“Can we visit Safaa and Amin, Ghalib?” he says.
At the children’s center, Alan and Amin are awk-
ward and shy with each other, unsure what to say. I
feel the same with Safaa. It’s easier to focus on the
two boys instead of talking with her. Amin jumps
up and down with excitement. He strokes Alan’s
face and the front of his new tracksuit. Alan looks at
Amin, smiling. He says nothing at first.
“You’re doing well, Alan,” Safaa says.
“He needs to fatten up to fill out his tracksuit,”
I say.
Alan acts like a baby, trying to climb into Safaa’s
arms as he’s seen Amin do. Pretending to be younger
than he is. He’s playing it up. His weak arm is more
hooked than ever.
“You’ll never be good at soccer if you don’t prac-
tice your skills,” I say. “Straighten your arm and
show Safaa how good you are.”
He pulls a face and stretches out his hand. He and
Amin run off to find a ball. Minutes later, they’re
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playing an awkward game with a half-deflated soccer ball—Alan with his gimpy leg and crooked arm,
Amin with two left feet and uncoordinated tackles.
“They’ll never make the national team,” I say.
Safaa’s laughter shatters our awkwardness like
glass breaking. From that moment, we’re comfort-
able again, sitting on the broken-down fence. The
disquiet of recent days burns away like morning mist.
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17
“Not again,” Bushra says.
It’s dark. We’re curled up in our blankets, almost
asleep. I turn to where Baba and Dayah lie.
“I don’t want to go again, Baba,” I say.
Now we are all awake. Even Alan. Baba turns on
his little battery flashlight so we can see him—this
is an important conversation. His face glows ghostly
white.
“Keep your voices down,” he says.
He gestures toward the hanging blankets divid-
ing the tent. Other families might be asleep, but I
doubt it. They’re probably wide awake listening to
us. Hearing this big news at the same time we are.
“I like it here,” Alan says. “Can’t we stay, Dayah?”
“This is no place to grow up,” Dayah says.
“I don’t want to grow up,” Alan says.
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“We don’t have to stay forever,” I say. “Just a while.”
“In a refugee camp?” Dayah says.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Where do you want me to start?” Dayah says.
“There’s no privacy. No proper toilets or kitchens.
No facilities for a growing family.”
“I have no work here,” Baba says. “The sanitation
is terrible—it’s only a matter of time until one of us
gets sick.”
“I was sick already,” Alan says.
“Bushra and I go to school here,” I say. “Before I
got here, I hadn’t been to school for months.” Educa-
tion is always a strong argument to put forward. I’ll
never get to university on the education I’m getting
here, but my parents don’t need to know that right
now.
“Why are we always leaving?” Alan says. “We
left Kobani and Hamza. We left Syria and Dapir.
Now we’re leaving here. Who will we leave behind
this time?”
He looks at us as though trying to decide who
should be left behind.
“We only came here to find Ghalib and get you
well again,” Baba says. “We were always going to go
farther than the first refugee camp.”
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“There are nice people here,” Bushra says.
“Kurdish people. I have friends again. Don’t you
want me to have friends?”
Bushra walks around the camp with girls from
school, like I do with Safaa and Amin and Alan.
She stopped laughing for a long time, but she laughs
here, like she used to in Kobani.
“Bushra is right,” I say. “She’s happy here.”
Bushra looks at me to check that I’m not teasing
her. Seemingly satisfied, she turns back to Dayah.
“Don’t you want me to be happy?”
“There are no bombs. No airstrikes,” I say. “No
ISIS fighters.”
Baba shakes his head at us. “This isn’t a safe place
at night.”
“In Kobani it was dangerous day and night.”
“We have to find a permanent home where we
can settle and stay,” Baba says.
Dayah looks at Bushra: “A home with new
friends to make you happy.” She looks at me: “Good
schooling so you can go to university.” She looks
at Alan: “And where you don’t have to leave again,
even if you don’t want to grow up.”
Bushra scowls. “You worked this all out,” she says.
Here we go, I think.
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“You and Baba are ganging up on us about this.” She looks at them closely, screwing up her
eyes. “You planned this whole conversation. There’s
nothing Ghalib and I can say to make you change
your minds.”
“Or me,” Alan says.
“Or Alan,” Bushra says.
“What are you talking about, Bushra?” Baba says.
“You figured out every argument we could put
up against leaving and worked out an answer before
we even thought of the arguments,” Bushra says.
She turns to me. “There’s no point even try-
ing, Ghalib. No matter what we say, they’ll have an
answer for it. Just go along with them. They’ll win
anyway. They’re parents.”
She emphasizes the last word— parents—as if it’s
the worst thing in the world. Bushra is being dra-
matic. My parents have to make decisions that are
best for us. Leaving the refugee camp is probably the
best decision, though it’s a hard one.
“We didn’t plan anything, Bushra,” Dayah says.
“We wanted to talk to you all about it.”
I always knew we wouldn’t stay here forever, but
I didn’t want to think about it. It’s easier to not go
anywhere. To write stories in school and walk with
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Safaa and Amin and Alan. To line up for water and showers and burners and food rations. To shut ourselves inside overnight.
“I don’t want to leave either, Bushra,” I say. “I
hate being on the road, but I don’t want to grow up
here. I still want to be a pharmacist. You still want to be an engineer. We’ll never reach our dreams here.”
“I left my dreams in Kobani,” Bushra says.
“You have your whole life to weave new dreams,”
Baba says. “We’re leaving for Europe.”
“Europe?” Bushra says.
“Our final destination all along. It’s mostly safe
and peaceful, with work opportunities and good
schools.”
“What if Europe doesn’t want us?” Bushra says.
“It’s closing its borders to people like us.”
I stare at her. “How can a whole continent lock
people out?”
“We’ll claim refugee status in Europe,” Baba
/> says. “They have to protect us. To settle us with
homes and jobs. You can go to school. Make friends.
Stay in one place.”
“Where did you hear all that?” Bushra says.
“From the smugglers who wanted gold for fence
clippers to cut into Turkey? It’s not like that, Baba.
196
Europe is sending refugees back to where they came from. On planes and boats. Under armed guard.”
Bushra is annoying me now, or maybe she’s scar-
ing me. I’m not sure which.
“Dayah and Baba are trying their best,” I say.
“All you can do is moan and make stupid comments.
Why can’t you be positive for once? Why can’t you
just get on with things?”
“Don’t get upset, Ghalib,” Baba says.
But it’s not me who’s upset. To my astonish-
ment, Bushra’s eyes fill with tears. They glitter in
the wavering torchlight.
“Europeans don’t know anything about Kurd-
ish ways. They don’t want us, Ghalib. Nobody
wants us. They all speak different languages so we
won’t understand anyone and nobody will under-
stand us. They’ll stare at my headscarf and Kurdish
clothes. They’ll send us back to Syria, where we’ll be
bombed.”
Bushra stops talking. In the breath-held silence
that follows her outburst, she buries her face in her
blanket. Her shoulders shake as she sobs. If the other
families in the tent were asleep before, they’re defi-
nitely wide awake now. They’ll have plenty to talk
about tomorrow.
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I stare at my sister. “It’s not my fault we’re Kurdish,” I say. “Don’t blame me!”
“That’s enough,” Dayah says.
“Everyone’s tired,” Baba says. “We’ll talk again
in the morning.”
That ends the conversation. Baba turns the lit-
tle flashlight off and we lie down. In the darkness,
Dayah murmurs soft words to Bushra, comforting
her. Nobody comforts me. I can’t see their faces
and gestures, their fear and anger, but everything
knots inside me. There’s a hard ball in my belly. I
lie in the dark and listen to my family breathing. I
think they’re like me, with aching hearts and racing
thoughts. My head fills with thinking until it hurts.
Maybe Bushra is right. Maybe nobody in Europe
wants people who’ve had to run away from ISIS,
from bombs and airstrikes. Maybe they believe we
deserve to be blown up. Part of me is relieved to be
leaving camp; most of me is terrified. I’m scared of
my future. Where will I end up? What kind of life
will I have?
And then there are Safaa and Amin. Baba
never mentioned them coming with us. Now that
we’re friends again, they come around most days
after school. They help prepare food and, some
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evenings, even share our meals. Surely we can’t leave them behind?
Next morning, none of us talks about leaving
camp. Everyone looks tired and red-eyed, Bushra
most of all. I don’t think she got much sleep. She
walks to school ahead of Alan and me, her head
down. I leave her to it. I don’t want to listen to her
scary talk and angry outbursts this morning. I don’t
want to talk to my family about leaving either, but
it’s entirely different with Safaa. During our after-
noon walk, as soon as Amin and Alan run ahead to
collect stones and twigs to build their own refugee
camp, I burst out with the news: “We are leaving
here for Europe.”
“Families always leave,” Safaa says.
“Will you come with us?” I say. “I haven’t asked
Baba, but he won’t mind.”
“We can only leave with our own family.”
But Safaa has no family other than Amin. “What
will happen, then?”
“We’ll stay here,” she says. “And you’ll be gone.”
Her words hold the same deep sadness and anger
as her eyes, and perhaps even a little of their wildness. I don’t want to leave them here. I especially don’t want
to leave her here. I want to say things—important 199
things—but can’t find the right words. I don’t want them to come out wrong.
“If you were allowed . . . ”
I stop. Try to think. Safaa waits.
“If you were allowed to leave camp . . . ”
“Yes?”
“I would like you to be with me. I mean, with
us. With my family.” My cheeks are hot.
Safaa smiles. “I know.”
She’s like Bushra: she knows things before I
know them. Maybe all girls are like this. Smart. Able
to read a boy’s thoughts before he even has them.
“You know?” I say.
“Of course,” she says. “We’re together every day.
You’re the closest thing to family we have.”
I wait.
“If we were allowed to leave camp . . . ” she says.
“Yes?”
“I would like to be with you.”
She smiles. Her cheeks are pink. She looks away,
pulling those dark eyes from me and taking my heart
with them.
“Not only with your family, Ghalib,” she says.
“But especially with you.”
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18
Getting ready to leave Reyhanli Refugee Camp is
nothing like getting ready to leave Kobani. We only
have one corner of our shared tent to clear out. Dayah
gives most of our belongings to the other family:
extra blankets and cushions, cooking pots and water
containers, old clothes and food. A few scraps belong-
ing to Dapir. I think the other family is happy to see
us go, and even happier to take what we leave behind.
They’re kind enough to give us their blessing.
“I hope they enjoy the extra space while they
have it,” Baba says. “It won’t be long before a new
family moves in.”
Bushra looks at the bundle of goods I have ready
to take. “You’ve changed since we left Kobani,
Ghalib,” she says.
“Two words, Bushra,” I say. “Bare. Essentials.”
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I carry little this time. My bedroll, my blanket and towel, my zip-up wash-bag. My plastic bowl and
woolly hat. Dayah gave me one of Dapir’s scarves,
which I wear with pride around my neck to remind
me of her.
I wait until after school on my last day to speak
with my teacher. “I’m pleased you’re leaving,” he
says. “You’re a caged bird here, Ghalib—this camp
clipped your wings. You have much to offer the
world. Go and fly.”
On my last evening with Safaa and Amin, I give
Amin my sports watch and soccer cards, and Safaa
my treasured pocketknife.
“You don’t have your gun,” I say, “so this might
come in useful. And maybe it can be something to
remember me by.”
“I would remember you even if you gave me
nothing,” Safaa says. She smiles at me from beneath
her wild hair.
Dusk is closing around the camp as I walk
them
back to the children’s center. I hug Amin tightly.
“Eat your vegetables,” I say. “Get big and strong.”
I turn to Safaa. I want to hug her too, but it
wouldn’t be respectful. We’re uncomfortable and
awkward.
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“This is not the end,” Safaa says. “Our futures will entwine, Ghalib.”
“I hope so,” I say. And I mean it.
I can do nothing about leaving Safaa and Amin,
but I’m a little comforted by the certainty that I will
see them again. Sometime, somewhere, our paths
will cross.
We shake hands. Before I turn to leave, Safaa
leans close to kiss me lightly and swiftly on the cheek, and then she’s gone, pulling Amin with her into the
children’s center. It happens so quickly, I don’t have
time to react. I look after her. I touch my cheek with
my fingertips as fireworks pop in my blood. I run
back to our tent, through the thickening dark. The
whole way, all I can think is: Safaa kissed me!
We leave the camp as early dawn pinks the sky
in the east.
We turn our backs on the unwinding of a new
day and walk west into the dark of the still starry
sky. To Europe. A few early risers stop to watch us
walk through the night-blue air. They stare because
we are leaving. People who leave are always worth
staring at. People who leave are the ones with hopes.
With dreams. With choices. I’ve done my share of
staring too: when the family I crossed the border
203
with left a few weeks ago, I stared at them as they walked out the gate and I thought about the time I
walked in with them.
Bushra doesn’t like being stared at. “Do we have
something stamped on our foreheads?”
“People who leave are the fortunate ones,”
Baba says.
“I don’t feel fortunate,” Bushra says.
“You have your freedom,” Baba says.
“More than many people have,” Dayah says.
“Nothing worse than moral lessons at dawn,”
Bushra says. She shifts her bag to the other shoulder
and marches ahead.
I don’t look back. I don’t want to see the shel-
ters and dirt paths, the makeshift lean-tos and Green
River. I carry the smell of the camp on my skin and
in my soul. It will always be with me. Now, I put
my head down and lead Alan up the hill away from
the entrance.
At the junction, a rusted signpost points to Rey-
hanli. I look at the painted plank of wood on the dirt
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