No Ballet Shoes In Syria

by Catherine Bruton

  With a jolt of shock, Aya realised they were talking about her.

  “Bronte, come on! Dotty is doing well. Yes, she sometimes lacks focus but she’s been working a lot harder recently. There’s no reason to think that Aya will be a problem.”

  Aya felt her cheeks burn and her stomach turned painfully. That was how Dotty’s mother saw her. A poor little refugee girl. A problem. Now she understood the look in the woman’s eyes the day before.

  “Actually, I think it will be good for Dotty,” Miss Sylvie was saying. “And Aya deserves this chance…”

  But Aya didn’t want to hear any more. She made her way quickly into the studio and started working on limbering exercises, trying to drown out the words that kept turning round in her head: “… a distraction … a problem…”

  When the other girls arrived for class, she tried not to let any of them see how close she was to tears. Dotty was late as usual, and she had the feeling that the others had been talking about her as they all fell silent when they came in and saw her at the barre.

  “Here’s our refugee dancer!” said Ciara.

  “Don’t call her that, Ciara,” said Lilli-Ella, glancing nervously at Aya.

  “Yeah, it’s really not nice,” said Grace, but she coloured as she spoke.

  “If you say so,” said Ciara. But the word was already out there, weaving its way through the air, creating an invisible barrier that ran between Aya and the others, even after Dotty bounced into the room, grinning, laughing, giving her a giant hug.

  But Aya decided that she would not let them see how much it hurt her. Instead, she threw all she was feeling into her dancing, letting a little of the locked-up emotions trickle out through her feet, through her hands. Not too much – if she let out all she was feeling she felt as if she might break, fall into pieces, shatter – but just a little felt like a relief.

  At the end of the class, Miss Helena kept her back. “Are you OK, Aya?” she asked. “You don’t look happy today.”

  “No – I am… I—” But the words stuck in her throat and made her cheeks burn.

  “Did your maminka talk to you about the Royal Northern?”

  “Yes, but I think she was … confused, maybe?” said Aya.

  “No confusion,” said Miss Helena. “I think you stand a chance. If it is something you want.”

  Aya’s heart leapt, but the thought of Bronte Buchanan’s words was still racing round her head.

  “We won’t have long to get you ready,” Miss Helena was saying.

  “But Dotty said… I mean, I have missed the prelims.”

  “Yes – this is true. I will have to make a few phone calls,” said Miss Helena. “But in such circumstances, an exception can perhaps be made.”

  Aya’s heart soared – just for a second – then fell.

  “But the appeal…” Aya managed to say. “And the landlord. What if … we don’t know if we are allowed to stay.”

  “We will cross that bridge if we come to it,” said Miss Helena with a wave of her hand.

  Dad always used to say that. About crossing bridges when you came to them. Not worrying about stuff that might never happen. But Dad wasn’t around any more and Aya had learned to be more wary – less trusting – since he had gone.

  “You have been through a lot, kochana,” said Miss Helena with a curious tilt of her head. “Maybe it is time to let some good things happen to you.”

  Chapter 19

  “Anyone can apply for the Royal Northern,” said Miss Sylvie at the beginning of the audition prep class the next day. “Even if they have never had a dancing lesson in their lives.”

  “Even if they’re not English?” Ciara glanced pointedly at Aya.

  “The Royal Northern takes pupils from all over the world,” said Miss Helena. “And they do not care whether you have passed any ballet exams or danced solo parts. They are looking for an inborn, deep talent for dancing, for musicality, artistry.”

  Dotty glanced at Aya, rolled her eyes and mouthed, “I am so glad you are here!”

  “Of course, they are looking for a certain body type too,” said Miss Helena. “Mobile arched feet, flexible joints, a beautifully held head … natural turn-out at the hips is a vital requirement for ballet. All these things will have helped you get through the preliminary rounds.”

  Aya glanced down at her reflection in the mirror. In Dotty’s old leotard, with her hair pulled back off her face, did she look like a dancer?

  “But at the final auditions they will be looking for children who truly love ballet –” Miss Helena glanced just for a second at Dotty as she said this. “– Who are willing to work – almost to slave – for the seven years of training. Who are there because it is the only thing in the world they want to do.”

  Dotty pulled another funny face like she was choking to death. Aya smiled. The thought of dancing for seven years made her feel like she did when she thought of home. But Dotty wanted to sing – to act, to do tap and modern and hip-hop…

  “The desire to dance must come from deep down inside the person who is actually going to have to work at it,” Miss Helena went on, looking at Dotty again as she spoke. “Not from anyone else – parents, teachers – it must come from you. This is what makes a ballerina truly great.”

  “But your parents also have to be able to afford the fees, right?” said Ciara.

  “Wrong. There are scholarships,” said Miss Sylvie, who had come in with some paperwork that the girls needed to sign for the school audition application. “If a student is good enough, the Royal Northern will try to support them financially.”

  “Even if they are a refugee?” Ciara said the word with such vehemence that Aya felt it like a slap in the face.

  “You realise, young lady, that I am a refugee,” said Miss Helena, quietly, surveying Ciara with an unreadable expression on her face.

  “But—”

  “Ah, you think it does not count perhaps – because I came here so many years ago,” Miss Helena went on. “Probably around the time of the Romans and the dinosaurs, yes?”

  Dotty smirked but Ciara had fallen silent.

  “I came to this country seeking refuge from a war that destroyed my home and wanted to destroy my family,” said Miss Helena. “Britain opened its arms to me and thousands of others like me.”

  “I know that, but—” Ciara started to say.

  “I am proud to call myself a refugee,” Miss Helena went on. “And Aya should be also. This country is proud to have opened its doors to the poor, the sick and the needy. The only shame is for those who now would close their hearts to those who need protection.”

  Ciara opened her mouth then closed it again.

  “Then we will hear no more talk of this. Let’s dance!”

  “That shut her up!” Dotty whispered to Aya as they made their way to the barre. But Aya glanced at Ciara and saw her tightly pursed lips and the sharp glimmer of her eyes as she started to limber up. And she was not so sure.

  The class was incredibly hard work. Miss Helena demanded absolute perfection, so every muscle, every move and line was under scrutiny. And the other two were more advanced than she was, so Aya spent a lot of time playing catch-up. But she still felt a thrilling tick of excitement; her body seemed to hum with the sheer joy of dancing again.

  At the end of the class Miss Helena talked to them about their audition dances.

  “Each girl has the chance to perform a solo,” she explained. The girls sat on the floor, Dotty attempting to retie her frayed ribbons, Ciara glancing at her own reflection in the long mirrors. It was starting to get dark outside, and the pink, late sunshine cast odd shadows across the linoleum in a way that reminded Aya of Madam Belova’s studio.

  “The dance has to reflect who you are. Where you have come from, and where you want to go – your memories, your hopes, your dreams,” Miss Helena went on. “So next time we meet I want you to bring a few objects that mean something to you.”

  “What sort of objects?” asked Dot
ty.

  “This is up to you,” said Miss Helena. “Treasured possessions, photographs. Things that show who you are. That tell your story.”

  So many of the objects Aya cared about were long-lost – back in Syria, under rubble by now, perhaps. Lost forever in a world that was gone.

  “I don’t see what that’s got to do with our audition dance,” said Ciara.

  “It has everything to do with the way you choreograph your piece,” said Miss Helena.

  “We choreograph them?” said Ciara.

  Miss Helena just smiled. “Exactly. Bring your objects to the next class. And we will weave stories, OK?”

  Chapter 20

  But Aya couldn’t make it to class the next day, or the day after that. The landlord had agreed to let them stay till the end of the month but time was running out and there was still no sign of the paperwork. And Mumma’s headache did not go away. It got so bad that if she tried to get out of bed, she felt dizzy and sick. She wouldn’t go and see a doctor, so Sally at the centre gave Aya some over-the-counter pain pills for Mumma, but they didn’t seem to make it any better.

  More days passed. Aya didn’t like to leave Mumma alone for too long. When Moosa got restless she took him down to the park, where she pushed him on the swings and spun him as fast as she could on the roundabout, practising her barre exercises by the railings while he played in the sandpit – and wondering whether it was possible to miss something so desperately that it could make you ill. Maybe that was really what had made Mumma unwell too. Homesickness.

  After a week, Mumma was thinner and more tired than Aya had ever seen her. She had barely eaten all week. She wasn’t even crying any more – as if the well of her sadness had dried her out inside.

  “I am sorry,” she said to Aya, over and over again. “I am so sorry, so sorry.”

  “It’s OK, Mumma. I don’t mind looking after you,” Aya said each time, even though she did mind – sometimes she minded desperately. Dad had told her to look after Mumma and Moosa. And she almost hated him for it. Then hated herself for feeling that way. She pushed away the thought and said again, “I don’t mind, Mumma. Really.”

  “I know it, habibti!” said Mumma, using the name Dad had always called her. As if she knew. “But I want you to have your opportunity. To have a life here.”

  “I will, Mumma,” said Aya. “Don’t worry about me. You just need to rest now – and get better. Then everything will be fine.”

  Leaving Aleppo

  In the end they left in a hurry. The government and the Russians declared a ceasefire and there were radio announcements urging rebels to surrender and civilians to quit east Aleppo.

  Mumma wasn’t well enough to move – not really. But Dad said that it was too dangerous to stay. If the government forces took the city there would be reprisals for those who remained. And this might be their only chance. Aya remembered leaving at dawn, hastily grabbing a few last possessions, stuffing her beloved pointe shoes, carefully wrapped, deep into the belly of her bag, joining the river of people making their way to the border. To safety – or so they hoped. Leaving home behind them forever.

  So many things they had to leave behind.

  Sometimes it felt as if she had left part of herself behind with them.

  Chapter 21

  That night Aya sat in the bedsit, staring at her few meagre possessions. It had been over a week since she had been to Miss Helena’s dance studio. Mumma was asleep in the chair. It had not been a good day. She had persuaded Mumma to get out of bed and go to the centre for a bit, while Aya took Moosa to the park. They were only gone for perhaps half an hour, but when they got back Mumma was upset. The landlord had been into the centre, shouting and making more threats. Mrs Massoud said Mumma had dropped a cup of tea, which had smashed, sending hot liquid all over the floor. Even though Sally had cleaned it up and told her it was nothing to worry about, nobody had been able to calm Mumma down after that. Aya had managed to get her home and made her have a shower, but she hadn’t been able to persuade her to eat, and Mumma had cried herself to sleep.

  Moosa seemed happy though. Aya had tired him out at the park, pushing him on the swings and racing him around the climbing frame, pretending to be monsters, and now he was lying on the rug, thumb in his mouth, staring at the dancing images on a second-hand portable DVD player that Sally said had once belonged to her little nephew.

  “Do you remember home, Moosie?” Aya murmured, as Moosa giggled at the antics of a dancing pig on the screen. “Do you remember any of it?”

  She glanced again at the contents of her rucksack, which she had laid out on the bed. The bareness of the room and the sparsity of her possessions seemed more glaring than ever as she ran her eyes over the scraps and fragments that were all she had left of her old life. A few bits of clothing, a couple of pictures, a toothbrush.

  If she ever made it back to the ballet class, Miss Helena had said to bring items that showed where she had come from. Did that just mean Aleppo? Or was it the refugee camps, the detention centre, the places where they had slept on the beach, and by the road, where they had crossed the border at night, crossed cities and countries on buses and boats, the endless days trapped in the dark of the container, the beach, that night on the sea… Did it mean all those places too?

  “Aya, Aya! Up!”

  Moosa teetered towards her on his little unsteady feet, clamouring to get up on the bed. Aya swept him up in her arms and he giggled, grabbing her nose and tangling his tiny fists in her hair. She laughed and held him close, smelling his warm baby smell.

  “Wherever we go, you always smell the same, Moosie!” she told him in a whisper. Sometimes she wanted to bury her nose in that smell to make the world stand still, make time stop spinning.

  She blew a raspberry on his tummy that made him giggle. Then he was reaching out towards the objects on the bed. “Dada, Dada!” he said.

  “What is it you want, little man?”

  She let him clamber down and he reached immediately for the large spotted handkerchief.

  Dad always had a handkerchief on him – large and bright and usually spotted. He had lent this one to Aya when they had caught a lift on the back of a lorry from the Turkish border to the refugee camp at Kilis. Dust had been flying everywhere, making her cough, and Dad had given her the handkerchief and told her to tie it round her mouth. “You look like a bandito!” he had said.

  Moosa reached for it now. “Dada,” he said again.

  “You remember Dada, do you?” said Aya.

  She picked up the handkerchief. Sometimes she worried that her own memories of Dad were fading. She could picture his face only in fragments – his eyes, his smile, the small scar on his chin – not all together.

  Moosa had grabbed one of the ballet shoes and was trying to put it in his mouth and Aya found herself laughing. “Not for you, monster teeth! But good choice! Those can be for my hopes and my dreams, I suppose.”

  That was two objects, but Miss Helena had told them to bring four or five. What else did she have to show who she was, where she came from?

  She picked up what looked like a small lump of rock and weighed it in her hand. This was all she had left of the street where she had grown up. A piece of rubble she had shoved in her pocket on the morning they had left – belongings hastily shoved in their packs, running for the hills, looking back on the bombed-out buildings that had once been home.

  Then she let her fingers trail over a large shell – brittle, swirled, smashed in one place. This was from the beach in Turkey. Dad had given it to her the day before…

  Moosa grabbed for the shell and she held him tight in her arms and squeezed him so he squealed.

  She put the shell aside. “Maybe you can be one of my things!” she muttered, pulling one of the tiny socks from Moosa’s podgy little feet and kissing his toes. “After all, I don’t make much sense without you!”

  But Moosa wasn’t listening. He had wriggled himself free and was sliding off the bed, pointing at
the DVD player. “Piggy!” he said in English.

  “Sure,” she said. “Let’s watch Piggy. Who knows if I’ll ever get back to Miss Helena’s class anyway.”

  So she packed away her things and then they lay together on the bed, Moosa curled up in her arms, watching Peppa Pig, dressed as a ballerina, dance in bold flashes of colour across the screen. Eventually they both fell asleep, and Aya dreamed of dancing pigs and Dad’s giant handkerchiefs and broken shells and ballet shoes, and all the scattered jigsaw puzzle pieces of who she was dropped along the journey.

  Chapter 22

  It was Mrs Massoud who got Mumma out of bed. She came round one afternoon while Aya was getting food and spoke to Mumma for a long time. Aya did not know what they spoke about, but when she returned, Mumma said, “You must not miss any more dance lessons, habibti.”

  “But you’re not well,” protested Aya. “And I don’t mind—”

  “But I do,” said Mumma, trying very hard to smile, though it did not reach her eyes. “And I can manage. Mrs Massoud will help.”

  “But Moosa? And your headaches?”

  “I will be OK.”

  Aya looked at her nervously. Mumma did not seem any better, but she did seem changed. Whatever Mrs Massoud had said to her had made a difference, because she was adamant that Aya must go back to her dancing.

  So the next day Aya returned to the audition class.

  “I’m so glad you are back!” said Dotty. “We were worried about you. I thought they’d maybe sent you home. I kept asking at the centre – everyone misses you there. I made friends with your Mr Abdul, by the way. He is so funny! I’m teaching him naughty English words and he is teaching me to tap dance. Did you know he could tap dance?”

  “Um – no.”

  “Well, he’s pretty awesome. And Mrs Massoud knows how to tango – and do the American Smooth. Mr and Mrs Massoud are the nicest people, like, ever. I wish they were my grandparents.”