Displaced

by Dean Hughes

  “That’s for gum. But when you have nothing to sell, you have to take what you can get.”

  “You said that people are mean sometimes.”

  “Yes. Expect it. They’ll say, ‘Why don’t you Syrians go back where you belong?’ Things like that. But don’t listen to them. Just go to the next car.”

  “Why do we have to do this? Why can’t Baba find a job?” Khaled sounded less excited now.

  “We don’t have legal papers, Khaled. Refugees are only allowed to do hard labor, but most of those jobs go to younger men. Baba doesn’t look so young anymore.”

  Hadi could see in Khaled’s eyes that he was understanding all this for the first time—or trying to. He had wanted to get out of the house, had wanted to work like his big brother, but now he seemed to be grasping what he would actually have to do.

  The narrow street was dark now, and not many people were outside. Hadi and Khaled walked by a little shop where a Pakistani man sold chips and sodas and chocolate bars. There were no customers—never were, it seemed—and Hadi always wondered how the man stayed in business. Hadi bought groceries in a larger store farther down the street.

  “Don’t be scared,” Hadi told Khaled on the way back. “Just keep trying and a few people will give you money. And you’ll be proud of yourself when you go home at night. Be careful, though. If men or older boys approach you and tell you that you can’t work on a certain corner, just walk away. Don’t argue. And if any men want you to go with them, don’t do it, no matter what they say.”

  “Can we stay together tomorrow, so I can learn what to do?”

  “I’ll show you in the beginning, and we’ll always stay close to each other.”

  “Okay.” And that seemed to relax Khaled a little. But Hadi couldn’t relax. All evening he worried about what the next day would bring.

  * * *

  In the morning Baba and the two boys took a bus from Cola to the Corniche—a beautiful street and walkway along the sea. There were tall buildings there, beautiful hotels and office buildings. It was only two or three miles from Cola, but it was a street Khaled had never seen. “Look at that place. It’s made of glass,” he said. And he watched the people: men at the beach in swimming suits or women with their heads covered, sitting next to their husbands. Some men fished with long fishing poles and some played a game, hitting a ball over a net with their hands. Khaled was amazed by everything, commented on it all, and Hadi realized how long the boy had been cooped up in Cola in that dark, stinking apartment.

  “Look at all those flowers,” Khaled said.

  Baba told him, “It’s what Mama calls majnouneh. We had one behind our building in Aleppo. Hadi and I called it our flower tree.”

  It was what Hadi loved most here: flower trees in red and pink and purple, all sorts of other flowers, and palm trees. It seemed like heaven. It was a beautiful day, too, with big clouds floating by and no rain. At least Khaled didn’t have to make his start on a day when rain was pouring down. It was probably also good that he had no idea of the dangers that might be waiting for them.

  When the three got off the bus, they walked up the hill from the Corniche to Hamra Street, a long stretch that ran through the entire area. It was a fancy part of town, with lots of nice shops, clubs, bars, restaurants.

  “People don’t throw garbage in the streets here,” Khaled said.

  “Or if they do, someone comes around and cleans it up,” Baba told him. “Rich people shop here, and they don’t want to step over trash.”

  They walked past the American University of Beirut, and Hadi said, “There’s lot of traffic along here, but someone is working every corner.” There were vendors everywhere, most of them children selling roses not only at the car windows but to pedestrians. There were also grown men selling the sorts of items that Baba had been selling at the Dora intersection.

  “No one’s begging,” Hadi told his father.

  “I know. That’s what I’ve been noticing. That probably means the vendors are supplied by the street gangs. I’m sure the good corners are assigned by the same people.”

  “What can we do?”

  “I’m thinking that we should get off Hamra Street but stay close to the university. The students are rich kids, mostly. And maybe they don’t hate Syrians so much as the people who shop here probably do.”

  Baba turned at the next corner, and they found a quieter area with narrower streets. Baba kept looking and finally said, “You boys work this corner and I’ll go up another street or two. I might look to see whether I can buy something cheap that I can resell.”

  “Look to see whether you can find Chiclets,” Hadi said.

  “I will. But you boys stay right here. Don’t leave this corner unless someone comes along and threatens you. If you have to leave, come to me. Otherwise, I’ll check back with you in a while.”

  “All right,” Hadi said. But he wondered about Rashid. He might not realize that Hadi wasn’t coming back—at least for a day or two. Or would Kamal say something to him? If either one of them put the word out to watch for him, would anyone in this area be able to figure out who he was? Or would they send the people who had watched him in Bauchrieh? Baba had been fairly sure they would be safe in Hamra, but he hadn’t heard Rashid’s threats. Still, Baba was right; they had to eat.

  So Hadi walked to the corner and stood at the curb. Khaled followed him. “Stay with me this first time we go to the cars,” he told his brother. “Just watch what I do. And listen. Don’t say anything.”

  Hadi stood at the corner and waited. He was surprised when the cars stopped without running the red light. Maybe the police enforced the law on this side of the city. “All right, let’s go,” Hadi told Khaled. “Yallah.”

  When they approached the cars, he did as he had told Khaled the night before; he held his palms out, kept his head down, and when he got no response, he motioned to his mouth to show that he was hungry. He tried to look sad, but he didn’t overact, and as he had done with the gum, when they ignored him, he moved on.

  But Hadi hated doing this. It was demeaning. Baba had always told him to pay for the food Garo gave him, not to beg—and now he was playacting, claiming he was hungry when he wasn’t. But he told himself he would be hungry, his whole family would be, if he didn’t take home what money he could.

  The cars were mostly bigger, nicer than on the other side of town, and the drivers were usually better dressed, but their reaction was the same as in Bauchrieh. When Hadi came to a man who had his window open and his hand out the window holding a cigarette, Hadi said, “Sir, my brother and I are hungry. My family is hungry. Could you spare a coin or two to help us?”

  The man smiled, but he didn’t look at Hadi. “You people always say you’re hungry, but you look like you’ve had plenty to eat.”

  Hadi didn’t respond. He just walked away. “We do get hungry,” Khaled told Hadi as he followed him to the next car.

  “I know. But I told you, don’t argue with them. It’s what they believe, and you can’t talk them out of it. Are you ready to go on your own now?”

  “Not yet.”

  So they worked their way through the cars three, then four times, until a young man finally gave Hadi a five-hundred-pound coin and said something in a language Hadi didn’t understand. Baba had said that all the students at the university spoke English.

  When they walked back to the curb, Khaled said to Hadi, “I thought more people would give us money.”

  “We have to figure this out,” Hadi told him, and he tried to sound calm, but he was worried. They needed to do better. “I think that man was a student. Maybe those are the ones we should talk to. Most of the students are walking in this area, not driving cars. Let’s try to stop them on the sidewalk.”

  Hadi tried to step in front of younger people who came by, so he could get them to stop. Most shook their heads and walked around him, but he picked up a few coins that way. It wasn’t much, but it was a bit of an improvement.

  Finally,
one young woman stopped and listened to Hadi. She looked foreign. She had blond hair, and she spoke Arabic with a strange sound to it, like a little melody. She smiled and said, “Tell me the truth. Are you really hungry?”

  Her sincere question embarrassed Hadi. He answered honestly. “Not right now, but our family needs to eat, and this is the only way we can take money home tonight to buy food for our little sisters and brothers.”

  “I didn’t expect you to say that,” she said. “Is this your brother?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at Khaled. “You’re a handsome boy,” she said. “You’ll have lots of girlfriends someday.”

  Hadi watched Khaled blush. The girl was pretty.

  “Well, boys, I don’t have much money, but I want your brothers and sisters to eat tonight. She pulled out a five-thousand-pound bill from her purse. She handed it to Hadi, and then she gave Khaled another five thousand. “Get yourselves a sandwich for lunch, if you can find one for that price around here. You’ll have to cut the sandwich in half. I don’t have enough money to buy two.”

  “Allah yehmiki,” Hadi said, and he meant it. Khaled repeated the same blessing.

  She patted Khaled on the shoulder. “Good luck to both of you.” She smiled and walked away.

  Hadi was amazed. He turned to Khaled. “You won’t see that happen very often. But we won’t have lunch. We’ll take all of it home. You speak to the next person who comes along. That woman liked the way you look.”

  “I’ll just listen again until—”

  “No. You have to start. See that man coming up the street? He looks like a student. Stop him. I’ll walk away and let you do it on your own.”

  “I can’t, Hadi. I’m too scared.”

  “You’ve been telling me all winter that you want to go with us. This is your chance to get started.”

  Hadi walked a few paces off.

  Khaled stood stiffly and waited. Hadi remembered his own first attempts, how frightened he had been. He felt sorry for Khaled, but the boy had to do this. What Hadi knew was that things might get much worse from now on, and Khaled would have to grow up fast. He hated to push the boy and make him uncomfortable, but what choice did he have?

  14

  Hadi watched as Khaled waited for the young man approaching him on the sidewalk. But Khaled didn’t step in front of the man. He did look at him, but at the last second he turned away, and once the man had passed, he twisted around, looked at Hadi, and shook his head. As Hadi walked to him, Khaled said, “I can’t do it.”

  Hadi felt bad to see how miserable Khaled looked, but he said, “Yes, you can. And you will do it. Would you rather go home and sit in the house all day with your sisters and your baby brothers?”

  “No.”

  “Then quit acting like you’re a baby.”

  “I’m not a baby!” Khaled said, but his voice cracked, and he began to cry. He turned away and wiped his face with his sleeve.

  Hadi felt sorry for him, but he was angry at the same time. He had stuck it out for two years, showing up every day, whether he wanted to or not. “Khaled, you don’t understand. You tell me how hungry you are sometimes, but the only reason you get anything to eat is because Baba and I have been doing this for you. I told you that you wouldn’t like it. I don’t like it either. But it’s what we have to do—or none of us eat.”

  “I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to say.”

  “Just say, ‘Could you help me? I’m hungry. My whole family is hungry.’ And then he’ll say no and keep walking. But that doesn’t matter. You keep asking, over and over, and a few people will give you coins and you thank them. That’s all we have, Khaled. It’s the only thing we can do. It doesn’t do any good to wish things were different.” But Khaled’s tears hadn’t stopped, and Hadi was starting to wish he hadn’t been so stern with him. “It’s hard at first,” he added, more gently, “but it gets easier. And after a while, you don’t think, you don’t feel. And one day is exactly like all the others. The only thing you remember is that your mother and brothers and sisters will have something to eat at night.”

  “Show me again.”

  “No, Khaled. You have to do it yourself. It’s the only way you can get used to it. Look at that woman coming up the street. She’s probably a student. She might be like that other one who was so nice to us. Step in front of her and say, ‘Can you help me? I’m hungry.’ ”

  Khaled turned to look and Hadi stepped away. Khaled was still crying, and Hadi doubted he would do anything. But he did step in front of her, and she did stop. He said something so low and muffled that Hadi couldn’t understand him. But the woman, who was wearing a bright-pink hijab, asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m hungry. My family is hungry,” Khaled muttered.

  “That’s too bad,” the young woman said, but she didn’t open her purse. “Are you Syrian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a home?”

  “No,” Khaled said. “I mean, yes. A room.”

  “For how many?”

  Khaled had probably never counted. He didn’t answer.

  The woman looked concerned. She had an accent of some kind. Hadi thought she must be from another country. She wore dark-rimmed glasses, which made her look serious, but she was dressed in jeans and tennis shoes. “How many brothers and sisters do you have?” she asked.

  “Three brothers. Three sisters.”

  “So there are seven of you, and do both of your parents live with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So nine. And you live in one room?”

  “Yes.” She was still watching Khaled carefully, probably wondering about his tears. In the background cars were honking, as always, and people on the sidewalk were streaming around the two. Hadi had not expected anything like this. Some people had asked him at times if he was okay, but almost no one had ever asked him about his family. It was Khaled’s tears, he thought, that had prompted all her questions.

  “Is that your brother over there?” the woman asked.

  “Yes.” Khaled looked around, desperation in his face, as though he had no idea what he was supposed to do now.

  Hadi nodded to the woman. And then she waved him over. “Why was your brother crying?” she asked.

  “He was scared. He hasn’t asked people for money before.”

  The woman took a long look at Hadi, and he liked the softness of her eyes. She pulled her backpack off her shoulder and opened it. “I want to give you a little money. I’m just wondering whether there isn’t something else you can do besides stop people on the street. Aren’t there groups that help refugees?”

  “Yes. But they’re running out of money. They can’t help us very much.”

  “I can understand that,” she said. She had found her purse by then. She pulled out three thousand pounds and handed the bills to Khaled, but then she touched his hair, smoothed it a little. “I’m so sorry I can’t do more,” she said.

  She placed her hand over her heart, bowed her head toward Hadi, and she wished him well. Hadi thanked her, blessed her, and then Khaled did too. As she walked away, she smiled and gave them a little wave. The boys stood on the sidewalk for a time and watched her go. Hadi was thankful that she was the first person Khaled had stopped.

  “You did well,” Hadi told Khaled. “Now do it again. Just don’t think that most people will treat you that way.” Then he laughed. “Keep crying if you can. I think she liked that.”

  “I’m not crying!” Khaled said. He wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve again.

  “I’m sorry. I know how scary it is, but I’m thinking it might be easier if I’m not here to listen.”

  “No. I want you here.”

  “I know. But you’ll learn more if you do it by yourself. So I’m going to leave you on your own. I’m going to cross the street and talk to people over there. But I’ll be close all the time.”

  Khaled stared at Hadi for a few seconds, as though he were about to protest, but then he
looked down and said, “All right. I’ll try.”

  So Hadi crossed the street, but he kept an eye on Khaled, who continued to stop people. Most brushed past him, and those who slowed to hear what he had to say usually shook their heads and then walked on by. But Hadi did see him get a few coins.

  Hadi also received some coins and a one-thousand-pound bill, but he knew it was not going to amount to much. At least they had the money the two young women had given them.

  But Hadi had other worries. He kept watching for Kamal or Rashid, or anyone who might be working for them. He saw a rough-looking guy stop near his corner and take a long look at him, but then he moved on. Hadi knew the man could be working for a local street gang. At any moment things could explode, and the trouble might come from Kamal, or from Rashid, or even from the Hamra street gangs.

  Hadi also had Malek on his mind. He had awakened early that morning and had lain in the dark, his blankets pulled tight around him, and he had run everything back: the choices he had made and the things Malek had said to him. Hadi wasn’t just handing boxes over; he was helping the drug deal happen. “That’s wrong and you know it,” he had said. And as Hadi thought back, he knew that no matter what he had told himself, he had known the first time Rashid had offered him ten thousand pounds that he had crossed a line. He had known in that moment that he had delivered drugs, and Malek was right: he had known it was wrong.

  All the trouble his family was facing now had started with that decision. He was glad his mother wasn’t suffering, and it had felt good to know his family had enough food. But it didn’t make what he had done right. Every drug dealer could probably say that he was just earning money for his family.

  And yet even after the disgust Malek had expressed and the argument the two of them had had, Malek had saved Hadi from Kamal, and what Hadi feared most was that Kamal had beaten Malek, might even have killed him. And if he had, that too was Hadi’s fault. The problem was, he didn’t know how to contact Malek, knew it was too dangerous to do so—dangerous for both of them. And he didn’t know what he could do for Malek if he did find him.