The Beekeeper of Aleppo: A Moving Testament to the Human Spirit

by Christy Lefteri

  ‘You forgot about us,’ she says.

  ‘I know.’

  And then I kiss her face and her body and I feel with my lips every inch of her, every line, every scar, everything that she has seen and carried and felt. Then I rest my head on her stomach and she puts her hand on my head and strokes my hair.

  ‘Maybe we can have another child,’ I say, ‘one day. They won’t be Sami, but we will tell them everything about him.’

  ‘You won’t forget him?’ she says.

  She is silent for a while and I can feel her heartbeat in her belly.

  ‘Do you remember how he loved to play in the garden?’ I say.

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘And how he pushed that worm around in his toy truck like he was actually taking him somewhere?’

  She laughs and I do too. I can feel her laughter rippling through her body like falling coins.

  ‘And when I bought him a map of the world,’ I say, ‘and he made a family with stones and sent them out of Syria. He’d been watching Mustafa and me planning out our journey on the globe.’

  ‘And he didn’t know how to get the stones across the water! How afraid he always was of the water.’ she says.

  ‘I even had to wash his hair in the sink!’

  ‘And how about the way he always waited for you at the window when it was time for you to come home.’ And with that last word she sighs and falls asleep and her inner world softens and sounds like water.

  Early in the morning the doorbell rings. When nobody answers, it rings again and again. After a while I hear footsteps crossing the landing – they are the footsteps of the Moroccan man. He pauses at the top of the stairs and makes his way down, the floorboards creaking with each step he takes. The door opens and there is muffled conversation. It seems to be a man with a deep voice. I make my way to the top of the stairs and I hear my name, my full name, loud and clear.

  ‘Nuri Ibrahim. I am here to see Nuri Ibrahim.’

  In my pyjamas and with bare feet I go down the stairs and standing there, with the full light of the morning sun behind him, is Mustafa. And the memories flash before my eyes: his father’s house in the mountains, his grandfather spreading honey on warm bread, the paths that led us into the woods where the bees found the flowers, the shrine to his mother and that glittering smile, the way we used to stand exposed in the apiaries with the bees all around us, my father’s sad face and shrinking body, my mother with the red fan: Yuanfen – the mysterious force that causes two lives to cross paths – and our apiaries, the open field full of light, thousands of bees, employees smoking the colonies, the meals beneath the canopies – it all flashes before my eyes as if I am about to take my last breath.

  ‘Nuri,’ he says simply, and his voice shakes. And that’s when I begin to sob, my body shaking, and I think that I will never stop, and I feel Mustafa moving, coming over to me, resting his hand on my shoulder, a strong grip, and then he embraces me and he carries the smells of an unknown place.

  ‘I knew you would come,’ he says. ‘I knew you would get here.’

  Then he steps back to look at me, and through my blurred vision I see that his eyes are brimming with tears, and that his face is paler than before and older, the lines around his eyes and mouth much deeper, his hair more grey. And there we both stand, battered by life, two men, brothers, finally reunited in a world that is not our home. The Moroccan man stands to one side of us, watching this scene. I notice him now, the sad look in his eyes, the way he is winding his fingers around one another as if he does not know what else to do.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he says in his own Arabic. ‘Where have you come from? It must have been a long journey.’

  ‘I have come from Yorkshire,’ Mustafa says, ‘in the north of England; I took the night coach. But I have travelled much further than that.’

  I lead Mustafa into the living room and we sit in silence for a while – Mustafa on the edge of the armchair, wringing his hands, me on the sofa. I see that he is looking out into the garden and then at me. He opens his mouth to speak but then remains silent, until we both talk at the same time.

  ‘How have you been, Nuri?’ he asks.

  ‘You will be coming, won’t you?’ He sounds anxious.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Because I can’t do it on my own – it’s not the same.’

  ‘If I made it this far,’ I say, ‘then I will make it to Yorkshire.’

  ‘When do you find out?’ he says, and, ‘You said in your email that you’re not well?’

  Just then there are footsteps in the hallway and Afra appears, standing motionless in the doorway. Mustafa’s eyes light up, and he rises, at first to take her hand in his and then he puts his arms around her and holds her for a long time. I hear her exhale, as if Mustafa’s presence has lifted a heaviness in her heart.

  It’s a warm day so we go out into the courtyard.

  ‘I can see the green of the tree,’ Afra says, her eyes smiling. ‘And over there –’ she points to the heather plant by the fence – ‘I can see a soft pink. There are times when things are clearer.’

  Mustafa is happy for her. He is reacting in all the ways that I couldn’t. The Moroccan man brings out the tea and Mustafa tells us about his beehives.

  ‘Afra,’ he says, ‘you will like it there. Dahab and Aya are waiting for you, and there are so many flowers, lavender and heather fields, and the bees also collect nectar from private gardens and allotments and along the train tracks. You will be able to see the colours – I will take you myself; we will walk when it is warm and I will take you to the places where the bees go. And we have found a shop that sells halva and baklava!’ He speaks with the enthusiasm of a child again, but I can detect an undertone of desperation – I know him, and what he is really saying is this: This is how the story must end; our hearts can bear no more loss.

  Then he lights a cigarette, biting and sucking the end of it while he tells us about the workshop groups and his students and about the beekeepers’ association.

  ‘When you come, Nuri will help me with the groups, and we will split the colonies and build new hives.’ He glances over at me as he talks, as he creates pictures with his hands and his words. He wants to give me something to hope for, I can tell. Mustafa has always given me something to hope for.

  I am standing a little away from them by the glass doors, watching them, and I think about the little boy who never existed and how he had filled the black void that Sami had left. Sometimes we create such powerful illusions, so that we do not get lost in the darkness.

  ‘One day,’ I hear Mustafa say. ‘One day we will go back to Aleppo and rebuild the apiaries and bring the bees back to life.’

  But it is Afra’s face that brings me to life, standing here in this tiny garden like she stood in Mustafa’s courtyard in Aleppo, her eyes so full of sadness and hope, so full of darkness and light.

  She is looking up at something. Among the blossoms of the cherry tree, three hoopoe birds perch on a branch, checking out their surroundings, with their majestic crown of feathers and curved beaks and stripy wings. Here they are, migrants from the east, in this small town by the sea.

  ‘Do you see them?’ I hear her say. ‘They have come to find us!’

  We are all looking up now, and, all at once, they open their black and white wings and set off together into the unbroken sky.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to all the people who told me their stories; the refugees who opened my eyes. Thanks to the beautiful children at Faros who showed me what real courage means. I will never forget you. To Faros Hope Centre in Athens, for the wonderful work you do, and for welcoming me and accepting my help. Thank you Elias, for sharing the story of your difficult journey with me that day in Brighton. Thank you Professor Ryad Alsous, for being such an inspiration; to you and your family, for the lovely meal we had, and for introducing me to the bees and The Buzz Project. Thank you to my Arabic tutor, Ibrahim Othman, you went above and be
yond, listening to me read, and offering invaluable advice.

  Thank you to all my family, friends and colleagues who supported and encouraged me to continue to write. To Dad and Yiota, Kyri and Mario, for your unending support. To Marie, Rodney and Theo, Athina and Kyriacos, for everything – there are no words. To Antony and Maria Nicola, for your suggestions. To my great friend, Claire Bord, for your insight, advice and constant support. To Mariana Larios for being there through it all. Thanks to Louis Evangelou, for listening to me and for all your creative ideas, and to my uncle Chris for your patience and help. Thank you to Dr Rose Atfield and Celia Brayfield for being brilliant mentors to this day. To Bernadine Evaristo, Matt Thorne, and Daljit Nagra, for your support. Thank you Richard English, for the great conversations about writing and life and all that stuff. Thank you to my family who helped me in Athens – Anthoula, Thanassis, Katerina and Konstantinos Cavda, Maria and Alexis Pappa, for your warmth and generous hospitality. Thank you Matthew Hurt for the advice you gave me on the flight to Athens. A big thank you to Salma Kasmani for reading and re-reading the manuscript, for your excellent suggestions, and for the insight you gave me. Thank you, Stewart, for being there through the twists and turns, the ups and downs.

  Thank you to my publishers at Bonnier Zaffre, especially to Kate Parkin, for all your unwavering passion, your enthusiasm, for everything. To Margaret Stead, Felice McKeown, Francesca Russell and Perminder Mann. Thank you Arzu Tahsin for your sharp editor’s eye and editorial suggestions.

  And, finally, thank you to my agent, Marianne Gunn O’Connor, for believing in me, for never letting me give up, for your love and support and for this journey we have been on. Thank you Vicki Satlow, for all your help and for bringing light and honey and flowers to the darkness. Thank you Alison Walsh, for your advice on the manuscript.

  All the experiences I had along the way, the people I met, the things I saw and heard, have changed the way I see the world, forever.

  IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO KNOW MORE ABOUT CHRISTY AND HER BOOKS, WHY NOT JOIN THE CHRISTY LEFTERI READERS’ CLUB BY VISITING WWW.BEEKEEPEROFALEPPO.COM?

  READ ON FOR A LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR, READING GROUP QUESTIONS, A MAP OF NURI AND AFRA’S JOURNEY AND USEFUL INFORMATION ON SOME CHARITIES IN THE UK AND EUROPE WHO WORK WITH REFUGEES AND ASYLUM SEEKERS

  Dear Reader,

  In the summer of 2016, and again in 2017, I found myself in Athens, working as a volunteer in a refugee centre. Every day, new people were flooding into Greece, families, lost and afraid, mostly from Syria and Afghanistan. The experience of being there for these people, during the most horrific circumstances of their lives, opened my eyes.

  I began to realise that people wanted to tell their stories, there were language barriers, but they wanted to speak, they wanted others to hear, to see. The children drew pictures. They would draw balloons and trees, and below them a tent and a dead body. I was disturbed by these images and by the stories. But it was their reality; it was what they had experienced.

  I returned to London, and I hoped that the horror of what I had seen and heard would fade, but it didn’t. I couldn’t forget any of it. And so I decided that I would write a novel as a way of telling the stories of these children, these families.

  The question I kept asking myself was what does it mean to see? And so Afra came to life, a woman who has seen her son die, and who has been blinded by the explosion that killed him. Then I met a man who had once been a beekeeper in Syria. He had found his way to the UK and was building beehives and teaching refugees about beekeeping. Bees are a symbol of vulnerability and life and hope. My protagonist, Nuri, was once a proud father and a beekeeper. Now, he is trying to connect with his shattered wife, Afra, seeking her in the dark tunnels of her grief, but she will not leave Aleppo, she is frozen in her grief. Nuri knows that they must leave in order to survive. It is only when they allow themselves to see, to feel the presence and love of one another, that they can start to make the journey towards survival and renewal.

  The Beekeeper of Aleppo is a work of fiction. But Nuri and Afra developed in my heart and mind as a result of every step I took beside the children and the families who made it to Greece. I have written a story as a way of revealing the way we are with the people we care about most in the world when we have suffered so much loss. The Beekeeper of Aleppo is about profound loss, but it is also about love and finding light. This is what I saw and heard and felt on the streets and camps in Athens.

  Christy Lefteri

  Reading Group Questions

  What do you think are the main themes of the novel?

  What impact does the war have on the lives of the main characters?

  Do you agree with Afra’s need to remain in Syria at the beginning of the novel? What might this suggest about her state of mind?

  Which of the two characters seem stronger at the start of the novel? Does this impression change by the end?

  Are there similarities and differences in the way in which Nuri and Afra deal with the obstacles they face?

  What do you think the author’s intentions were by introducing the character of Mohammed? What could the relationship between Nuri and Mohammed reveal about Nuri’s state of mind?

  What do you think the bees and beekeeping represent and symbolise in the story?

  At the end of the novel Nuri says, ‘Mustafa has always given me something to hope for.’ To what extent does Mustafa influence the decisions that Nuri makes in his life and during his journey with Afra? In what ways might the friendship between the two men give the reader something to hope for?

  It is because of Mustafa that Nuri strives to reach the UK. Why do you think Nuri does not make contact with Mustafa as soon as he arrives?

  Nuri contributes to the murder of Nadim. Do you condemn or agree with his actions?

  Do you consider Nuri to be a strong or weak man?

  Which character do you think changes the most during the course of the novel?

  Why do you think Nuri finds it so difficult to make emotional and physical contact with Afra?

  What might Afra’s blindness reveal about her state of mind?

  We never really meet Sami, but in what way do we learn about his character and the type of boy he was?

  How does Nuri and Afra’s relationship change during the course of the novel?

  At the end of the story Afra says to Nuri, ‘You think it’s me who can’t see.’ What do you think she means by this? And how far do you agree with what she says?

  Which character in the novel do you think displays the greatest emotional resilience?

  What do you think happens after the end of the novel?

  Can reading a novel about the experience of refugees offer a different perspective or have a different emotional impact to that of the media and news bulletins?

  If you would like to be more involved, please see the below information about some smaller charities in the UK and Europe who work with refugees and asylum seekers at a local level.

  * * *

  Open Cultural Center is an NGO and informal education & integration project in North Greece. They work to create community, reduce isolation, and develop skills for displaced people in Nea Kavala camp and the surrounding area. Their team of refugee and non-refugee volunteers work together to provide language lessons, sports, and social/cultural activities for children, adolescents and adults.

  Learn more about their work at:

  www.openculturalcenter.org

  * * *

  Faros (The Lighthouse) is a Christian non-profit organization that provides humanitarian care and individual support to unaccompanied refugee children and young adults in the centre of Athens. They help unaccompanied children and young adults find safety, discover their worth, and build a future perspective. They do street work to identify vulnerable minors, run a shelter for minors and provide skills development training (design, wood work, 3D printing, electronics, sewing) in their two educational centres for young men and women.

  Learn more ab
out their work at:

  www.faros.org.gr

  * * *

  Salusbury World is a grass-roots charity supporting refugees of all ages to rebuild their lives in the UK. In 2019, it is celebrating 20 years of painstaking work, much of it with children who have gone on to achieve great things. Based in north-west London, they provide clubs, mentoring and more for children and young people, and careers advice, guidance and practical support for new arrivals of all ages. Working with schools and creative arts organizations, Salusbury World also seeks to challenge prejudice and build understanding across communities.

  Learn more about their work at:

  www.salusburyworld.org.uk

  * * *

  The Buzz Project at the Standedge Tunnel Visitors Centre, Marsden, West Yorkshire, is a charity organisation founded in 2017 and led by apiarist Professor Ryad Alsous. Himself a refugee, Professor Alsous was a beekeeper in his native Syria for more than forty years, and taught modern beekeeping and food quality control at Damascus University. The Buzz Project teaches refugees and jobseekers and aims to save native British bees in the UK. Alongside a team of dedicated volunteers, he brings his skills to the project, teaching the young people to keep bees, tend to a growing garden of flowers and vegetables, and make honey.