemen staring at us, and after a minute or two they started to walk over. I froze. We had no documents, and if they asked us for proof of identity they’d deport us without a second thought. I knew I had to distract them, and after watching so much TV I knew exactly how to do it. I whispered to Mum, ‘I’ll see you at home. Go,’ and suddenly darted out of the crowd. I headed straight for the two burly police officers, praying that Mum and Dad would take the others home like I told them.
Thankfully, Dad started to steer the others away, trying not to attract attention in the crowd. The police were looking only at me now, as I charged towards them like a mad thing. I didn’t have a plan for when I reached them, so as soon as I got near I darted away again, changing my direction towards a small alleyway.
The adrenaline was rushing through my veins now, and my only aim was to get away and find my way back to the apartment. But how would I do that? I didn’t know the language and couldn’t even read the signs.
Just keep running, I thought. So I forced my legs to keep going, darting through alleyways and narrow streets until I was sure that I’d lost them. The only thing I could think of was to follow the bus route we had taken to get here, through the backstreets to the apartment. Perhaps the police would get tired or bored, or perhaps I’d be able to outrun them.
Then I could hear the police behind me, shouting in Russian, but I couldn’t stop now – I just had to find a way to shake them off. Suddenly I realised I was somewhere familiar. The market! I hated this place, but it could just give me the cover I needed to get them off my tail.
I suddenly changed direction again, my legs like springs, and headed towards the market. I knew the little huts that covered the stalls would confuse them, and maybe they’d get distracted by all the thieves about, too.
I ran past the bread stall, the cheese man and the man giving out sweets. I must be able to lose them in here. I was pretty sure that I knew the way back home from here, but there was no way I was going to let them follow me there. So I kept running, darting in and out of the stalls, until I looped past the far side of the market and realised they’d lost sight of me for just a second. Being small, I was able to hide behind the large men on the market stalls, and finally I came to a stop behind some burly stall holders.
I could see them but they couldn’t see me. They looked confused for a minute, then started to walk in the opposite direction.
After a few more minutes just to be on the safe side, I followed the route back to the apartment, looking over my shoulder every few steps to make sure no one was following. As I approached the apartment I could see Dad pacing around outside, his face pale, and Mum up in the window, anxiously looking out onto the street.
‘Dad!’ I called, running towards him. I’d been so brave – excited almost – when the police were chasing me, but now the tears came and I sobbed and sobbed.
‘Don’t ever do anything like that again,’ Dad said firmly, but as I tried to talk through my sobs he interrupted me. ‘I know, I know. Thank you.’ I held on to him for sheer relief.
After we went back into the flat nothing much was said about my adventure. Mum put the TV on for us and we went back to normal – whatever ‘normal’ was. We didn’t need to talk about how close it was, what could have happened if I’d been caught.
CHAPTER 6
Pomogite!
‘Wake up, wake up!’ I was half asleep but could hear Dad shouting at me. He was thrusting an ice hockey stick into my hand, but I was drowsy and had no clue why. Hussein was already up, although his eyes were half closed, and he was standing by my bed holding a baseball bat. Hessam was still fast asleep next to me.
We’d been in Moscow for several months now, waiting and waiting for the call to say someone could help us to move on. We’d built a life for ourselves and met some other refugee families who were also waiting to be moved on. We still hadn’t got used to the cold though.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked, shivering. My heart was racing by now, as I knew something was very wrong. I could hear a commotion outside, and my body ran cold as I realised there was someone out there, in the building, trying to get into the flat. Scenes from TV shows went through my mind and I was visualising what I would do if an intruder attacked me, when there was a bang from the metal door.
There was someone outside – maybe even a few people – and they were trying to unlock the door. We could hear the clicking and scratching of metal as they tried to force it open. Was it mafia? Were they trying to rob us?
‘I’m going to call one of the other refugees,’ Dad said, and he went to the phone. Not knowing anything else to do, we went to the windows and opened them, screaming ‘Pomogite, pomogite!’ (‘Help!’) into the darkness outside. It was one of the few words we’d learnt since being here.
We kept screaming until our neighbours in the nearby apartments woke up, but instead of helping us they only shouted back, ‘What do you want?’
‘Pomogite, pomogite!’ We continued to shout. We didn’t know how to explain what was happening, so could only repeat this one word.
I could hear Dad on the phone, and he came off and told us that it would be okay, it was normal, and it would be 40 minutes before Dad’s friend could come. Normal? How could this be normal? And what were we supposed to do until then? We couldn’t call the police as we didn’t have a valid visa or any documentation, so we’d have to defend the apartment on our own. If it was mafia then we were in trouble, as they didn’t care who got hurt. We could be fighting for our lives.
I planned to aim for the knees – I’d seen that somewhere – and then I’d go for the head and try to get them to drop whatever they were carrying. In my mind I was a warrior, but the reality was that we were little
boys with ice hockey sticks and baseball bats. We had no chance.
Dad kept motioning to us and trying to look through the peephole to see if he could get a glimpse of our attackers, but because of the double doors no light was coming through from the hallway. He said the men seemed to be kneeling down and trying to open the locks, and I could hear rattling and scratching.
Mum was with Hussein now, trying to keep him calm so his heart rate wouldn’t increase. Heightened emotion had been known to cause another attack in the past. But how could we stay calm when there were people outside our door trying their very best to get in?
Through it all, unbelievably, Hessam was still asleep. We stood there for ten minutes, then twenty, then half an hour as we waited for something to happen. I could feel my eyes starting to close, but still we could hear rattling at the door. Still our attackers didn’t materialise.
‘They can’t be very good robbers,’ I said, and Dad glared at me. He went to the peephole and looked again to see if he could see anything in the pitch black. Suddenly there was a loud bang and he shot back from the door. Hussein shouted ‘I’m ready!’ and held his bat above his head, ready to charge.
Dad jumped in front of him, gripping his own bat, and Mum looked panicked. There was another loud bang. Dad looked through the peephole. There was nothing to see, no attackers, nothing. A mystery. I almost wished something would happen. I was like a coiled spring waiting to be released. Then the noise began again, a scratching and grinding on the rusty metal door.
‘I can’t see anything,’ Dad said as he looked through the door again. ‘I think I’m going crazy.’
Then the phone rang and we all jumped out of our skin. It was Dad’s friend, saying he was nearly at the apartment. Dad spoke to him for a few minutes and explained what was happening, then he suddenly put his hand over the phone and shouted to us, ‘Go and get the black pepper!’