A House Without Walls

by Elizabeth Laird

  ‘Well, I do care. And you know what, Safiya, it’s up to you and me now to – I don’t know – take charge. Baba’s lost it. He’s just not there any more.’

  ‘He’ll come back. He’ll get better.’

  I sounded more hopeful than I felt.

  ‘He might. He might not. People don’t always.’

  We’d reached the main road and turned left off the track on to the stony path that ran alongside the tarmac. A convoy of military trucks rumbled past. They were so noisy that we had to stop talking. When they’d gone, Tariq said, ‘And Lamia . . .’

  ‘Don’t even talk to me about Lamia. She’s a horrible little brat!’

  Tariq pretended to back away.

  ‘Oo! Scary Safiya! You can’t stand her, can you?’

  ‘No, I can’t. And you know what? It’s a shame. I’d have loved to have a little sister, since I can’t have my own twin. But Lamia! She makes digs all the time, about how we’re so poor now, and things about Baba and you. You wouldn’t believe some of the nasty things she’s said.’

  ‘I would, actually. I’ve heard her. You’ve been great, the way you haven’t answered back.’

  He’d grown taller than me recently, and I had to look up to see his face.

  ‘Hey, big brother,’ I said, trying not to show how pleased I was. ‘This is a surprise. I thought I was beneath your notice.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said grandly. ‘I see more than you think.’

  We’d reached the strip of shops by now that lined the main road. I pushed open the door of the food shop.

  ‘So what does madam want this time?’ Tariq said, following me inside.

  ‘Cucumbers and a big bunch of parsley,’ I said. ‘And that’s for starters.’

  I led the way to the vegetable section.

  ‘And mind it’s fresh,’ I said, imitating Aunt Zainab’s voice. ‘The stuff they had last week . . .’

  ‘Shh!’ Tariq interrupted, laughing at me. ‘You sound too like her. Someone’ll recognize her voice if you’re not careful.’

  We walked back in a friendly silence. Once inside, I put the shopping bags down on the kitchen table.

  ‘Where have you been all this time?’ Aunt Zainab said crossly. ‘There’s a huge load of washing to hang out. I can’t be expected to do all the work around here.’

  I shut my eyes and counted to ten.

  ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Zainab. We went as quickly as we could.’

  ‘You silly girl!’ she said, tutting with annoyance. ‘I told you to go to Abu Ali’s on the corner! You never listen, do you?’

  I wanted to turn round and storm out, but then I caught sight of Tariq, who was still standing at the kitchen door. He was making a face at Aunt Zainab’s back and mouthing, You never listen, do you?

  I stifled a giggle and swallowed my anger. I had an ally now and it felt as if the sun had broken through a big black cloud.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Baba and Uncle Yasser were as different as fire and water. Baba was brilliant with brainy things but he was hopelessly impractical. Uncle Yasser was a businessman, who had started with nothing and built himself up. He was good with his hands and liked solving technical problems.

  Uncle Yasser seemed a bit awestruck by Baba at first, maybe because he hadn’t had much education himself. I was afraid he might start despising Baba when he saw how helpless and depressed he’d become, but he just became kinder and more protective.

  The three of us, Baba, Tariq and I, all felt bad about staying with Uncle Yasser and Aunt Zainab for so long. Baba kept worrying away at it.

  ‘You’ve been too good to us, Yasser,’ he’d say. ‘We’ve been here for a month! It’s hard on you and Zainab.’

  ‘No, no, Adnan,’ Uncle Yasser would answer earnestly. ‘We’re honoured that you came to us. Be’izn Allah. It’s God’s will.’

  But as the weeks went past, his answers began to sound less sincere.

  It was Baba who brought up the subject of a tent.

  ‘I’ve seen them all over the place,’ he said. ‘There’s no reason why we shouldn’t move into one. Just until I get back on my feet. Honestly, Yasser, it would be better for all of us.’

  It was a warm evening and they were sitting on a couple of white plastic chairs outside the front door as they talked. I was in the kitchen with Aunt Zainab and could hear every word. I could even hear the click of Uncle Yasser’s worry beads as he let them slip through his fingers.

  ‘That’s a dreadful idea, Adnan!’ he said. ‘I won’t hear of it! What would everyone say?’

  I turned round and caught sight of Aunt Zainab’s face. She’d been listening eagerly too.

  She can’t wait to get rid of us, I thought. Uncle Yasser won’t be able to stand up to her.

  I shivered at the thought of living in a tent. It was scary and embarrassing. We’d be like the poorest of the poor, down at the bottom of the heap. But, after a few moments’ panic, I began to think what it would mean. I wouldn’t be under Aunt Zainab’s thumb any more. Our family would have our own space and I wouldn’t have to share a bedroom with Lamia.

  Tariq had come into the kitchen. I could see that he’d been listening too. I gave him a little nod. He went outside to join the men.

  ‘I couldn’t help hearing what you were saying, Uncle Yasser,’ he said. ‘I think a tent’s a great idea. So does Safiya. We’d manage fine on our own. We’ve, we’ve –’ he paused, fishing around for the right thing to say – ‘we’ve trespassed on your hospitality long enough.’

  ‘No, no! I won’t hear of it!’ said Uncle Yasser, sounding upset. ‘Please, let’s change the subject.’

  ‘Give it a week,’ Tariq whispered to me later that evening. ‘Aunt Zainab’ll persuade him. You’ll see.’

  That night I couldn’t sleep, thinking about the tent. Camping holidays had been fun in Syria. Before the war had started, Farah’s family had gone to Palmyra, a beautiful, ancient city in the desert. They’d lit fires, sat out under the stars, slept in tents, then ridden on camels to the ruins as dawn turned the old stones pink. She’d shown me all the photos on her phone.

  Palmyra had been blown to rubble now. It gave me an ache to think about it.

  Anyway, our tent won’t be a bit like those fancy tourist ones, I told myself.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tariq was right. Uncle Yasser gave in about the tent exactly a week later. He felt bad about it, I could tell.

  ‘I’ll see to it all,’ he assured Baba. ‘I’ll pitch it right next to the house in that fenced-off bit.’

  ‘But that’s where they used to keep goats,’ I whispered to Tariq. ‘It stinks.’

  Tariq was excited at the thought of the tent. He wasn’t bothered by a bit of goat poo.

  ‘We’ll clean it up,’ was all he said. ‘Think about it, Safiya, we’ll be inside a proper fence. On our own! It’s the best thing, really.’

  Uncle Yasser did all the practical things himself, getting hold of the tent, putting it up and installing a water tank and a chemical toilet. He and Tariq spent a long time sweeping the ground, though it still smelt when they’d finished. While they were working, Baba went round the rough fence, checking to see how easy it would be for anyone to break through the ramshackle bits of corrugated iron, uprooted thorn bushes and plastic sheeting. The fence had been strong enough to keep goats in. He wanted to see if it would keep men out.

  On the third day, when the tent was nearly ready to move into, Uncle Yasser brought in some rolled-up mats for the floor and three thin mattresses, which he laid round the edges of the tent, along with some pillows and bedding.

  ‘And I’ve got some good news for you,’ he said heartily. ‘I’ve spoken to the director of the boys’ school. He says he’ll make room for Tariq. The new term starts next week. I’ll get the uniform sorted out for him too.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Yasser!’ said Baba warmly. ‘The children’s education is what’s been worrying me most.’

  Tariq grinned delightedly, but
then he caught my eye.

  ‘What about Safiya, Uncle?’ he said. ‘She needs to go to school too.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Uncle Yasser looked uncomfortable. ‘We – I mean, your aunt – contacted the girls’ school and they said that the Eighth Grade class is full. Maybe next year, eh, Safiya?’

  It felt like a kick in the stomach. What was I going to do if I couldn’t go to school? Didn’t my education matter too? What sort of future would I have without it?

  ‘Please, Uncle Yasser,’ I said desperately, ‘couldn’t you ask them again?’

  But he was already hurrying out of the tent.

  I don’t believe Aunt Zainab asked the school at all, I thought furiously. She wants to keep me as her servant.

  ‘Baba, can’t you do anything?’ I pleaded.

  He shook his head sadly.

  ‘What can I do? Be patient, Safiya. You can make it up later. When the war ends and the government changes, maybe we can all go home to Syria.’

  He didn’t believe it, and neither did I. I ran out of the tent, swallowing tears, and bumped into Uncle Yasser, who was coming back in, carrying a big cardboard box.

  ‘Your aunt says you can have these,’ he said, ‘and she said to tell you that you’ll be welcome to eat with us tonight. No need to start cooking yet, eh, Safiya?’

  My stomach dropped with fright. It hadn’t occurred to me that I was expected to cook for us myself. I opened the box. It was full of old pots and dishes that had been stacked at the back of Aunt Zainab’s cupboard.

  The men went outside and I was left alone in the tent. I looked around. The canvas walls were grey and dusty. The mats were old and stained, and the mattresses had ugly rust-coloured covers on them.

  Farah will be doing maths with Mrs Farida at this very moment, I thought, swallowing a lump in my throat. It was painful thinking about Farah. Had she been angry with me when I’d disappeared without sending her a goodbye message? Did she think I didn’t care?

  She’s probably forgotten all about me, I thought. Anyway, I expect she’s got another best friend now.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I hardly slept a wink that first night in the tent. There were too many strange noises. The canvas creaked, cars hooted on the road nearby and voices shouted in the distance. It felt weird too, to be sleeping in the same room as Baba and Tariq.

  I must have fallen asleep at last because I started dreaming. I was in the sitting room of our old flat and in the corner there was a door I’d never noticed before. I opened it and saw a girl right there in front of me. Twelve years old. Thick brown hair. Heavy eyebrows. The same middling height as me. Slim, like me.

  ‘Saba!’ I called out. ‘Where have you been all this time?’

  She turned and walked away without answering. A moment later, she was lost in a sort of hazy mist and I couldn’t see her any more.

  ‘Come back!’ I called out. ‘Don’t go!’

  I tried to follow her, but the door swung shut in my face. And then I woke up.

  ‘I dreamed about Saba last night,’ I said to Tariq as I poured out the tea I’d made for breakfast.

  ‘Did you?’ he asked curiously. ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Like me, of course!’

  ‘That’s what I was afraid of. Hey, don’t look like that! I was joking!’

  Just like me, I thought. A person out there who’s just like me. My twin! I could never lose her, like I’ve lost Farah. If only I could find her again! She’d be my other self. My friend for life!

  ‘Baba, where is Saba?’ I asked. ‘Do you still not know?’

  ‘Yes, and Uncle Hassan!’ said Tariq eagerly. ‘He’s got a good job, hasn’t he? Can’t you tell him what’s happened to us? He’s Mama’s own brother. He’d help us.’

  Baba shook his head.

  ‘It’s not that easy.’

  ‘Why? What’s not easy?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know where he is! When they first moved to America, they were in Seattle, but then Hassan changed jobs and email addresses. He sent me his new one, but it must have been wrong, because when I wrote to him my message bounced back. I’d had a brush with the police by then and I was sure my emails were being intercepted, so I changed my own address. We lost touch.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have contacted his company?’ asked Tariq.

  ‘Yes, of course, but I was already under suspicion and Askil International is a Middle Eastern company. I didn’t want to make things difficult for him.’

  ‘But isn’t it different, now we’re here in Jordan?’ I asked him. ‘Aren’t we out of reach of – them?’

  Even the thought of the mukhabarat made me shudder.

  ‘The thing is,’ Baba said reluctantly, ‘that we – Hassan and I – we made an agreement at the time. Your aunt Israa insisted. She – she’s a very difficult woman.’

  Tariq frowned.

  ‘What do you mean, Baba? What agreement?’

  ‘Being a lawyer in Syria has always had its dangers. You know that. Israa is much too protective of Saba. She’s convinced she’s delicate and can’t stand any shocks. She was sure that if Saba knew that her father was in any kind of danger she’d be emotionally traumatized.’

  ‘Sounds as if Saba’s spoiled rotten,’ Tariq said disapprovingly.

  Baba ignored him.

  ‘I think the real reason is that Israa’s terrified of losing Saba. She thinks that if she knows about us she’ll demand to come back and live with us and Israa will lose her altogether.’

  Tariq laughed incredulously.

  ‘That’s a joke! Who’d want to live in this dump?’

  I was still trying to understand.

  ‘You don’t – you can’t mean that Saba doesn’t know about us, Baba? About me? That we’re twins?’

  ‘Actually, she doesn’t.’ Baba was looking more and more uncomfortable. ‘She thinks that Hassan and Israa are her real parents.’

  ‘That’s terrible!’ I burst out. ‘She has a right to know about me! I’m her twin!’

  ‘And I’m her father,’ said Baba, raising his hands despairingly. ‘It’s been so painful – agonizing – for me, the decisions I’ve had to make, since your mother . . . And look at the situation we’re in now! How would that poor child feel, knowing that her family, her real family, were reduced to . . . to . . .’

  And then the worst thing happened. He cried. He turned his head away from us, but I’d seen tears rolling down his cheeks. Tariq and I looked at each other, too shocked to speak.

  ‘Saba’s lost to us, then,’ I said at last, and my voice came out in a wail.

  ‘She needn’t be,’ Tariq said defiantly. ‘Think about it. It’s easy to find people nowadays. What was the name of the company Uncle Hassan works for again?

  ‘Askil International.’

  ‘Well then, all we have to do is contact their head office, explain the situation, ask . . .’

  Baba shook his head violently, as if he was shaking off the tears.

  ‘Weren’t you listening to me, Tariq?’ he said angrily. ‘I made an agreement, most unwillingly, but I made it. Can’t you see that if Hassan and Israa knew how – how wretched all this is, they’d want to protect Saba from us even more?’

  ‘You think she’d be ashamed of us, Baba,’ I burst out. ‘But she wouldn’t be! She’s my twin! I know what she’d feel!’

  Baba turned his furious face on me.

  ‘Menshan Allah, Safiya! Can’t you see that I’d be the one who’d be ashamed for my daughter to see us as we are now?’

  He jumped up and ran out of the tent.

  I wanted to shout after him, She wouldn’t be ashamed of us! She’s me and I’m her!

  Something changed in me that day. Saba had always been there, a shadowy figure, more imagined than real. I hadn’t ever wondered why we’d had no contact with her. It had been one of those facts of life that in my childish way I’d accepted without question, vaguely assuming that we’d meet one day, when she came back from America.<
br />
  Anyway, I had Farah, I thought. She was like my sister. Almost like a twin.

  But Farah had gone. And now I seemed to have lost Saba too, perhaps forever.

  A red tide of revolt rose up inside me.

  ‘You’re wrong, Baba,’ I muttered. ‘I’m not going to let you keep us apart. I’m going to find Saba, and bring her back to our family, and no one’s going to stop me!’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Aunt Zainab was nicer to us once we’d moved out. For the first week she sent Uncle Yasser over with some supper, then she let me know that it was time I stood on my own two feet. She gave me a starter stock of rice, oil, tomato puree, tea and sugar, and told me to get on with it.

  The only thing I knew how to make was pasta with tomato sauce, but it was horribly difficult doing it on one little gas burner outside by the water tank where I’d made a sort of kitchen space. I had to squat on the ground because we didn’t have a table, and cut up the onions on a plate with a blunt knife.

  One afternoon I was washing Baba’s shirts in the bucket by the water tank when I heard Lamia call my name. I groaned inside.

  She pushed open the battered corrugated-iron gate, marched across the few metres of open ground and walked right into the tent. Lamia thought she was Bilqis Queen of Sheba and I was her lowly slave.

  ‘Mama says you’ve got to come at once,’ she said, standing there in her new flouncy dress, wrinkling her nose at the shirts waiting to be washed. ‘Why don’t you clean up, Safiya? This place is a mess.’

  She didn’t wait for an answer, but dashed off, leaving the gate open, the big white bow at the back of her head bouncing as she went.

  ‘Mama says you’ve got to come at once,’ I repeated under my breath. ‘Thank you very much, Princess Lamia.’

  I finished washing the shirts and hung them up on the washing line to dry. I wasn’t going to hurry.

  Our tent was at the side of the house, and when I went round the corner to the steps in the front I heard voices in the kitchen. Aunt Zainab’s sister, Um Salim, had come to visit.