Displaced

by Dean Hughes

  “I was released from the other hospital a few days ago, and I’m supposed to rest for a while longer—but I was nervous, doing nothing, and I kept wondering what had happened to you. I was afraid Rashid might have found you.”

  “Do you think he’s still looking for me?”

  “I think so. He sent Kamal to ask me where you lived. I told him I didn’t know, but my father didn’t realize what was going on, and he told Kamal you lived in Cola. So Rashid knew where to look. I wanted to warn you, but I didn’t know how. You had told me about Garo and where he had his fruit stand, and I wondered if he would know anything about you, so this morning I walked over to see him, and he told me you were here in the hospital.”

  “What about you?” he asked the Risers. “How did you know I was here?”

  It was Malek who answered. “When I was walking down St. Joseph Street to the hospital, they drove by and spotted me. They stopped to find out how I was doing. All they knew was that the two of us weren’t at the corner anymore. I told them what I could explain, partly in Arabic and partly in the little French I know, and they didn’t understand everything, but they finally got the idea that you were in a hospital. I think they could see that I wasn’t holding up very well, so they offered me a ride.”

  Klara Riser had listened to all this and seemed to have understood most of it. She asked Hadi in her version of Arabic, “How are you feeling now? We have…” But she couldn’t come up with the word she wanted. She looked at Malek and spoke to him in French for a time.

  Malek said to Hadi, “I’m not sure I understood all that, but she said they have worried about you. She said, ‘We like you and Hadi. Emil and I call you our boys.’ ”

  Hadi nodded to her. “Merci,” he said. “I’m doing all right,” he told her in Arabic, and she nodded her understanding.

  “They’re from Switzerland—the French-speaking part,” Malek said. Hadi had known they were from Switzerland, but he didn’t know there were different parts to the country. He was amazed to think that the Risers cared about him enough to visit him here in the hospital.

  “Hadi,” Malek said, “no one knows how you hurt your back. Did someone cut you?”

  “No. I crawled under a fence, and the wire caught me and ripped my back open. But people were chasing me—Rashid’s men. Fawzi and another guy.”

  “Will they be checking hospitals to find you?”

  Hadi wasn’t sure about that. He still felt only half-awake. But he said, “They chased me in Cola. And this is far from there. They know I cut my back, but I don’t think they knew how bad it was.”

  But now everything was becoming clear: Hadi had run away, escaped for a time, but he was still in danger. So was his family. Rashid was probably still looking for him.

  A nurse had come into the room. “So, you’re awake,” she said, and she smiled at him. “How are you feeling?”

  She seemed very young, and her voice had some life in it. That was a sound Hadi hadn’t heard at the other hospital. “I’m not too bad,” he said.

  “Does your back hurt?”

  “Yes. But I don’t want medicine. It makes me sleep.”

  She laughed. “I understand. We won’t give you anything so strong as you had last night.”

  Mrs. Riser asked the nurse whether she spoke French, and the nurse said she did. Then Mrs. Riser said something in French, and the nurse turned back to Hadi and said in Arabic, “She wants to know if you plan to go home now.”

  Hadi shook his head. He wasn’t sure what he dared to say to the nurse, or to the Risers. He only said, “No. We can’t go back to our building.”

  Emil Riser spoke, and the nurse translated: “Are people still trying to hurt you?”

  “Maybe,” Hadi said. But then he admitted, “They might hurt my whole family.”

  Emil had understood. “But why?” he asked in Arabic.

  Hadi hesitated, but then he said, “They sell drugs. They’re afraid I will be a witness against them.”

  The Risers looked to the nurse, and she did translate the words, but she seemed concerned. Mama said, “Don’t say anything else, Hadi. You must be careful.”

  Hadi knew that Mama was right.

  But Klara was asking something else, and the nurse translated: “We talked to you one day about going to school. Is it something you still would like to do?”

  “Yes. Of course,” Hadi said. “But not now. There are too many… problems.” The Risers glanced at each other and seemed confused, but Hadi had decided he better not explain too much, especially to the nurse.

  The nurse took his temperature, and then she listened to his heart and lungs. She told him he could stay at the hospital until a doctor came by to check on him one more time. “I’m sorry you can’t stay longer,” she said. “You need more rest.”

  She left, and Mama helped Hadi lie back on the bed. He was wide-awake now, and scared. His family could still take a bus, maybe, and get to some other city, but the bus fare would use up their money. Where would they sleep that night? How would they buy enough food? Hadi could see in his mother’s eyes that she was worried too.

  The Risers were talking to each other. They weren’t just chatting. Hadi didn’t understand the words, but he could tell that they were discussing something serious. Malek told Hadi, “I only understand part of what they’re saying, but I think they’re trying to figure out some way to help you.”

  Hadi had no idea what that could mean, but it made him think of Malek’s problems. “Malek, what is your family doing to earn enough money now?” he asked. “You can’t go back to the streets yet. You’re still in pain. I can see that.”

  “I do have some pain. In my ribs mostly. But I have to work. We’re almost out of food.”

  “But you can’t sell tissues all day. Not yet. And you shouldn’t have come here. It was too far for you to walk.”

  “But I needed to know that you were going to be all right. Garo told me that your cut was bad. He was worried about you.”

  “I’m not hurt as bad as you, Malek. And I’m worried what might happen to you now.”

  “Maybe people will feel sorry for me, with my arm in a sling, and buy more of my tissues.” Malek tried to smile, and he stepped closer and put his hand on the bed by Hadi’s pillow. He took a long look at Hadi. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to either one of us,” he finally said.

  Malek was losing hope, and Hadi couldn’t think of a single thing he could say to change that. What he knew was that boys like him, and like Malek, had a better chance of ending up in garbage dumpsters than working in good jobs and living in nice houses. So he only said, “I’ll help you if I can. I promise.”

  “Okay. I promise too… you know, if I can find a way. My father is doing a little better lately. His hand is healing, and I heard him tell Mother that he’ll start looking for work again. Maybe he means it this time. If things go better for us, I’ll find a way to get help to you.” Malek touched Hadi on the shoulder. And then he said, “I need to leave. Don’t try to contact me for a while. Rashid will be asking me what I know about you, but I’ll never tell him where you are. I’ll check with Garo sometimes. If you can, let him know how you’re doing, and he can tell me.”

  “All right. And if things go better for us somehow…” But he couldn’t finish his sentence. He saw no way for that to happen. Hadi also wanted to say that he hoped he would see Malek again, but he was afraid he was feeling too much, that he couldn’t get the words out.

  Malek ducked his head. Hadi knew that he was embarrassed. “Goodbye. For now” was all he managed to say.

  “Let me drive you home in my car,” Emil said in rather clear Arabic.

  Malek seemed to know he needed the help. He nodded his agreement.

  “Go downstairs. Rest. We must talk to Hadi a few minutes.”

  Malek nodded again, glanced one more time at Hadi, and then walked from the room. There was silence after that, and Hadi knew that his mother and the Risers were giving him some time.


  But it wasn’t long before the door opened and Garo stuck his head in. “May I come in for a moment?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes,” Hadi said. “I’m awake now.”

  Garo came in and greeted Hadi’s mother. Clearly the two had gotten acquainted.

  “Did you find my family yesterday?” Hadi asked. “Is that how they got here?”

  “Yes, of course. It was not difficult to recognize them.”

  “He brought us here in a taxi,” Mama said. “All of us crowded in.” And she said to Garo, “Thank you for helping us.” Then she told Garo about the Risers and how kind they had been to Hadi.

  Garo, as it turned out, spoke some French, and he talked with the Risers for a time. Hadi had no idea what they were saying, but again he sensed that this was a discussion, not a mere exchange of greetings.

  After a time, Garo turned to Hadi and said, “Yesterday, you asked me whether the truck driver who stopped at my fruit stand was Syrian. Why did you ask me about that?”

  Hadi tried to remember. All of that now seemed a week ago. “I was surprised that a Syrian had a job like that. I wondered if my father could get work of that kind.”

  “Just as I thought,” Garo said. “In the taxi, on the way to find your family, I tried to think why you would ask, and that’s what I decided you were thinking. What I hadn’t known was that your father was a truck driver in Syria, but on the way here to the hospital, I asked him, and he said he had done that kind of work all his life. So I then asked him, if something was available with the company that delivers my produce, would he be interested, and of course, he said he would.”

  “But how can Syrians get work like that?”

  “I wondered about that too. I had my doubts, but I called the manager of the trucking company, and he said that the government allows Syrians to do farmwork, and delivering fruits and vegetables can be called farmwork. Then he said that he could use another driver or two. He might be willing to hire your father, but he would need to talk to him first. It doesn’t pay an awful lot. It would not be every day, either, but it might work into that. I talked to your father downstairs, and he seemed very pleased. He’s going to contact the manager.”

  But Mama said, “We have to leave Beirut. Those men are still looking for us. How could he—”

  “I just talked to these nice people from Switzerland. They have some ideas. They work for a charity organization. They think they might be able to find a place for you to live—maybe in Jounieh, if that’s not too close to Beirut.”

  Hadi had heard of Jounieh. It was north, not very far, but still out of the city. He didn’t know whether that would be far enough to move, and he didn’t know if he would still need to sell gum, or if the job driving a truck—if Baba could get it—would give them enough money to live on. He was afraid to believe that these things could all work out, but it was something to hope for, and he hadn’t felt such lightness in his chest in a very long time.

  “If we moved to Jounieh, could my husband drive the truck for the company you spoke of?” Mama asked.

  “Yes. He would deliver to many places, but he would start out each morning in Dbayeh. That’s not too far from Jounieh. He could take a bus to the headquarters and pick up his truck there each day.”

  Hadi wondered. Would he have to deliver in Beirut? How dangerous would that be? But he decided, for now, not to doubt. He would let himself hope, even if only a little.

  “These nice people want to take you to the office of their organization. They don’t know whether they can work anything out for you, but they want to try.”

  Hadi looked at the Risers. He was astounded. “Merci” was the only thing he could think to say.

  Mama went to them, kissed them on their cheeks, and cried.

  “Garo, thank you,” Hadi said.

  “I’m glad if I can help you, Hadi. Maybe you can go back to Syria someday, but until then, you deserve something better than what you have faced here so far.”

  “Thank you,” Mama was saying. “Allah yebarkak.”

  “And may Jesus Christ bless you, my friends,” Garo said.

  “Inshallah,” Hadi said to himself, and he thought he finally understood why his father used the word. So much was beyond Hadi’s—or anyone’s—control.

  19

  Mr. Riser drove Malek home, and then he returned. When Hadi was released from the hospital, the Risers took Hadi and his mother, along with Aram and Jawdat, in their little car, and they hired a taxi to take Baba and the rest of the family. They drove to Jounieh, north of Beirut. It was a busy city between the sea and the mountains, with a crowded highway running through it. But the office for the nongovernmental organization that the Risers worked with was on a quiet street, and everything inside was new and clean.

  The office, however, was only one section of the building—a few rooms—on the main floor, and it was not fancy. Emil and Klara took everyone into a waiting room with couches and chairs and asked the family to sit down, and then they talked to a woman at a desk. She invited the two of them to enter an office, and they didn’t return for quite some time. Hadi was nervous. He wanted something good to come of this, but he had gotten used to disappointments.

  Hadi was amazed when the woman at the desk asked if everyone would like some water. “Yes, I would,” Aliya said, and the others were all nodding. So the woman left the room through another door, and when she returned she was carrying a box full of water bottles. The children were polite in accepting them, but Hadi could see the confusion in their eyes, as if they had no idea why someone would give away something so wonderful.

  The Risers finally returned. “Please come in,” Klara said, and she gestured for Hadi and his mother and father to enter the office.

  Mama carried Jawdat with her, but Baba asked Khaled to look after the other children. Khaled clearly didn’t like the idea, but he didn’t argue.

  Hadi, with his parents, entered a smaller room with a desk and some chairs. A woman behind the desk spoke to them in Arabic. “Come in,” she said. “Take a seat. My name is Mona.” But then she said something to the Risers in French.

  Mona, who sounded Lebanese, was wearing a yellow blouse, and her fingernails were bright red. She reminded Hadi of some of the women he had seen in the cars he approached on the street. Her hair was gray, cut very short. To Hadi, she looked like a rich lady, but she seemed tired and didn’t smile; he wondered whether she would be as helpful as the Risers had been.

  She looked at Baba. “Emil and Klara tell me that you were bombed out of your home in Aleppo. Is that right?” she asked.

  “Yes. We’ve been in Beirut for almost four years.”

  “But you have no papers?”

  “No. At first we had a permit that admitted us as ‘temporarily displaced people.’ We renewed the permit after a year, but then the government raised the renewal price very high—far beyond what we could afford. They told us to go back to Syria if we couldn’t renew, but there’s no way we could do that. Most of Aleppo is destroyed, and the war has not really ended. We could go to another city, but there is no work in Syria now.”

  “They tell me that you may have found a job here, that you might be able to start driving a truck for a company in Dbayeh. Is that right?”

  “Yes. Inshallah. It’s only a possibility for now, but I’m hopeful that I will soon start working.”

  “But without a residency permit, I’m sure you know that’s illegal.”

  “Our friend Garo tells us that it’s considered an agricultural job—because I would deliver fruits and vegetables. Most of the drivers for this company are Syrians.”

  “Strictly speaking, it’s still illegal, since you didn’t apply for a renewal of your papers.” She leaned forward and looked at a sheet of paper on her desk. “But as you say, some managers are only too happy to let Syrians work—so long as they don’t have to pay them as much as they would pay Lebanese employees.”

  Baba nodded, but he didn’t say anything.

&n
bsp; Mona was still looking at the notes in front of her. Hadi thought maybe it was her own writing—maybe things she had jotted down when talking to the Risers. But now she leaned back and removed her eyeglasses, held them in her hand. She seemed to think for a time. “People in Switzerland—and other places—donate money to our organization. They tell us to help refugees. But they also tell us to follow the laws of the land. They have no idea how complicated that is. The Lebanese government has never accepted the international standards for treatment of refugees. I want very much to help you, but I have to be careful not to break laws. Added to that, our budget shrinks each year, and I have limited money to work with, so everything becomes harder.”

  Hadi was sitting up straight to avoid touching his back to the chair. He was feeling more pain now, and a kind of numbness was buzzing through his head. Still, he waited anxiously for Mona’s conclusion, but she didn’t offer one. The room fell silent, the only sound the restless movements of Jawdat, sitting on his mother’s lap. Hadi was almost certain that nothing good would come of this. He felt himself sink into his chair. Nothing ever seemed to change.

  Mona set her glasses on the desk, and then she looked at Hadi. “What happened to you? How were you injured?” she asked.

  “I cut my back trying to climb under a fence,” he said.

  “And why were you trying to crawl under this fence?”

  Hadi could see where this was going; all chance for help would soon be lost. “There are men in Beirut who control the people who sell things on the streets,” he said. “If you don’t do everything they say, they beat up on you. That’s happened to me before.” That was true, of course, but Hadi couldn’t look her in the eye. He knew he wasn’t really answering her question.

  “So you did something they didn’t like?”

  “Yes.” But Hadi felt his chest tighten. She was looking at him with doubt in her eyes, as though she knew there had to be something more to this. So instead, he said what he wanted her to know. “I want to go to school more than anything. I’m learning how to read, but I need to learn mathematics—and everything. I want to have work someday, and—”