by Hamed Amiri
The next day we woke to the sun again. It was hard to get up as I was still so tired from the journey, but Mum promised there would be breakfast, so we soon got dressed. Downstairs it was just like a hotel in one of the movies we’d seen in Moscow – you had to get a tray and then you could help yourself to anything you wanted. Then you had to sit down at one of the hundreds of chairs and tables in the huge hall. It was the first hot breakfast I’d had in ages.
You had to do the same for lunch, and after this the staff told us we could go outside if we wanted. But we preferred to stay in our room where it was safe. We didn’t know anything about England and I think we were all a bit scared of not knowing the language or culture. We’d only ever lived under the Taliban or been on the run, and I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live somewhere free. We also didn’t know whether people would accept us. We were ‘refugees’ after all. Inside the compound felt safer.
What we didn’t know was that, while we were hiding out in the compound by the sea, the British government was making decisions for us – about where we’d go, what we’d do, and what would happen to Hussein. Soon we’d find out what our future would be.
CHAPTER 17
Home
When I asked Dad how they decided where everyone would end up, he said that it depended on your preferred location, whether you were a family or single person and how much ‘capacity’ there was. I didn’t understand what the last thing was, and I wondered how we were supposed to have a preferred location when we’d only just got here? He didn’t mention hospitals either, but obviously they were going to send us somewhere with good doctors. Obviously.
After a few days Mum and Dad were called into a room with someone from the government and a translator from the compound. Was this it? Were we finally going to find out where our new home was? They were in there for ages, and at first I was worried that there’d been a mistake and they were sending us back to Afghanistan, but then Mum and Dad came out of the room and called us over.
‘We’re going to a city called Cardiff,’ said Mum excitedly. ‘We’re going to be leaving soon.’
It didn’t mean much to us. We’d no idea where Cardiff was or what it was like. But for Hussein, only one thing mattered. ‘Are there good doctors there?’ he asked.
Mum looked at Dad. He didn’t seem to want to look her in the eye. She turned back to Hussein. ‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘The doctors will be waiting for you there.’
I wasn’t sure I believed her. Why did she look at Dad like that? And why were they in that room for so long? I hated not being told information. Had the government people really said the doctors were waiting for us, or did Mum just say that so Hussein wouldn’t worry?
I decided to lighten the mood. ‘We’ll pack our things!’ I said. This had become our family joke – we hadn’t had any things to pack for months. Everyone laughed, and I saw Mum looking at Hussein. He did seem relieved. For the first time in my life I thought that telling lies might not always be bad.
The morning flew by and we ate our final lunch in the canteen. Excited about going to Cardiff, we kept asking the volunteers what they knew about it. What was there? What did it look like? After a while Mum told us to be quiet as there were other people in this compound – people who’d been here for longer than us – who still hadn’t been told they had a new home. We were the lucky ones. I hadn’t thought of it like that.
Eventually it was time to leave, and a volunteer came to get us to tell us that the minibus was waiting outside. I started to feel anxious as well as excited. What would it be like? Would there really be help for Hussein? I couldn’t bear the thought of his disappointed face if there wasn’t.
Before we left we looked around the compound at the people left behind. All those strangers, Mum said to us, even though they’re from different countries and different beliefs, all have something in common with us. Hessam asked what it was and she said, ‘Feelings. They all feel exactly the same as we do: scared, lonely and anxious about the future. No matter how far they’ve come or what they’ve been through, they all want the same things as us. They just want to belong.’
Then Dad said we had to go, so we said goodbye to the volunteers and walked out of the compound, leaving all those other people behind us. I guessed we really were the lucky ones.
Although we were setting off on another journey, this time it was different. Hopefully this was the last trip we’d make for a while, and hopefully Cardiff was the safe haven we’d been waiting for. We were all quiet as we sat in the van, thinking about how we’d fit in. I wondered how I’d ever learn the language or get used to the weather. It seemed to change every five minutes.
Hussein said he hoped there was somewhere to play football. He grinned at me, but I suddenly realised that I couldn’t imagine him being able to play football any more. The dusty alleyway in Herat felt a million years ago, and Hussein was so much weaker now. What’s happened to my brother? I wondered. I didn’t know whether Hussein really did think he’d be able to play football or whether he was just saying this to be strong. He must have known how ill he was. I promised myself that, somehow, I’d get him playing football again.
It was a long journey, and I think I fell asleep, as the next thing I knew was Dad’s voice saying, ‘Wakey wakey, sleepy heads.’ I was annoyed to be woken up, but Dad said we were nearly there and when I looked out of the window, yawning and with bleary eyes, I saw trees and fields. I hadn’t seen trees like that since the jungle in Ukraine. It was so green!
Soon we came off the motorway and into what looked like a big city. The buildings were very colourful and we started to approach what looked like a huge castle. Hessam asked if that was our new home, and we all laughed. But as we pulled up I could see more greenery and a play area, and I started to wonder whether we really had been made into kings and queens. Mum said she couldn’t believe we were going to be able to just wander around without fear of the Taliban. ‘No curfew either,’ she said.
As we got out of the van there were more volunteers, and they all seemed friendly and nice. Although we’d talked about a ‘safe haven’ so much on the trip, I’d never really been able to imagine what it would be like. Now I realised this was it.
The volunteers told us to go towards the main entrance, and there we entered a main hall where there were other families and translators speaking different languages. We were such a mix of people – mostly mums, dads and children – but we had all made the journey here from different places.
Someone called our surname and Mum and Dad looked over. A kind-looking old man waved to us and shook Dad’s hand. Then he tapped Hussein on the head and said, ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’ I wondered if he was the doctor.
He couldn’t have been, because then he took us up some stairs and showed us a locked door. He had a big bunch of shiny keys and he stopped and gave a set to Mum and Dad. ‘These are your keys,’ he said, and nodded towards the door. Taking them, Dad turned the right one in the lock, our lock.
Behind the door wasn’t just a room. There was an apartment, with different rooms, all for us. Unlike in the compound, we didn’t race inside, ready to jump on our beds. We just stood in the doorway and looked in. We’d been trying to get here for so long it suddenly felt a bit weird. It had been so long since we had separate rooms, all to ourselves. This was our new place. Not for a day or a week, or a few months, but for as long as we wanted. This was where we were going to go to school and play and grow up. It was where Hussein was going to get better. This was home.
CHAPTER 18
The Three Musketeers
Those first few days were a blur. We just had to concentrate on getting used to our new home, the people in the neighbourhood and the city around us. The fact that this place was permanent meant that we felt more like exploring than we had at the compound, but we were still cautious. Everything that had happened on the journey here – from being robbed that first time in the market to being held at gunpoint on the motorway – ha
d made us nervous of people we didn’t know. I’d learnt not to trust anyone. If anyone was kind to us, I automatically wondered what they wanted in return.
The one thing we hadn’t thought about was our education. We’d been on the road for so long and missed so much that I’d forgotten what school was even like. Hessam had barely been to any lessons at all before we left Afghanistan. So we were surprised when, after a few days in our new flat, Mum and Dad called us in to the sitting room to ‘talk about school’. I thought they’d just tell us that we’d need to start thinking about it. But Mum had it all already arranged. She said we’d been accepted into a local school and would be starting the following week.
My first thought was fear – which meant ‘run’. How would we speak the language? What if everyone made fun of us? Would we be able to do the work? There were so many terrifying things I didn’t know the answer to. Mum and Dad said they couldn’t answer those questions. So I tried another one. ‘Would Hussein and I be in the same class?’ Dad said he’d see what he could do.
Before we could start, Mum and Dad had to do a lot of paperwork. There were two schools to sort out, as Hessam would be going to the local primary school while Hussein and I would go to the secondary comprehensive. Dad would sit at the dining table in the flat, papers everywhere, and I could tell by his body language that he was getting over-whelmed. I realised that we’d all been so focused on getting to the safe haven that none of us had thought about how we’d manage when we were here. Getting to the UK had been hard enough; living here at times seemed impossible.
Luckily, Mum and Dad had help. Volunteers and people who visited from the government department helped us with everything from filling in forms to finding a supermarket. I couldn’t believe so many people wanted to help us for free. My memories of Afghanistan were only of the Taliban, who didn’t help anyone. All they were interested in was making rules and punishing the people who didn’t keep them. I thought that living in the UK must have been a relief for Mum, as she no longer had to have a chaperone and stay in after dark, but Mum said she just worried about all the women left behind.
Every time someone from the government department came to help us Dad would say, ‘And that’s why we always called it a safe haven.’ It got a bit annoying, as if he had to prove he was right all along! But we’d never stopped trusting him. One day, one of the volunteers gave Dad an envelope with green pieces of paper inside. Dad was confused. It wasn’t money, but it looked a bit like it. The lady said they were vouchers. They were to spend on food and clothes from certain shops. We couldn’t believe it. No one outside our family had ever given us money before. Except Soran.
I remembered the day, over a year ago, when we’d held the bazaar at our house, and people from our neighbourhood had come to buy all our belongings. We hadn’t had anything of our own since then. Even the things we took with us had got lost, stolen or left along the way. Mum said the vouchers meant we’d be able to buy our own things. We’d be able to choose what food we ate, not just have to put up with whatever we were given. I hoped that might mean no more sandwiches. We’d had a lot of those.
The more I learnt about the UK government the more I realised how different it was to the Taliban. Obviously, I knew it was different – there were no executions for a start. But it still felt odd that a country would give its money to people who’d travelled from thousands of miles away – people who weren’t even from the UK and had nothing to give in return. Mum said what goes around comes around, and we never knew when we might be able to repay the debt.
Dad slept better the day we got the vouchers. He seemed more relaxed, funnier, more like he used to be. The next morning he said, ‘Who wants to go shopping? You’ll need some uniform for your new schools.’
Mum was more excited than us. She loved education. She said that school was the best thing for children, and that we’d finally have some routine. We’d finally be normal kids. Back home so many people didn’t get this opportunity, so it was important that we made the most of it.
We went to the shops with a few other families whose kids were also starting school. We giggled a lot as we tried on trousers and shirts, jumpers and ties. They weren’t like anything we’d ever worn before. When we stood in front of Mum and Dad and paraded up and down in our new clothes they both looked like they were going to cry.
That night we sat round the table and talked non-stop about school. Everyone seemed excited, but I still felt nervous, especially about the language. But for the first time I felt I had a future. That I could be anything I wanted, maybe even an astronaut. Hussein said he wanted to be a doctor, which is what he always said. Hessam didn’t have a clue. He was just excited about starting school.
As we watched TV that night and Mum ran around getting everything ready for the next day, Hussein took me and Hessam aside. He whispered so Mum couldn’t hear. ‘Let’s make a pact,’ he said.
‘What kind of pact?’ I asked.
Hussein looked embarrassed. It was as if he wanted to say this but didn’t want us to laugh. Then he seemed to have an idea. He pointed at the TV. ‘I want us to stick together,’ he said. He looked at Hessam. ‘Like the Three Musketeers, okay?
‘We did that when we were coming to the UK and, well, I don’t want that to stop. So let’s make a pact. We stick together till the end, no matter what, always by each other’s side.’ He pointed to the TV again. ‘Like them.’
Somehow, even though Hessam was only seven, we both seemed to know what Hussein was saying. So we bumped fists and promised. Together to the end.
The next morning we woke to bright sunlight. Hussein was up early, keener than anyone to get to school. He said it was his chance to be normal, to do the things that other kids did. But Mum had other ideas. She fussed round him, checking he had everything he needed. I said I thought she wanted Hussein to go to school. She said she did, but it didn’t stop her from worrying. I realised that this was the first time we’d be out of Mum’s sight for over a year. Every day since we left Herat had been spent together. No wonder she was stressed.
Mum said she had wanted to make a special breakfast for our first day, but that most of the vouchers had been spent on clothes, so it was bread and cheese as usual. It didn’t matter – we told her it was the best breakfast ever, just to make her feel better. ‘Think about all the times we hadn’t had any breakfast at all,’ I said. This was definitely better.
As I ate I could feel my tummy churning. Were we going to miss the bus? How would we know where to get off? Would we find our way around the school building? The others seemed excited, so I kept my questions to myself.
As soon as we’d finished eating we went down with the other families to catch the minibus to take us to school. I thought that some of the others looked a bit nervous too, but the volunteers said it was all fine and it was a friendly school. I didn’t know the difference between a friendly school and an unfriendly one – the whole thing was new to me. Even going on a minibus was new. As we sat on the bus I looked around at the other kids. How had they got here? Had their journey been as dangerous as ours? The parents had all gathered by the main entrance to watch us leave on the bus. I caught Mum’s eye and she smiled, tears welling up. She seemed really proud. Before he got on Hussein ran and gave her one last hug. ‘It’s okay, I’ll look after them,’ I heard him say. Mum laughed. ‘It’s you I’m worried about!’
We waved goodbye and I could see that Mum was crying properly now. It was important to be brave, but here, sitting on the minibus, I didn’t feel brave at all. The churning feeling in my tummy started up again, and I felt like I could finally let my fake smile slip. I didn’t think I wanted to go to school at all. In fact, I wanted to run. But there was no way I was going to tell Mum that.
I looked at Hessam and saw that he’d stopped smiling too. Perhaps he felt a bit like I did. Then I looked at Hussein. He looked pretty calm, so maybe it was alright. He had said he’d stick by me, no matter what. I wanted to make sure that he meant it.<
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‘You got my back, bro, right?’ I said casually.
Hussein laughed, realising straight away how terrified I was. ‘Yes of course,’ he said. ‘You’ll be fine, you fool.’
The first stop was the primary school, and Hessam looked nervous as he got ready to leave us and get off the bus. But I knew he was keen to make friends and see what school was like. There were no hugs, just manly pats on the back like we’d seen in the movies. I watched as my little brother stepped down to the waiting primary school staff. I was relieved to see they looked friendly. ‘See you later, bro,’ I called after him.
As we got nearer and nearer the secondary school stop I managed to go into tough mode. I could see volunteers waiting for us from the school, and I took a big breath. ‘Be good’ were Hussein’s last words of wisdom as we pulled up outside. Then he laughed. How did he always take everything in his stride?
We were met by some friendly faces, and everyone seemed kind. That made me suspicious. Why did people want to help us so much? Did they want money? A teacher took us through the reception area and into the school, and I stayed on red alert. There was something about this place that put me on edge. There were too many people, and they all seemed to want to help us. I remembered what had happened in the Moscow market.
Once we were inside, as I had been dreading, they wanted to separate me and Hussein. I could feel the panic rising as they took him off to a classroom. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We said we’d stick together! He seemed totally calm – excited even. I tried to tell the teacher I didn’t want to go anywhere without my brother. She only spoke to me in English, slowed down and gesturing with her hands, and I think she was trying to reassure me. So it seemed I had no choice. As I spoke I watched the teacher who had taken Hussein say something to him and I could see he was smiling. I had to make my own way.