Halfway to Orléans, we stop to pick up a TV crew and Ghislaine Buffard, a director whom Manal and Khaled met when they came to France in 2014. She has already made a report about the two of them and is now filming another as part of her work documenting refugees for the production company 416 Prod. So she wants to be with us for our family reunion. When Manal mentioned this to me, I wasn’t sure at first, uncomfortable with the idea of a camera being around for an intimate moment that I’ve been looking forward to so much. But I thought a lot about how significantly media coverage helped Manal; if it could also help my parents, I shouldn’t be hesitating. And I must also acknowledge that Ghislaine is extremely considerate, doing everything she can to be discreet and not hijack the event: She’s happy to film us as we all meet up outside the house and then slip away to leave us alone. Once inside Manal’s house, we can finally have the reunion I’ve envisioned in my daydreams.
I don’t know how long I hug my parents, little sister, and little brother. We’ve waited a lifetime for this! I wish this moment could go on forever. When I let go of them, finally convinced that they really are here, I study them from every angle. Even though Manal warned me, I’m horrified to see how my parents have changed physically. I last saw them in June in Beirut, for a get-together we’ve had every year since our marriage, and I’m shocked by how much they’ve aged. They’re both very thin and their sunken cheeks are a painful reminder of the countless days when they had nothing to eat. And if their happiness comes shining through, it’s only in their exhausted eyes. I try to catch Manal’s eye as she serves tea and baklava, and she nods without a word: She knows what I’m thinking. I fight to hold back the tears I can feel welling up; it really wouldn’t be right for me to cry when they all have such huge smiles. It’s obvious how happy they are to be here. And when I ask them about the ordeals they’ve been through since they left Damascus, they underplay everything as if it is all far removed from them, almost as if they’re telling someone else’s story. Still, I can’t help flinching just at the mention of nights spent wandering in search of a hotel that might finally agree to take them, the violence they experienced at the hands of the police, the boat that went down in the middle of the night, and could have cost them their lives…Looking back, I think my parents’ calm attitudes and their smiles derived more from their fierce determination to be parents to their children—to be proud, worthy, invincible—than the distance that victims can somehow establish between themselves and their traumatic experiences.
As for Julia, she’s only met them twice, but she’s thrilled to be part of such a big family reunion! With all the confidence of a two-year-old, she races from one person to another, sits on her grandmother’s knee for a moment, trots off to kiss Uncle Anas, and comes back to demand a cuddle from her grandfather. My head’s spinning: What would be a commonplace family gathering for millions of people feels totally surreal to me. For weeks I’ve been picturing the worst, conjuring mental images of my parents on the inflatable boat, Anas in custody, Mayada in the camp in Hungary, and Samer in the sedan on the way to Austria…But I never dared dream of this simple living room where, amid the honey and pistachio smell of pastries, my little daughter punctuates our conversations with her musical laugh.
* * *
—
I have work on Monday so the hours seem to be flying by: We need to be back on the road early on Sunday morning to get home to Albi. Julia laughs uproariously as all eight of us climb into the minibus. She’s right, it’s a happy sort of mayhem.
I try not to show Zena how relieved I am that her family is now safely in France because that relief is in direct proportion to the anxiety that’s haunted me ever since I left the five of them in Patras. Not just left, I feel I abandoned them. Either way, I’m enjoying this wonderful new feeling of weightlessness. It’s great, the nightmare’s over.
We now have two priorities: their ID papers and their health. For several months, Zena will devote all her time and energy to helping them with these. Her family has now been in France for a week, but legally they don’t exist, and that is what we start with first thing on Monday morning. Five minutes before it opens, we’re outside Albi’s local administrative offices. Zena knows the place well because she needs to come here every year to renew her residence permit. This isn’t a complicated exercise in itself, but it’s very tedious. She must be armed with all sorts of documents and be very careful about timing—the application for renewal must be submitted two months before the present permit expires, and the new permit is allocated at a meeting held three months after the previous one has expired. In the meantime a simple receipt for the ongoing application acts as proof of the applicant’s legitimacy.
In 2013 I went with my wife when she submitted her renewal application: Julia was very young and Zena couldn’t leave her with anyone. The three of us arrived at precisely nine o’clock in the morning but were far from the first people there. Several families were milling outside the doors well before opening time to be sure they would be seen. That’s right: Curiously, the department handling foreigners was the only one in the whole building that was open just in the morning. While Zena looked in vain for somewhere to sit down with Julia in her arms, I took a ticket and studied the crowd of people in the small waiting room. At the time there were very few who appeared to be from the Middle East, but there were Africans and Eastern Europeans. Teenagers, children, the elderly, men and women; clearly, whole families had come to go through the process. There were three counters facing the waiting room but only one was open, and Zena told me it was always like this. Julia was restless and started crying. It was a long time till our number would be called, so Zena went off for a walk with her in the stroller.
I watched the local government officer manning the single desk. When she took the papers handed to her by applicants, she never looked up at them, just mumbled terse replies and woe betide anyone who hadn’t yet fully mastered the French language and asked her to repeat herself: She strenuously demonstrated her exasperation with sighs or even icily contemptuous comments. I was overcome with anger. What did she think? That these people were here for the fun of it, or just to annoy her? What did it cost to smile, to be patient and welcoming to people who were destitute and in distress? When Zena returned with Julia she reassured me that some of the staff were far more amenable, but now I was the one who needed to go out for a walk to calm down. I didn’t want to compromise my wife’s case so I took it upon myself to keep quiet when, at about 11:30, it was finally our turn.
* * *
—
So on this Monday morning in September 2015, I have not come to the office with very positive expectations. It’s 8:50 and there are already around thirty people outside the door. By 9:30 there are upwards of sixty of us in the department’s small waiting room. The crowd is very different from the one I remember, and, listening to people’s conversations, Zena confirms what I’m thinking.
“It seems like there are quite a few Syrians here.”
After a two-hour wait, the Al Khatib family is called at last. We are greeted by the same icy woman as in 2013. I keep my mouth shut and let Zena do the talking.
“Good morning, I’m here with my family. They’ve just arrived in France but they have no papers and are going to ask for refugee status.”
“Oh, we don’t do that here anymore, we don’t handle requests for asylum. You need to go to Toulouse, they have the software. I’ll arrange a meeting for you.”
She prints out a slip with the time of our meeting at the offices in Toulouse in two weeks.
“And will we need to take any particular documents with us?”
“Listen, I don’t have time to go into the details for you, there are people waiting! They’ll tell you everything when you get there.”
Saif Eddine and Wafaa are very disappointed.
“Is that it then? We have no status for another two weeks?”
My father-i
n-law was mayor of his neighborhood and the local registrar, so he is humiliated to know he is on French soil illegally. Zena’s whole family can’t wait to go to Toulouse where they will be registered officially. I, meanwhile, have only been able to take the morning off and it’s not until dinner that Zena tells me about the rest of their day.
Neither of us knows much about the status and rights of refugees but Zena refuses to sit and do nothing until the meeting in Toulouse. She does some research on social media and eventually lands on a page about Terry Hugot, a woman from Albi who campaigns for Amnesty International. Zena knows her; Terry teaches English at the University of the Third Age, and Zena has been to several of her seminars. After a brief exchange of messages, Zena calls Terry, who gives her some valuable information: Whatever their status, foreigners can go to the free clinic at Albi hospital for treatment. She also recommends that Zena contact a social worker as soon as possible to get a clear idea of her family’s rights.
The next day Zena takes Saif Eddine, Wafaa, Mayada, Anas, and Samer to the clinic in the hopes of securing an appointment for each of them. The receptionist is all smiles.
“I’d be very happy to arrange appointments for you but the doctor’s free now, she can see you right away if you like.”
Zena’s delighted, and moments later Dr. Isabelle R. arrives. Her dark blonde bob frames a warm smile that puts everyone at ease. She takes the time to listen to their stories, then describes the medical assessments she will carry out for each of them, explaining that, depending on the outcome of these assessments, some of them may then go on to have further tests. When Zena relates this conversation to me, she is clearly still moved by how gentle and humane the doctor was, by her ability to explain calmly and reassuringly. Bearing in mind the countries through which they have traveled and the conditions of their journey, Dr. R. gives them each a Mantoux test. This involves an injection of fluid that produces a skin rash if the person is a tuberculosis carrier. They are also given chest x-rays, a full range of blood tests, and a number of vaccinations. The doctor then takes Wafaa into her office to examine her—she’s noticed the pitiful state of my mother-in-law’s plaster. Rather than respecting advice from the doctor in Orléans or listening to Manal, Wafaa has continued to wash clothes by hand and do the cooking and housework as soon as her daughter’s back is turned. The waterlogged plaster is worse than useless.
“I was really scolded!” Wafaa tells me with an impish smile. “The doctor told me I’ll need an operation if I don’t look after it this time. I absolutely promise I won’t get the new plaster wet.”
Zena and I both warn her we’ll be watching her and this makes her laugh. Zena confides to me separately that the doctor asked her to keep an eye on her mother because her blood pressure is very low. She’s exhausted from the journey, and yet she’s always smiling, well turned-out, busy in the kitchen, going to endless trouble to cook dishes that I love. She may not allow herself to express any anger or sadness but has clearly been deeply affected by what they endured on their journey. The brush with death on that makeshift boat was a terrible shock, but she can’t bring herself to talk about it. A few days after their arrival she asked me whether she could use my computer to go onto Facebook (something she hadn’t yet done since she’d been in France), and some time later I found her there in tears. She’d just seen a photo of little Alan Kurdi, the three-year-old boy found dead on a Turkish beach in early September. Images of his tiny body lying facedown in the sand went viral just as Wafaa reached France. I’d never seen my mother-in-law cry like this. Zena took her mother in her arms and let her own tears flow too. They wept as much for the horror that Wafaa experienced firsthand that night on the sea between Turkey and Greece as for the tragedies of all the little Alans in the world whose parents—out of love or despair—take them on improbable boats in an attempt to get them away from bombings.*
Over that week Zena goes with her family to the free clinic every day for each of them to receive the treatment he or she needs. Saif Eddine’s fasting blood glucose levels are very high and he has bruises and slow-to-heal abrasions all over his body. Isabelle R. diagnoses severe diabetes, and to ensure that his illness is handled as effectively as possible, she refers him to a diabetologist and a cardiologist in the hospital. Zena is very touched that the doctor personally makes calls to secure swift appointments with her colleagues, not to mention that—as part of the care package provided by the free clinic—these consultations will also be free. As far as medication is concerned, Dr. R. and her colleagues always try to prescribe drugs available at the hospital’s pharmacy, which means we have nothing to pay. If this isn’t possible, Zena and I cover the cost.
The doctor’s main advice for Samer, Anas, and Mayada is to get plenty of rest and eat regular meals to regain weight. Anas needs a course of antibiotics: The high fever he has had almost nonstop since Hungary is due to an infection that has really worn him down and that his body can’t fight alone. Meanwhile, Mayada still has abdominal pains (she was already in pain back in Syria and had her appendix removed, but to no effect), and the doctor prescribes painkillers for her.
We’ll never forget this extraordinary woman, this exceptional doctor. Thanks to the treatments she administered, and thanks also to her attentiveness and gentleness, she healed the wounds that the journey from Damascus inflicted on Saif, Wafaa, and the children. When they had only just arrived in France and their future was so uncertain, she embodied the security that my country can and should give them.
* * *
—
A few days after Zena’s family has moved in with us, my parents invite all eight of us for lunch at their house so that they can all meet. This is a very symbolic occasion for Zena and me because we weren’t able to arrange for them to meet before we were married. My father knows from previous conversations with me that Saif Eddine was a local mayor in Syria, and, while we’re having our aperitifs, he surprises me by offering my father-in-law his red, white, and blue sash! He says a few words that Zena translates:
“Saif Eddine, I would like to welcome you, we would like to welcome you to France. With this sash I hope you’ll feel that our whole country is proud to be a home to you when your own is so full of suffering.”
Saif shakes my father’s hand for a long time, clearly very moved. Zena and I are overwhelmed by this gesture. Beyond their differences of language and culture, these two patriarchs have always striven to be exemplary citizens and proud holders of their elected positions, as well as responsible fathers doing the best for their families. Our mothers immediately establish a wonderful rapport, and this doesn’t surprise us because we’ve always thought them so similar: gentle, kind, reserved, and always thinking of others before themselves.
Sandra and my mother have prepared a meal with Greek and French flavors, starting with a mezze of eggplant dip, tzatziki, fried calamari, and tomato and feta salad, followed by Basquaise chicken. Samer and Anas eat like horses and nothing could make my mother happier. Wafaa asks to see the recipes, and Zena follows the two grandmothers off into the kitchen. When she comes back her cheeks are flushed with happiness:
“They’re managing to talk to each other, I don’t really get how, but anyway they just can’t stop laughing!”
* * *
—
Between two appointments at the clinic during their first week with us, Zena looks into Samer and Anas’s education. Terry Hugot told her that they are eligible to attend school, but it isn’t compulsory because they’re over sixteen. Either way, the first step is to have them sit for the CASNAV tests to evaluate their abilities in French and mathematics. For now, their mastery of French is far too limited for them to attend French-speaking school, but their files have been sent out to all the high schools in and around Albi, so Zena says we just need to keep our fingers crossed.
It’s only been a week since they moved in, and I already can’t think how we lived without them. We settle into
a routine very quickly, all eight of us happy together. My parents-in-law are in one of our guest bedrooms and Mayada the other, while Samer and Anas sleep in the living room. We all meet up every morning over breakfast to enjoy a variety of savory dishes that Wafaa, Mimo, and Zena take pleasure in preparing: omelets, hummus, marinated olives, labneh—the Middle Eastern flavors take me right back to my grandmother’s house, and a number of forgotten memories are brought back to me through my taste buds. I call my mother regularly to launch into conversations that begin, “And do you remember when…,” which is a joy for both of us. Over dinner in the evenings, Zena and her parents tell me about their days while Julia tastes every dish, sitting on a different person’s lap each time. She’s crazy for hummus on sliced bread—not a very traditional combination but who cares!
Caught up in the emergency of taking in her family, Zena and I never really considered how we would all get along together. Well, it all turns out to be remarkably easy and cheerful. Yes, we have to be careful with budgeting, but Zena and I are happy to surrender some excesses so that everyone under our roof has clothes and plenty to eat. Yes, the house is full and there are sometimes traffic jams in the bathrooms, so Anas and I have gotten into the habit of waking very early each morning, taking turns to shower, and then sharing the sink to shave side by side like brothers while listening to rap music on his phone—but not too loud because some people are still asleep! In my mental picture of us as a family we’re all together around a big table of food, in a room full of laughter. My daughter is radiant, like a little princess surrounded by her courtiers. And Zena…even tired at the end of busy, complicated days, I’ve never seen her so happy. She admits that she wouldn’t allow herself to be happy here when she knew they were in danger over there. She thought about them all the time, about the risks they were running first in Syria and then on their journey. It’s over! It’s over…
I Just Wanted to Save My Family Page 8