Dalila

by Jason Donald

  He looks up at her and nods.

  So the next time you feel this way, you phone me, okay?

  Okay.

  Dalila’s phone vibrates. It’s a text from Daniel.

  You report today? We go together? Meet at my house 10 am.

  The morning is bitterly cold and Daniel insists on taking his new car. He gently revs the engine two or three times, tilting his head to one side to better hear the song under the bonnet. Dalila fastens her seatbelt. Daniel keeps well under the speed limit, stooping forward over the steering wheel as he drives. He turns his head all the way left and then right as he navigates the first roundabout. They pass the Asda supermarket and the tower block being eaten by the crane, now only a few storeys tall. At the traffic lights, Daniel turns to Dalila and grins. This car, she is a good one. Maybe I will keep her and sell the other.

  He sounds so like her father. Dalila tucks her cold fingers under her thighs and enjoys the feeling of being driven through the city.

  They park near the Solidarity Centre. Eight men are standing outside the entrance. Dalila recognises Abbi, with his hood up, smoking. As they approach he takes one last drag and flicks the stub away.

  How are things, my friend? says Daniel, shaking Abbi’s hand and nodding to the other men.

  Ah, you know how they do, says Abbi. They been taking here and there. Times is bad.

  A few of the men nod in agreement.

  They have six raids now, says Abbi.

  Six? says Daniel.

  Believe me, six. Two even this morning. Families every time.

  Daniel shakes his head. Ish, I did not know it was so bad.

  That’s how they do. It’s like this. All attention is at your block, so they take their vans and pass by other places, waking up families and taking them. Dungavel is filling up, man. No joke.

  Abbi nods at the other men. They step back a little and let him speak. Yesterday, they go very early and take this family. They from Syria. They put everyone in the van but the girl, the daughter, she says she has to go to the toilet. Them officers said no. They said is too late, you can’t go out. So she had to, you know, to make water in the back of the van. And the officers, they don’t care. They just drive.

  Dalila and the other men wait for Abbi to tell more of what he knows but he has nothing left to say. They stand, each one, and stare at their feet. Daniel puts his hand on Abbi’s shoulder. He gives Dalila a nod and they enter the centre.

  Inside, it’s full of women, the men having elected to stand outside while the women stay in the warmth with the children. Women sit three to the sofa and one on each armrest. Others stand and wait while they read over documents. A large lady in tight jeans stands with her back to the gas heater, warming her hands and the back of her thighs.

  Dalila and Daniel nod hellos to the others and shuffle to the desk at the far end of the room to sign the registry book.

  No, says Phil into the phone, as he untangles the cord from his arm and scrawls something on the notepad in front of him. No. Look. No, that’s not . . . If you’re going to be that way, then I’m sorry but they’re going to be out there all night.

  Phil waves for attention from one of the other volunteers and points at a folder on top of the photocopier. The volunteer puts down the two mugs of tea he is carrying, passes the folder to Phil.

  Look, says Phil, into the receiver, it’s not like we had a committee meeting and, you know, petitioned the board of directors to give us permission to have a protest. They went out there on their own, of their own accord, as it were. They chose to lock themselves to those gates. It has nothing to do with me.

  Phil listens. Then he says, You’re not hearing me. I do not have the keys. Or any idea where the keys are, they are acting alone. I’m not part of it. No . . . No . . . Hey, don’t start threatening . . . Well, if you hadn’t, Phil raises his voice, if you hadn’t, sir, if you hadn’t pulled those families from their homes at six in the bloody morning then these protestors wouldn’t have chained themselves to the gates of your facility, now, would they?

  Behind Phil, another volunteer cleans the whiteboard while she talks into her mobile phone. The sides of her head are shaved clean. A mandala tattoo decorates the back of her neck. When the board is clean she writes a name, a country and yesterday’s date along the top in small neat handwriting. Next to the name, in red marker pen, she writes DETAINED: DUNGAVEL. She listens to instructions on the mobile phone and writes the next name.

  Phil slams the phone down. He stands up and places his hands on his head.

  As Daniel happens to be standing right in front of his desk, he extends his hand. Phil takes it. They shake and Daniel nods his support and encouragement to Phil.

  You are fighting a noble battle, my friend, says Daniel.

  I’m losing, you mean, Phil replies with a tired smile.

  We must report today, says Daniel. It is safe, you think?

  Phil fills his cheeks with air and rubs his temples. It’s all a bit nuts at the moment, as you can see. There’s been a bunch of raids but I think you’ll be alright reporting.

  Dalila glances up at the whiteboard. Half of it is now covered in neatly written names. Beside each name is their fate.

  DETAINED: YARL’S WOOD

  DETAINED: DUNGAVEL

  DETAINED: DUNGAVEL

  REMOVED

  DETAINED: COLNBROOK

  REMOVED

  DETAINED: DUNGAVEL

  The phone starts ringing again and Phil picks it up. He turns his back and grabs a folder as he says, Yes, just give me a minute, let me write those addresses down. As he sits down at his desk, Daniel nudges Dalila and says, I am going to enjoy the fresh air and smokers outside. Do you want to join me?

  I will stay, says Dalila. It is warmer here.

  Very wise, says Daniel. He looks at his watch. We go to report in forty minutes, okay?

  Yes, okay.

  Dalila sits on the edge of the sofa and warms her hands in front of the gas heater.

  Next to her, a Scottish woman is trying to discuss something with an African woman. The conversation starts and collapses and begins again as the African woman battles with her English words. But Dalila thinks she recognises something in her accent.

  A Pakistani-looking woman comes into the centre, with her child in a pushchair. She quickly signs the ledger and says to the Scottish woman, I have to report. I leave my baby, okay?

  Aye, of course, replies the Scottish woman, who Dalila assumes must be a volunteer at the centre.

  Thank you, says the Pakistani woman, thank you. I come back soon.

  It’s no bother. I’ll be here when you get back. She stands up and lifts the child out of the pushchair and bounces the toddler on her hip.

  Dalila smiles at the African woman left on the sofa. She takes a chance and, in Kiswahili, asks if the woman has been here long.

  Ah, my sister, you speak Kiswahili? Thank God, replies the woman. Thank God. I have been trying to give them my information but they don’t understand.

  Maybe I can help you? says Dalila.

  Oh yes, please. No one here understands me and my English is terrible. I come from Tanzania.

  I’m from Kenya, says Dalila. My name is Irene.

  I am Beatrice.

  The baby starts gurning and the volunteer rummages under the pushchair for something to distract the child.

  Excuse me, says Dalila. Excuse me, madam? May I help my friend with her form?

  The volunteer looks up. You two speak the same language? she says. If you could help her that would be great. We weren’t getting very far. Once you’ve written down her details just check things over with Phil.

  For half an hour the two of them chat like old friends while Phil argues on the phone and people constantly come in and out of the centre. They talk about Africa and the strangeness of Scotland. They talk about food and their troubles and their confusion with the Home Office. Beatrice explains how her father became too ill to work and her family eventually lost
their home. A lorry driver offered to marry her. She didn’t want to get married. However, her mother encouraged her to accept the offer, for the sake of her family. Soon after the wedding her husband moved her family into a newer home, he provided food and even found a job washing cars for her younger brother. But one night he became angry and shoved Beatrice’s head against the wall. She ran back to her family. At that time her husband was away, driving his truck for two weeks, but when he came back her mother forced her to return to her husband. Again, he beat her. It went on like this for many months. Beatrice suspected he was unfaithful and she worried constantly about AIDS. When she discovered she was pregnant, she had to act. She would suffer beatings for her family but she could never expose a child to what she had to endure. So she fled. First to Mombasa and then to France and then the UK. Her son is now four years old. He is healthy and goes to crèche, but the Home Office have just rejected her case and cut her support. Now on Section 4, she has no home and is sleeping on a friend’s sofa.

  Dalila listens, fascinated at how, in many respects, their stories are one. The emotions are the same, though the details are different. She translates Beatrice’s story and writes it up neatly on the Solidarity Centre’s registration form, double-checking each detail.

  I see you have found your work, says Daniel as he limps into the centre.

  Dalila glances up at him, unsure what he is trying to say. I am nearly finished, she replies. I just need two minutes. Dalila stands up and hands the registration form to Phil, who quickly reads it.

  Did you, umm, fill this in for that woman? Phil asks Dalila.

  Yes. Dalila stands aside and introduces them. Phil, this is Beatrice. She is new here.

  They shake hands and Phil says, It’s lovely to meet you, Beatrice.

  We speak the same language, Dalila tells Phil. Me, I helped her. I checked with her, all the information is there. It is correct.

  This is good work, says Phil.

  Oh, Dalila is very good, Daniel chips in. She is a journalist, this one. Her English is excellent. You should ask her to be a volunteer for you.

  Dalila looks at Daniel, trying to read his motives.

  Well, you know, we could use your help, says Phil. You’ll need a bit of training, and uh . . . But yeah, we’d love to have you. You can come back tomorrow if you like?

  Dalila lowers her head as gratitude and embarrassment flood into her. She tugs at the zip on her coat, trying to hide how she feels. Yes, tomorrow, she says. Me, I will come tomorrow.

  The protestors outside Festival Court chant as one.

  Together! United! We’ll never be defeated!

  Large home-made banners are held up over the heads of the protestors.

  STOP DAWN RAIDS. STOP DETAINING CHILDREN.

  On either side of the crowd a police car blocks the road, redirecting traffic away from the protest. The people are wrapped in scarves and heavy coats. Mothers with prams, Sikhs, two white boys with blond dreadlocks, women in headscarves, local men with their pale bald heads. A faint steam rises off the crowd as they chant and jeer. As Dalila and Daniel move closer, she even recognises faces from her tower. Policemen stand to one side, hands tucked under their body armour for warmth. One policeman smiles and chats to two Home Office security guards.

  The main gates of Festival Court have been bound together with bicycle locks and three protestors have chained themselves to the gates and handcuffed themselves to each other. Roped to the gates and along the fence are more signs.

  SOLIDARITY!!! ASYLUM SEEKERS AREN’T CRIMINALS.

  DOWN WITH DAWN RAIDS.

  Daniel points out Abbi, who is in the crowd, jumping from one foot to the other and punching the air. When he sees Daniel he grins and sings, Together. United. We’ll never be defeated!

  The two men grip hands.

  Brother, says Daniel, raising his voice, today we must report. Can we go in?

  Yes. Yes. No problem for you, is a problem for them. They cannot get out. Them gates are locked.

  Yes, I see.

  But you can pass by that side. Abbi points to a side gate manned by two security guards.

  Thank you, my friend, says Daniel, as Abbi resumes his jumping and fist-pumping.

  Inside, the reporting centre is crowded. Security is tighter than usual and people fidget in line before going through the methodical checks. Dalila puts her phone, belt and hat into her handbag. She takes off her coat and hands everything over. She takes off her gold basketball boots and gives them over, it’s easier than taking the laces out and having to rethread them later. She and Daniel join the line behind the metal detector. Once through, they each get patted down.

  The waiting room is a mixture of bad breath, sweat and damp clothes. It’s a hushed mood. Children cuddle close to their mothers or sleep on the floor. Dalila walks across the waiting room in her socks and, near the front, she and Daniel find two seats together.

  Daniel leans towards Dalila and quietly says in Kiswahili, I just heard they are not removing the Erdem family.

  How do you know? says Dalila, turning more fully in her seat to face him.

  I passed by the centre yesterday and Phil told me.

  Why didn’t you tell me?

  I’m telling you now, says Daniel. Phil told me the family were initially taken to Colnbrook Detention Centre in England. But charities and campaigners across the country were outraged. They sent thousands of texts and emails complaining about holding those children. How can the Home Office detain children? How can they send little Rosa to a country she has never seen? And all this after they lost their father in an incident provoked by the Home Office itself. The news agencies also kept enquiring about the family. What will become of the Erdems? they kept asking. In this way, the family’s story grew. The pressure began to grow. It became very difficult for the Home Office. Blame was being passed up to ministers in London. So the family were quietly released. The Home Office claims their case won an appeal due to new evidence. Phil says they are in Liverpool for the moment, because the Home Office knows it would be a disaster to bring them back to Glasgow.

  This is wonderful news, says Dalila, immediately lifting her hand to her mouth, feeling horrible for saying it. I mean it is good they are staying, but they must be suffering.

  Those girls will have a safer life here, Daniel says.

  The next number bleeps onto the board. Across the waiting room, all faces lift to see if it is their number that has been called. Daniel lowers his gaze and speaks. I only met Mr Erdem three or four times. Here, and outside your building. He gave me the impression of a sad man, a guilty man.

  How do you know he was guilty? says Dalila, shocked at Daniel’s opinion. What did he do?

  I only mean that he appeared to carry a heavy guilt, as if he accused himself of things he would never forgive.

  Dalila folds her ticket around her ARC card. She unfolds it, straightens it out. Did you know his wife, Olcay? she asks Daniel.

  I saw her, but I don’t believe we met.

  She told me her husband worked at the airport in Turkey. He refused to help some men smuggle goods. To keep his family safe, they fled. She believed he blamed himself for taking his family out of their home and bringing them to this place.

  I imagine him up there with the officers shouting at his back, says Daniel. Even before those men came bursting in, he must have known his case was not strong enough. It was a sad man who stepped off that balcony, but also a brave man. His act, maybe we should call it his gesture, transformed their sad, quiet story into one so mighty it could not be denied. Stepping off the way he did was a selfless act . . . maybe even a wise act.

  Do you really think he thought about all this up on that balcony? asks Dalila.

  I believe he thought about these questions all the time.

  I can’t stop thinking about his girls, says Dalila. That little one, Rosa. It makes me so . . . I just . . .

  Daniel nods. I hold a great sadness for those girls.

  He looks
at her. In the silence that draws out between them Dalila feels he is seeing parts of her she prefers to hide. She rubs one socked foot over the other to keep her toes warm and then speaks to cover the silence.

  When I came to London, I thought I had lost everything, she tells him. My father. My family. My future. But I am still losing, more and more, all the time. I can feel myself . . . I don’t know. It’s like I am becoming very small.

  In my first weeks, says Daniel, I would lie on the bed for hours, not eating or sleeping. I felt driven from my life. He lowers his head and places his palms together. As you have seen, I can still get this way, he says.

  Dalila takes his hand, wanting to reassure him. She says, Ma’aza told me that we asylum seekers only have to survive. That is what we must do.

  Daniel nods and squeezes her hand. Ma’aza is right, he says, we must survive. But the man whose hands and feet are cut off, but still breathes, he survives, doesn’t he? Survival is simply your heart receiving and expelling blood. It’s essential, but I wonder if it’s enough.

  He coughs once onto the back of his hand. He shifts a little in his seat to face her. Did you know I was in prison? he says.

  No, says Dalila. She leans closer to try to meet his eyes, but Daniel adjusts his glasses to evade her.

  I was there for seventeen months. In Uganda. I was there because of my politics. In a way, I was lucky, he says, because I knew why I was there. I knew what they wanted from me. Other men had been locked between those walls for many years without ever knowing why, or how long they might remain.

  The prison was overfull, he continues, and they kept us locked together in small cells, sometimes ten men to a cell. At any time, the guards would drag one of us away. They would take you to a room, sit you down, tie your ankles to the chair legs and then push the chair over backwards. As you lay there, they beat the soles of your feet with a cane. The pain was extraordinary. No man could hold back his screams.

  Daniel rubs both hands down his calf muscle. My foot has never healed from those beatings, he says. Sometimes the guards would ask you questions, sometimes not. I remember that room, where the beatings took place. It smelled of urine and even today that scent brings a panic into my heart.