by Jason Donald
The more she thinks about Ms Colgan’s face, the tighter that knot above her stomach gets. It’s as if each of her organs, each of her bones, is attached to a string and every string meets in this knot in her chest. When the knot turns, every part of her gets pulled in on itself.
It’s your fault, she whispers to herself.
Why did her uncle stop her from going to the funeral? He didn’t even tell her about it. Why? What is the point of that? Why did he even kill them? That was his family. His only family. And to do what he did to her. For what?
It’s not fair, she says. Why? I didn’t . . .
The anger in her is so hot, so ferocious, she wants to howl. To scream right in each one of their faces. Ms Colgan. Markus. And if she ever sees her uncle again she’s going to grip his ears and scream right into his fat, disgusting face till her throat burns, till it bleeds.
She presses her palms over her eyes, squeezing her head as hard as she can. The ball in her gut turns, pulling her tighter and closer in on herself. In that dense darkness there is only space for loathing. She hates herself for being taken. For being weak. She’s such a stupid idiot. And now look what’s happened, she’s been used up and broken. Just a useless, disgusting, horrible piece of rubbish. That’s all that’s left of her. Someone should throw her out, get rid of her.
She sees her mother looking at her, her father and brother too. Dispassionate faces, unblinking. Ms Colgan raises her eyebrows and looks at her. Markus staring down at her and then the face of her Uncle Kennedy right up close. His mouth open, his eyes black and depthless.
Dalila opens her eyes to make the faces disappear but all those eyes are still on her. Everything winds in tighter, strained to its very limits.
The bath is almost full. Through tears and the steam she reaches to turn off the hot tap and touches the spout, burning herself. All those faces shake their heads. Useless, pathetic. You get what you deserve. Her body reels against itself, snarled and tighter than she has ever felt, just ugly knotted slops of what she used to be.
She suddenly forces the inside of her wrist against the tap’s scalding metal, pressing down on it with her other hand. Pain flashes through her but she keeps pressing down, till the faces disappear, till everyone in her head is wiped out, till all the anxiety and rage is seared into one tiny point of outrageous pain. The knot in her chest spins loose and she is released, limp and exhausted.
The pink mark on her wrist instantly starts to swell into a blister, but she can breathe again.
Ma’aza knocks on the door. Dali, you are okay? she calls. Dali?
I’m . . . Yes, I’m fine, says Dalila, trying her best to sound fine.
She undresses, lets the cold tap run for a while and steps into the bath. The water is almost too hot. She stands with both feet in the tub, her toes prickling as they adjust to the temperature.
Slowly, she sits down, keeping her burnt wrist out of the hot water, her hand still quivering in shock. She sinks her torso lower till the water touches her chin.
The waters calm. The surface becomes flat as glass, reflecting the light bulb above her, hiding her body beneath. She closes her eyes and dissolves.
Without her moving, the water tilts and runs back on itself. There’s another unsettling shudder as the wind shunts against the tower and the bathwater leans and rolls against her chin.
When she has washed and dressed, she sits on her bed and pulls the duvet around her shoulders. Ma’aza knocks on her door and enters.
You feel better? Ma’aza asks.
Dalila lowers her head.
Ma’aza lays a plate on the bed. On it are two pieces of toast with slices of avocado. She holds out a mug of tea for Dalila to take.
No, thank you.
For two days you don’t eat or drink anything.
Me, I’m not hungry.
Ma’aza sits down on the bed next to Dalila. I know this sadness, she says. I also cried for many days. I became too, too thin. But you cannot give so much time to mourning. Will it bring back the dead? Will it change your problems? Now is the time to be strong again. This tea is warm and sweet, my sad little sugar sister. Take it.
Dalila smiles weakly and takes the tea.
I know your interview was bad, says Ma’aza.
Who told you?
Ma’aza shakes her head and smiles sadly. Everyone has a bad interview, she says. That’s how they do.
They will send me back?
Probably, they will. Too many get sent back. Who can say what will happen? But now you must wait.
For how long?
Who can know? says Ma’aza. Some wait for months, some wait for years. Nobody knows how long they must wait, but the waiting is the hardest part. The waiting can kill you before the Home Office sends you back.
Maybe . . . I deserve to go back, whispers Dalila.
Ma’aza shifts closer. Shh, don’t speak like this.
Dalila’s bottom lip begins to tremble. You don’t know . . . what I did, whispers Dalila. How stupid and . . . and selfish.
You are wrong, Dalila.
Dalila swallows hard, trying to compose herself. My mother, she whispers. My mother said God can see everything. Even, He can see in your heart. After I was born I was very small and my mother was angry in her heart. After that she believed God gave her no more children. She always said to me everything happens for a reason.
My mother believed this too. She even cut her beliefs into all her children, says Ma’aza, running her finger down the centre of her forehead across her tiny crucifix scar. She says we are given to God, protected by Him, and we cannot be out of His love, but it is not true.
Dalila lowers her mug and wipes a finger across both eyes. Ma’aza moves the plate of toast onto the bedside cabinet and sits cross-legged on the bed.
In Ethiopia, I was in a camp for five months, Ma’aza says, like a refugee camp. People were hungry. Everyone knew great sadness. One NGO ran the camp. Sometimes volunteers would come to help. Some of these people, the white ones, they always say to us, Don’t worry, everything happens for a reason. God will help you. Everything is God’s great plan.
One day, goat herders bring a Somali girl in the medical tent. They find her lying in the road. Some women in the camp spoke Somali. They speak softly to the girl and find out how she came to be here.
A militia came into this girl’s village. The men raided the village for supplies, they took water. They grab her father’s goat and throw it into their jeep. When her father protested they shoot him. The girl, she screamed and ran to the body of her father. The soldiers lifted her up and took her with them. They kept her for three weeks, always moving, driving here and there. When they stop they tie her to a tree or to the truck. They rape her every day and night. They broke her teeth with the butt of a rifle and used her mouth. They tortured her for sport. Sometimes they traded her to other soldiers for a night in return for a spare tyre.
I don’t want to hear stories like this today, Dalila whispers.
The soldiers don’t give her food, Ma’aza continues. They leave her in the road believing she was dead. She was not. In the camp they give her medical treatment but her wounds were too severe. She was double incontinent, she couldn’t walk. This girl was fourteen years old.
The wind billows against the building. The room wavers. Ma’aza takes a deep breath and continues.
Every night I sit with this girl. She don’t speak Amharic, I don’t speak Somali, but some days you need people close without talking. She would not eat. She don’t like if I touch her. So, I only sit with her in the dark. In that tent was so much sadness. I thought, What bad things have this girl done to bring her this horror? But I couldn’t even invent reasons. Other nights, I think, Maybe God let this happen. Some priests say from small evils we learn small truths and when God allows great evil we can learn the deepest truths. So I thought, Maybe this girl is part of God’s great plan. Everyone who knows her story will understand a deep truth.
Ma’aza shifts round
on the bed till she is facing Dalila, and says, About that time, I become very angry. Because what great lesson is equal to the suffering of this child? If God says to me, You can know My wisdom but only through the suffering of one girl. You know what? I will choose safety for the girl. Every time, I would choose this. God can keep His big boss plan for Himself.
Ma’aza gets to her feet, unable to sit any longer. She says, Anyway, the next day the girl died. Most people in the camp never hear her story. Nobody learn anything. She was tortured and died for nothing. That day I knew for myself, God is a false trader. He asks for us to believe. He wants us to think He has a big plan for everything, but there is no plan. No reasons. God has nothing.
She picks up the plate with the toast and avocado, and says, Everything happens without reasons, Dalila.
She places the food in front of Dalila. Now, you must eat.
Dalila moves the plate away. I cannot.
Ma’aza reaches over and gently pulls Dalila’s hand closer, staring at the raw, burst blister on her wrist. The tiny crucifix scar on Ma’aza’s forehead draws Dalila in. It folds slightly as concern pulls Ma’aza’s eyebrows together. When she looks up, Dalila looks away.
Avocado is good for you, my sister, Ma’aza whispers. You should eat.
Why?
To become stronger.
Why?
So you can keep going.
I go out this morning, says Ma’aza as she comes out of the bathroom. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun and Dalila notices she is wearing her old jeans and hiking boots.
Where are you going?
Out, says Ma’aza. And you also must go out.
Me, I will stay, says Dalila. It’s too cold out there.
No, says Ma’aza, you will fight. Remember, I told you, they want for you to stay inside and be alone. You must fight them, not with stones but with your life. You go out because they want you to stay inside. Walk, because they want you to be weak. Talk to people, because they want you to be alone. If you want to survive this place, you must move.
Ma’aza pulls a leaflet from her back pocket and gives it to Dalila. When I come to Glasgow, I went to this place. It’s good. Many people go there and they give free lunch.
Dalila reads the leaflet and looks up at Ma’aza. English classes? For me?
It is conversation class, not only for learning, says Ma’aza. The people are nice there.
Dalila pushes the paper away. I don’t need this.
You cannot wait here, you will get sick, believe me, says Ma’aza. You must go out. Use your days.
Ma’aza pushes the leaflet back towards Dalila. Come. Get dressed. The class starts in one hour. Come, come.
Dalila presses the buzzer on the door frame of the YWCA building. She peers through the door’s frosted glass and sees a wide-hipped woman shuffling towards the door.
Oh. Hiya, says the woman. Can I help you?
I have come for the . . . the English conversation class.
In you come. Ma name’s Gemma.
Irene, says Dalila as she shakes the woman’s hand.
The building has a stuffy warmth. It smells of dusty carpets and baby food. Blue-and-white-striped wallpaper reaches up past an old chandelier. Gemma moves behind the small reception desk at the bottom of a curling staircase. Posters cover the walls, most featuring pictures of women. Happy groups of women, bruised women, women in shadow. The words on the posters rush at Dalila. Women’s Aid. Mother and Toddler Group. Women’s Asylum News. Introduction to Yoga. Domestic Abuse is a Crime. Fair Trade.
She looks back at the door and imagines herself simply walking out. Leaving. She doesn’t need an English class.
Gemma slides a ledger towards Dalila and asks her to sign in. Now, remember to sign out again when you leave. The class is upstairs, says Gemma, first on your left. You’ll see the others waiting outside the door.
The wooden staircase creaks under Dalila’s steps. The banister has been rubbed smooth by the grip and slide of a million fingers. At the top of the stairs stand five women. Dalila stands with them. In silence, they wait. One woman, dressed all in black with a black headscarf, holds a baby boy in her arms. He is absorbed with a pink Post-it note which is stuck to his fingers.
Leaflets, children’s drawings, taxi numbers and handwritten notices decorate a large cork noticeboard. To avoid looking at the women waiting with her, Dalila reads the posters pinned to the wall. Rape Crisis. Thursday Cooking Class. Girls on the Move Leadership Courses. Positive Body Image Campaign. The flat eyes of the models on the posters stare straight into the camera, straight at her.
The door opens. Twenty or more women pour out, talking excitedly, stretching their arms into coat sleeves, carrying handbags, grocery bags and umbrellas. The push of people forces Dalila against the wall as they brush past her without acknowledgement.
When the class has emptied, the women waiting in the corridor file in. Dalila follows. It’s cooler inside the class. Large sash windows let the heat from radiators escape. Four tables have been pushed together in the centre of the room, surrounded by black plastic chairs. Two towers of chairs stand stacked in the corner. She notices a flipchart leaning against the wall, a fire extinguisher, paint flaking from the corner of the ceiling.
The other women sit down around the tables. No one takes off their coat. The woman in black sits with her son on her lap and starts pulling paper and crayons out of her handbag. The child grabs at the crayons and immediately tries shoving them into his mouth. Next to this woman sit two giggling girls in multicoloured headscarves. The three of them appear to be sitting together. Their unconscious comfort with each other gives Dalila the feeling that the woman in black is, somehow, the girls’ chaperone. At the top of the table sits an older woman with meticulously styled bronze hair. A Chinese-looking woman flips open a palm-sized electronic dictionary and begins prodding the keys with her index finger. Perhaps this woman is Japanese? She can’t be sure, having only ever met two people from the Far East.
Dalila chooses a seat close to the door, sits and tugs her sleeve down over the bandage on her wrist. The only sounds are the child scrunching paper, the tapping of buttons on the dictionary’s keypad and the hush of traffic outside. She lowers her head, sure she’s made a mistake coming here. Better to be in bed, than this.
Sorry I’m late, says a woman as she hurries into the room, weighed down with a handbag, a bottle of water and an armful of folders. She goes to the far end of the table and props up the flipchart. Is this the teacher? Dalila wonders. Teachers usually dress up, don’t they?
An African woman comes in.
Hello, Constance, says the teacher. Could you please close the door?
Constance shuts the door and sits next to Dalila.
Well, says the teacher, unbuttoning her coat, it’s lovely to see you all again. And it looks like we have a new face joining us today. What is your name?
Irene.
Well, Irene, it’s lovely to have you here. I’m sure you’ll be made to feel welcome. We’re all very friendly here.
The entire class stares at Dalila. The bronze-haired woman gives her a nod.
Have you been to an English class before? asks the teacher.
No. But I learned to speak in my country.
Where are you from?
Kenya.
And, so, where did you learn English?
In school. From my grandparents. Everyone speaks English in Kenya.
Really? I mean, right, of course. The teacher blushes. So, why have you decided to join us today?
Dalila hesitates. The honest answer is shamefully exposing. She knows why she is here. It’s the same reason Ma’aza dragged her out of the flat this morning. It’s why she stalked the neighbourhood repeatedly looking over her shoulder in case Markus was around while staring at the pages of the Glasgow A–Z hunting for the YWCA. It’s why she can’t sleep and then sleeps too much and then struggles to get out of bed and why she never feels hungry and why the tears come. She has l
ived with it, but never forced herself to say it.
I came . . . for conversation.
Okay. Lovely. Excellent. That’s why we’re all here, says the teacher, rubbing her hands together. She nervously tucks her fringe behind her ear. Well, why don’t we start with a wee warm-up? Turn to the person next to you and for five minutes let’s use who what why where when questions to get to know each other.
The three Muslim women huddle together and begin to debate who should go first. The Asian woman shuffles her chair closer to the bronze-haired lady. Instead of turning her chair Constance slumps across the table and props her head up with her hand. She sighs and says, What is your name?
Irene.
Where do you live?
Flat seventeen two Iona Court, Ibrox, Glasgow.
What is your favourite colour?
Um, blue?
What is your date of birth?
The twentieth of December, nineteen ninety-four.
Where is you come from?
Dalila’s throat tightens. It’s always the same list of questions. Housing staff, the Home Office, hostel owners, everyone demands the same list of facts. The more she answers these questions, the more she feels the truth peeling away from her replies. Where does she live? She sleeps at the same address, but does she live there? What is her true name? Why is her date of birth so important?
Where is you come from? Constance repeats.
Where do you come from? says Dalila.
No. Me, I’m asking first.
Okay, but you must say, where do you come from?
Constance sits up. I said like dis, where do you come from?
Dalila folds her arms. Debating the issue is too depressing. Me, I come from Kenya, she says.
How many children you have?
None.
You are married?
Dalila stares out of the window at the last leaves on the branch fighting the stiff breeze. She lowers her eyes at Constance. No, I am not married.
The teacher claps her hands. Okay, everyone. Once the first person has asked the questions, remember to switch around and let the other person do the asking, that way everyone gets to practise.