Without Refuge

by Jane Mitchell

  between her men. I’m a little comforted that she’s

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  awake, even though she’s a stranger. She doesn’t move, but her voice is clear and soft. She glances

  toward Ali and Musab. When she hears them snore,

  she turns back to me.

  “Think about where to go tomorrow,” she says.

  “It’s more difficult on your own.”

  I hold my breath. I nod to let her know I’ve heard

  her, but I’m afraid to speak in case my feelings spill

  out of me and I lose control. We sit in silence until

  her eyes close. I squeeze my eyes shut to keep out the

  dark night. I try not to think.

  I don’t sleep at all. I open my eyes again when the

  sky pales in the east. There are still stars in the dark side. My eyes are gritty and sore, as though full of

  sand. My lips are dry and chapped. I’m freezing cold,

  deep in my bones. I stay as still as possible: as soon as I move, I’ll start to shiver and I’m afraid that I won’t be able to stop.

  The man and his wife are still asleep. Their son

  nods to me, then stares with red-rimmed eyes at

  nothing in particular. He looks as wretched as I feel.

  Ali and Musab sit together, talking quietly.

  Musab comes to hunker next to me. His eyes are

  bloodshot. The corners of his mouth are cracked.

  “Your feet are hurt, Ghalib,” he says.

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  “I got burned.” My voice is dry and strange. I swallow, but my mouth holds no moisture.

  “Ali has a scarf,” says Musab. “I’ll bind them for

  you before we go. Will you travel on with us today?”

  I only want to go back to my family, but I know

  it’s not possible. “Where are you going?”

  “Ankara.”

  I stare at him. “Ankara’s far away.”

  “We won’t get there for many days—weeks

  even—but we have cousins expecting us there.”

  “My family will look for me when they cross the

  border,” I say.

  “Then Ankara is the place to go,” says Musab.

  “Every Syrian heads for Ankara. It’s easy to travel

  to, and a major city. Your family will know to find

  you there.”

  I never heard Baba talk about Ankara, but then

  I never listened when he talked of where we would

  go in Turkey. I wish Bushra was here. She would

  remember.

  “We can talk about it later,” Musab says. “I’ll get

  the scarf for your feet.”

  We have nothing to eat or drink, and little to

  carry. As soon as everyone is awake, and my feet

  are bound, we walk on. I’m scared to travel farther

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  from the border and my family, but I can’t stay in the hills another night. I need water, food, warmth.

  I shiver with cold for the first half hour, until my

  blood gets moving and the sun crests the hills. We all

  walk more slowly than yesterday because everyone is

  tired and thirsty, and there are no guards chasing us.

  The family is in front, then Ali, while Musab falls

  into step with me at the back.

  “Ali and I work with a resistance movement in

  Ankara,” Musab says. “We fight the Turks.” He

  looks at me. “You’re Kurdish?”

  There are Syrians who want Kurds to be thrown

  out of Syria. There are Syrians who blame Kurds for

  the war, for rebel strikes on schools and hospitals, for lots of bad things happening all over Syria. Sometimes it isn’t safe to say you’re Kurdish. This might

  be one of those times.

  But Musab doesn’t wait for me to answer. He

  nods as though I’ve already replied. Maybe he under-

  stands why I say nothing.

  “We work with Syrian Kurds,” he says. “Mem-

  bers of the People’s Protection Units.”

  This is news to me. Why would soldiers like

  Mahmoud and Dima want to go to Ankara? There’s

  so much work for them in Kobani. In Syria.

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  “Kurds are everywhere.” Musab says it like it’s a good thing. “You could work with us too. Help your

  people to build the resistance.”

  Ali joins us.

  “Turkey sends airstrikes to bomb Syrian Kurds,”

  he says. “Did you know that?”

  I don’t reply right away. I get confused about

  who’s sending planes and helicopters and airstrikes

  and barrel bombs. It seems to change every day.

  Inside Syria, there are rebel groups and pro-gov-

  ernment soldiers and regional forces. Outside Syria,

  lots of different countries are involved: Russia and

  the UK, Saudi Arabia and France, Iran, the United

  States. And now Turkey.

  “I think so,” I say at last. Bushra would be furious

  if she heard my hesitant tone. I hear her voice in my

  head, chiding me for not knowing better.

  “Our resistance movement fights Turkish plans

  to bomb Syria,” Ali says. “Some of our brothers have

  already gone to Ankara.”

  Musab and Ali remind me of Dima and Mahmoud.

  If I refuse to go with them, will they cut my throat?

  “I’m only thirteen,” I say.

  “You’re strong and brave—we saw that yesterday

  when you broke through the border,” Musab says.

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  “I’m not strong or brave.” I want to say I’m frightened and confused. I wish yesterday had never

  happened.

  “We need boys like you to run messages and

  deliver information to help Syria,” Ali says. “In time,

  we would teach you to do more important work.”

  “You’ll be safe with us,” Musab says. “You’ll

  have somewhere safe to sleep and good food.”

  I need somewhere safe to sleep, instead of an

  empty hillside with no shelter. My belly rumbles at

  the mention of food. This is a generous offer. I don’t

  have any other choices.

  “What about my family?”

  “As soon as your family arrives, you’re free to go

  with them,” Ali says. “You’re young. You need your

  family. But until they get here, you can stay with us.

  We’ll teach you skills to fight the Turks.”

  At last we reach a place where the goat trail winds

  close to the main road. We decide to continue on the

  empty road. A steep channel drops down from the

  trail. The family man is first to clamber down. He

  slips on loose dirt and gravel. He snatches at rocks

  and weeds. He slides and blunders down a vertical

  part, finally stumbling out at the roadside. He waves

  his wife forward.

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  If the man was awkward, his wife is ten times worse. It takes her half a dozen tries to even get

  going. She grabs her son’s hand as she takes her

  first step and almost pulls him after her. She slips

  and tumbles. She gives a little shriek. I think she’s

  going to crash headfirst, but she plonks herself

  onto the dirt and slides down on her backside in a

  cloud of dust and a scattering of pebbles. The man

  helps her to her feet. She brushes off the dirt and

  rearranges her scarf. When his turn comes, their

  son takes long strides. He even manages to keep

  his balance at the last straight-dow
n part and to

  end with a run.

  It’s my turn. I stand at the top of the cutting. It’s

  steep and long, ending at a narrow bend between

  rocks, then that short vertical drop. My heart skips a

  beat. My head is light and my lips are dry.

  “Come on, boy,” says the family man. “We don’t

  have all day.” I flicker my gaze toward him. Impa-

  tience is etched on his face.

  I keep my balance for the first part, grabbing

  weeds and bushes. Thorns pierce beneath my nails.

  Shale is loose under my feet. Then the scarf on my

  feet slides inside my sandals. I’m out of control. I

  slither and crash. I slam into the rock face. The

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  ground beneath me drops away and I plummet.

  I cry out.

  My shout is cut short by a thud that knocks

  me senseless.

  ---

  “Open your eyes, Ghalib,” a voice says.

  I’m lying on gravel at the side of the road. The

  sun dazzles. Musab looks down at me.

  “He’s alive,” he says.

  His voice sounds like he is speaking through a

  tunnel. My belly is sick. My face feels like it’s been

  pounded with rocks. Musab helps me sit up. He

  hands me a cloth to press to my bloody nose and split

  lip. My head throbs with its own heartbeat.

  “Take your time,” he says. “You knocked your-

  self out.”

  I look at my scraped knuckles. My jeans are torn,

  and through the gaping holes I see grazed shins. The

  rest of the group sits in the shade, watching. They say

  nothing, but the woman nods and I realize the cloth

  I’m holding to my nose is a headscarf. She must have

  given me a spare one. Musab helps me clamber to my

  feet. The family man stands up.

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  “We move on,” he says.

  I stumble after them. The woman hovers close by

  and, though she doesn’t say anything, I like having

  her near. Musab and Ali walk ahead with the man

  and his son. We stay in the shade whenever possible,

  as the sun is high and hot. My lips are parched; the

  split has dried and cracked. My mouth feels swollen.

  Reyhanli seems such a long way away. Every step is

  tougher. I stumble over rocks and brush. I feel dizzy

  and sick.

  Slowly, the hills around us change their shape

  and fabric.

  There are crops, animals grazing on the slopes,

  workers in distant fields. We pass small sheds off the

  side of the road. Farm tools and sacks of feed lean

  against the walls.

  “We need water,” Ali says.

  He finds a little well behind of one of the small-

  holdings where clear water trickles into a stone

  trough. We scoop it into our hands. Water has never

  tasted so sweet and looked so bright. I drink until my

  belly aches. I sluice its coldness over my face, clean

  off the dried blood, wet my cracked lips. The water

  stings my knuckles. I rinse out the woman’s scarf and

  offer it to her.

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  “Keep it,” she says.

  I soak the scarf and hang it around my neck.

  As we leave the yard, my world has steadied again.

  We see locals working in the fields who straighten

  up to stare at us. We pass holdings and farmhouses,

  dogs that bark and take little runs to scare us off

  their territory. The family throws stones at them.

  We pass a group of children who throw stones at us.

  We round a bend in the road and, in the distance,

  the Syrian flag flaps and fights in a warm breeze

  curving down the valley. I stare. I rub my gritty

  eyes. We’re in Turkey yet here is my country’s flag

  flying high and proud.

  “Reyhanli Refugee Camp,” the family man says.

  At a junction on the road, a rusted signpost points

  left to Reyhanli. On a plank of wood propped on the

  dirt bank, someone has painted Little Syria. An arrow points right. The family man looks at the brothers.

  “This is where we separate,” he says. He bids me

  farewell: “Ma’a as-salaama.”

  Ali and Musab shake hands with the man and his

  son; they smile and nod respectfully at the woman.

  Musab beckons me with a jerk of his head. I don’t

  move. The family man doesn’t hold out his hand to

  me, but he watches. He says nothing. Many words

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  that have never found their way to his lips are written in his eyes. He waits.

  I don’t know what to do or where to go. This is

  too difficult a decision. To stay near the border in

  the refugee camp with strangers? To travel hundreds

  of miles to a distant city with Musab and Ali? The

  brothers offered me food and shelter, but how will

  my family know I’m in Ankara? This man, his wife

  and son have hardly spoken to me, but they’re fam-

  ily. Not my family, but a family. The woman gave me her scarf when I was bleeding. Her words during

  the dark night come back to me now : Think about

  where to go tomorrow. It’s more difficult on your own.

  Dayah’s words jump into my head too: Why can’t

  you keep your head about you, Ghalib? Hamza would have no problem jumping to a decision: he would

  travel to Ankara in a heartbeat. But I don’t want to

  travel to a city in a strange country when my family

  is behind in Syria. They’re so close. So strong in my

  heart.

  I finally turn to Ali and Musab. I hold out my

  hand. “Al ah yusal mak,” I say. “Thank you for your kindness.”

  My voice sounds thick. I don’t know if it’s from

  my swollen face or because feelings inside me threaten

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  to leak out. Ali shakes my hand and walks away. He says nothing. He doesn’t look back. Musab holds my

  hand for a brief moment. He looks into my eyes.

  “I thought you would fight with us for Syria,

  Ghalib,” he says. “You would make a good soldier.”

  He runs to catch up with his brother.

  The man waits for me. “You made a brave deci-

  sion,” he says.

  I walk with him and his family toward the refu-

  gee camp. I say nothing. A rush of warmth fills me

  but, even so, my head and my heart battle with each

  other for the next hour while we walk in silence. I

  can’t stop wondering if I’ve made the right decision.

  The camp is set low in a valley, a vast spread of

  tents in endless rows and clusters. Many are printed

  with a crescent moon on their canvas roofs. As well

  as tents, there are metal shipping containers and

  makeshift lean-tos, caravans, tarpaulin shelters.

  “Syrians are here?” I say.

  “Only Syrians,” the man says.

  My heart sinks when I see the rows of high metal

  fencing topped with barbed wire surrounding the

  camp. It’s like the border again. Like the armed and

  barbed barricade that stops my family from being

  with me.

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  “What if they won’t let us in?” I say. My voice is small. Terror rushes through me. I can’t face another

  night of dense cold in
my bones, of dark loneliness

  in my heart.

  “They’ll let us in,” the man says.

  A guard at the main gate stops us. The family

  man explains that I’m traveling alone, that he is with

  his family. We’re directed toward a shipping con-

  tainer where people sort papers and work at tables

  stacked with documents and boxes. We’re issued

  a number and join other families and new arrivals

  waiting outside. I sit on the dusty ground. I hurt all

  over. My feet feel again as though I’ve been walk-

  ing on knives. Blood stains the strips of scarf. Once

  again, all I think of is water to drink.

  It’s early evening when our turn comes. The

  sky is already dusky blue and long shadows stretch

  across the ground. Inside, the official looks tired. She sweats in her headscarf. She turns first to me.

  “You are an unaccompanied minor?” she says.

  I blink at her. My head can’t find an answer.

  “Are you alone?” she says.

  “Yes. I’m alone.” The words stick in my throat.

  I almost cry.

  And now the official does something I never

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  expected: she smiles at me. I stare at her. This is the first time anyone has smiled at me since I came

  into Turkey.

  “We take care of unaccompanied minors,” she

  says. “Boys and girls like you who are traveling

  alone. Don’t be afraid. We’ll look after you.”

  Her kindness overwhelms me and opens the dark-

  ness in my heart. Tears rush to my eyes and down my

  cheeks. I turn away. I try to mop my tears with the

  grubby scarf, but they won’t stop leaking from my

  eyes. I didn’t realize I had so much water still inside

  me. Through my sobs, I hear the official’s words.

  “It’s fine to be upset,” she says. “This is Moham-

  mad. He’ll take you to the clinic first, and then the

  children’s center.”

  Through my tears, I see a young man with a red

  armband beside the official. He also smiles and ges-

  tures for me to follow him. I wobble a bit as I stand,

  but my legs find their strength. I nod my good-bye

  to the family and we head off.

  Mohammad has plenty to talk about as he

  marches me through the camp, though his friendly

  words wash over me. I have no idea where we’re

  going. Everything is a blur. Everything is frighten-

  ing. We pass so many tents, some with makeshift

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  shelters and tarpaulin sheeting. Groups of people, families, stare as we pass. A man squats beside a