Escape from Saddam

by Lewis Alsamari

  But just as the sun dispels shadows, so the daylight banished my nighttime anxieties into a far corner of my mind. I woke up, ate some breakfast, put on my suit, grabbed my umbrella, and left for another day at work. The rain was still heavy, and I was glad of the umbrella as I trod the familiar road to work. Just then, someone walked up from behind me and strode ahead. She was about my height and had long brown hair. As she passed, I caught a glimpse of her face, with its dark skin and the most stunning green eyes I had ever seen. Hers was the kind of beauty that made me catch my breath a little. Almost without thinking I stepped ahead and fell in beside her. “Would you like to share my umbrella?” I asked. My invitation was uncharacteristically forward.

  She smiled a modest and appealing smile; I held the umbrella over her head, allowing it to protect her from the rain far more effectively than it did me, and we fell into slightly awkward conversation. Her name was Shireen, and she was perhaps a couple of years older than I. She was studying to be a fitness instructor. I told her that I had a job at a large company and tried to make it sound rather grander than it was. By the time we had made our brief introductions, we arrived at my work building. I handed her the umbrella. “Take it,” I told her.

  She smiled that smile again. “But when will I be able to give it back to you?” she asked.

  I waved my hand nonchalantly. “It doesn’t matter,” I told her. “I’ll see you around. Give it to me then.” She started to protest, but I wouldn’t allow her to, and I stood in the pouring rain watching her walk away. Just before she disappeared around the corner, she turned her head and smiled at me.

  “You’re soaking wet,” Bakir barked when I got into the office.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bakir,” I muttered.

  “You’re also late. I don’t pay you to be late. Fetch me tea with honey.”

  But even Bakir’s reprimand couldn’t dampen my spirit that day. The picture in my mind of Shireen’s smile was enough to ease my other worries, at least for a little while. As the day wore on, I began to curse myself for playing it cool and not arranging to meet her again, so I determined that the following day I would leave my flat at exactly the same time in order to try to run in to her again.

  I woke earlier than normal the next day and spent a little longer getting dressed. Stepping out into the street wearing an expression of confidence that I did not really feel, I looked around, trying to see the adorable sight of Shireen walking along the road. She wasn’t there. I kept my eyes peeled all the way to work, and by the time I arrived I was crestfallen. It looked as though I had blown it.

  I went about my business, making Bakir his tea, shuffling papers without much enthusiasm. It wasn’t until midmorning that someone called out to me: “Sarmed, you have a visitor!” There was a slightly mocking, singsong quality to his voice, and as I looked up I saw why.

  There was Shireen, holding the umbrella. “I thought you’d like this back.” She smiled at me.

  I did my best to keep cool, thanking Allah that she couldn’t feel the beads of sweat forming on my palms or taste the sudden dryness of my mouth. “I looked out for you this morning,” I told her noncommittally.

  She nodded mysteriously. “I went a different route.”

  “Do you always go a different route?”

  “Not always,” she told me. “Perhaps I’ll see you another day.”

  “Perhaps,” I grinned and spent the rest of the day walking on air.

  A couple of times a week I saw Shireen on my way to work. Sometimes she was with a friend, sometimes alone; but each time we met we fell into easy conversation, and it took no time at all for me to become besotted by my new friend. I learned more about her. She had been born in Jordan, but her family was of Palestinian origin and she still considered herself to be a refugee. Somehow I felt that brought us closer. On the mornings that I saw her, I was happy for the rest of the day; when I missed her, my day was ruined. I even found myself writing poems to her that I knew she would never read. It was an entirely innocent relationship, and looking back I have no doubt that the obsession I felt for this woman was not reciprocated, but to me it was more than just a teenage crush. It was something that made me feel as if I belonged. Now and then I asked her out; she always turned me down with a smile that made me want to redouble my efforts. In a perverse kind of way, her rejections gave me confidence, the impression that I had something to work toward—I was sure that one day she would accept my invitation. Who knows, perhaps when the time came she would join me in leaving the country. But somehow that time seemed a long way off. I had started to feel a sense of community, with my work mates, with the Iraqis in Hashemite Square whom I befriended, and even elsewhere.

  One afternoon after work I was walking aimlessly around a section of Amman with which I was not familiar when I passed a run-down building that clearly had been a block of apartments. On the roof was a billboard announcing that the building was newly converted into a gym, and impulsively I went in to investigate. The staircase leading up to the gym was horribly shabby—I almost turned back on the assumption that I had made a mistake and people couldn’t possibly be working and training there—but I persisted and eventually found myself in a hot, humid room. Mirrors were on the wall, music was blaring, and bodybuilders were working out. No doubt with my mind on the fact that Shireen wanted to be a fitness instructor, I joined there and then.

  Gradually the gym became a home away from home. I went there to work out every day after finishing at work, and I started to become friendly with the gym owner, a former Olympic bodybuilder who seemed to take a shine to me. I think he was impressed with the enthusiasm with which I threw myself into this new hobby, so when I decided that I was spending so much time at the place that I might as well be working there, he was sympathetic to my request.

  “You have the right to work here?” he asked perfunctorily.

  “I already have a job at a respectable company,” I reminded him.

  “Very well,” he said. “I could use someone to help me clean the gym up at night. I can’t give you much, though. Free membership, and a few extra dinars in your pocket…” But that was all I wanted—I still had my job at the company, and as I was earning more than most of my fellow Iraqis in any case, I wasn’t about to start being greedy.

  Gradually, I found myself becoming settled. When the time allowed me by my fake Jordanian entry stamps passed without comment from my employers or anybody else, I suppose I even began to feel blasé. At the back of my mind I knew that this was going to make things difficult for me when the moment came, as it surely would, to leave; but for the first time ever, I was beginning to enjoy myself a little bit, earning my own money and living my own life free of any interference. And even though I knew I had to be careful, to keep a low profile so that my passport was never requested by the Jordanian police who patrolled the streets, nevertheless I was experiencing the kind of freedom that people in the West took for granted, and it was a genuine liberation. I found that I didn’t especially want to leave the life that I had started to make for myself in Amman; I didn’t want to leave my friends at the gym; I didn’t want to miss out on my morning walks with Shireen.

  Despite everything, however, I was illegal, as were many of my acquaintances; as such I could not help but become schooled in the underground business of people-smuggling. Whenever I met with the Iraqis in Hashemite Square, more often than not the conversation would take that direction: voices would become hushed, and people would tell the latest rumors about forged passports and large sums of money changing hands to facilitate border crossings that sometimes were successful and sometimes weren’t. I would feel something approaching a sense of peace when I heard of contemporaries who had made it to a safer place; but for every good-news story there was one to go with it of a deportation back to Iraq. It didn’t bear thinking of what had happened to the poor souls who were unlucky.

  It was a shady, illegal business but not uncommon, and it attracted its fair share of dishonest character
s. I had acquaintances who were so run down by the life they were living in Amman—working in bakeries for twelve hours a day in the burning heat for a third of the wage that I was fortunate enough to have—that they threw caution to the wind and listened to the honeyed tones of crooked smugglers who promised them the world. Sometimes you could spot the con men a mile off—young Iraqis who were laboring every waking hour in poorly paid jobs were clearly unlikely to be the high-flying smugglers that they sometimes claimed to be. Others played the game more subtly. “I can get you to Canada in three weeks,” they would state confidently. “It will cost you a thousand Jordanian dinars, but you have to give me the money up front now.” They talked a good talk, but anyone foolish enough to pay in advance seldom saw the smugglers—or their money—ever again. Very early on I realized that in such matters it was important to avoid the flashy, confident braggers, the people who spent their time partying and drinking and smoking. As I watched my contemporaries trying to leave, it became obvious that the ones who had the greatest success were those who put their faith in more sober members of the community—religious people, professional people, people who were doing what they did because they truly wanted to help others break free of the political shackles that kept them in that part of the world rather than out of a desire to make a few easy and dishonest dinars.

  I learned to be patient. I knew it would take some time for me to be able to amass enough money and find the right person to help me, so I could fulfill my dream and get to England. In the meantime, I determined to make good use of my time—although there wasn’t much of that. I finished one job at two in the afternoon, then started my second at four. When I wasn’t working at the company or at the gym, though, I spent time at the British Council, learning what I could about English culture and history. They had VHS tapes, magazines, and newspapers that enabled me to learn about the country I wanted to make my home, as well as a large community of pro-Western Arabs: I threw myself wholeheartedly into that environment. While I was there, I made inquiries about the possibility of taking some basic exams with a UK college—I was still determined to study to become a doctor if and when I managed to get to England. “No problem,” I was told. “Just write to the college whose course you want to follow, they’ll advise you what books to read, and you can do your exams here. If you pass you’ll get your degree.” I couldn’t believe it was that simple—if I did well, I’d make the grade, unlike in Iraq, where my exam results were compromised by the fact that my parents had no military connections.

  I bought the books, I studied hard, and I passed the examination.

  The sense of elation and achievement was something I had never experienced before. I had done this on my own, without the need for subterfuge, and I had succeeded. I wanted to celebrate, so the day I received my results I met up with a few friends. Jolly Bee was one of the places where the young people of Amman hung out—a burger joint with MTV screens blaring loudly and a special play area for young children. I spent some time there with Duraid, a new Iraqi friend, and with Muafaq, a Jordanian who worked as an administrator for Mushtaq at the head office of the company. We had a good time, laughing, joking, and feeding ourselves the fast-food treats Jolly Bee had to offer, toasting my recent academic achievement with a succession of milkshakes. When we left, we were in high spirits, boisterous even. I had always made a point of trying to be inconspicuous when I was out and about, but today that caution seemed uncalled for. Duraid, Muafaq, and I ran down the street chasing and shouting at one another, and laughing a bit too loudly. I don’t remember what it was that caused such hilarity—perhaps I said something about Shireen to my friends, or perhaps it really was nothing more than high spirits. Whatever it was, for a few moments it caused me to forget myself, to forget that the main focus of my life should have been to keep a low profile.

  Suddenly Muafaq and I sprinted around the corner into a much smaller side street. As we did so, we practically ran into a policeman, unmistakable in the summer uniform of the Amman police force. It was as if he had materialized out of nowhere. He had just bought himself an ice-cream cone and was in the process of raising the cone to his mouth when we almost knocked him flat by running into him.

  I stood absolutely still. We both did. In the few seconds of silence before the policeman spoke, a panic of thoughts went through my head. Not once in all the months I had been in Jordan had I been stopped by the police. I had been too careful for that. What would he do? We hadn’t done anything wrong exactly, so maybe he would just tell us to be on our way with a harsh word. But it was also within his power to question us, to ask for our papers, and to check that we were who we said we were. What would happen next was entirely up to him. I did my very best not to look as though I had any reason to be scared, but no doubt my face was a picture of the concern I was feeling. I had turned from jubilation to desperation in an instant.

  He looked us up and down, his face impassive. “What are you two doing?” he asked. His voice gave nothing away.

  I was aware of Muafaq quietly making his way to the front of our little group. He was Jordanian, so I suppose he thought that if he spoke for us, the officer might not think he had encountered a couple of Iraqi tearaways. “We’re just on our way home, officer,” he told him soberly.

  The policeman eyed him up and down. “Your ID card.” It was an order, not a request.

  Muafaq smiled as he pulled his ID card from his jacket and handed it over. “And this is a very good friend of mine…” he started to say in an attempt to defuse the situation, but he was instantly interrupted by the officer.

  “I’ll come to him in a minute,” he snapped.

  He scrutinized Muafaq’s ID card, and as he did so I considered running. The main road was crowded enough for me to be able to lose myself among all the people, but the officer would still have Muafaq. I couldn’t put him in the position of having to hide my identity from the Jordanian police. Besides, I had noticed the weapon the officer had swinging from his belt. I would just have to try to talk my way out of this seemingly impossible situation and pray that he didn’t ask me for the one thing I couldn’t supply: proof of residence. The officer handed Muafaq’s ID back to him, then turned his attention to me. “Can we go now?” I asked, affecting a Jordanian accent as best I could. It didn’t fool the officer for a moment.

  “Where are you from?” he asked with thinly veiled contempt.

  “I live here,” I told him, avoiding his question.

  “I didn’t ask you where you live. I asked you where you’re from.”

  “Iraq.”

  The officer nodded as though I had confirmed his worst suspicion. “In that case, I’ll need to see your proof of residence. Where’s your passport?”

  “I don’t have it with me,” I stammered. “Maybe I could bring it to you later.”

  He shook his head. “Where is it?”

  I had to think fast. The passport was safely locked away in my tiny apartment, but I couldn’t tell him that. I feared I would have to take him there, and I certainly didn’t want the authorities to know where I lived. More important, however, my Jordanian entry stamps had expired. Even if the fact that it was a false passport escaped him, the fact that I was illegal was clearly stated there in black and white. I didn’t know what to say. The officer looked at me, one eyebrow raised as the uncomfortable silence between us spoke louder than any excuses I could make up.

  “It’s at work,” I blurted finally, for no reason other than that I thought it might buy me some time.

  The officer narrowed his eyes. “And where do you work?”

  “I have a job at a company,” I said without mentioning the name of the place, then told him the rough area where my office was situated, before adding that I was a secretary to the Jordanian owner. Perhaps that would give me a little leverage.

  The officer thought about that for a moment. “Very well,” he said finally. “Take me there.”

  As though in the control of an awful dream that I couldn’t sto
p, Muafaq and I were escorted to a patrol car in which another officer was sitting, and they started driving through the traffic of central Amman toward my office. We stayed silent. We didn’t even look at each other, not wanting to betray our nervousness. As we drove, I felt the hotness of genuine fear creeping down the back of my neck. What were my employers likely to do? Sack me on the spot, most likely; leave me to the mercy of this aggressive policeman who clearly had the bit between his teeth as far as I was concerned. There was certainly no reason for them to stick their necks out for me; indeed there were many reasons for them not to. I was popular at work, but they had a successful and profitable business—why on earth would they risk a run-in with the authorities on my account?

  As the patrol car edged slowly toward the district where the company had its offices, I became increasingly certain that I was heading into the lion’s den, and without really thinking it through properly, I blurted out a change of plan. “Actually,” I broke the silence in the car, “my passport isn’t there.”

  The officer who had arrested me looked over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

  “I have another job,” I told him. “At a local gym. I had to give them my passport.”

  “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  “I forgot,” I said rather unconvincingly. “It was a while ago.”

  I felt scant relief when the policemen directed the car toward the gym. The owner was still a Jordanian, still ran a business, and still didn’t want any kind of trouble with the authorities. I just felt slightly more comfortable with the officers confronting him rather than Bakir.

  The patrol car crawled toward the gym, but it seemed to my nervous mind as if we arrived there practically instantaneously.

  It was about two o’clock when we arrived, and the gym was pretty much empty—the regulars would not turn up for at least another hour, maybe two. Nevertheless, loud Western pop music was blaring through the stereo speakers as I led the way across the gym mats toward the owner’s office, closely followed by the officer who had arrested me. Muafaq stayed in the car with the other policeman, which was an extra worry for me: he was not really known for his discretion, and I didn’t feel at all confident that he wouldn’t say something incriminating. But all that was out of my control; I had to concentrate on the predicament at hand.