I'll Be Home for Christmas

by Tom Becker

  Steps are wide and made in wood, not like concrete stairs of my school. In this landing here is painting of tall man wearing same blue coat. I ask Mr Shaw why all wear same blue dress coat and flat black cap.

  “Graduation gowns and mortar boards,” he explains. “You’ll wear one of those one day, Amir – when you finish university!”

  I don’t know.

  At top of stairs there is other painting. This man is not wearing gown and black hat. He is different looking. Black hair, moustache … not so sharp. He is looking little piece like my father, how I remember him. Expression like his eyes are holding burning questions.

  “The man himself – George Orwell – the reason we’re here! Come on, Amir. Let’s do this thing.”

  Mr Shaw’s arm is round my shoulder, walking me inside this hall.

  So many hundreds students. Voices echo up to top seats, like screech of seabirds.

  There is one Christmas tree with sparkle lights, this is most giant inside tree I ever seen.

  “What a tree! You can smell the needles in the air.”

  Often Mr Shaw he tells things I don’t know what it means, but I don’t ask every time. It makes me feel like small child knowing nothing. Needles in the air?

  “Smell this pine, Amir!” Mr Shaw he takes some green spike from the tree, squeezes juice in fingers and gives to me. I test how sharp.

  “Smells fresh, like sleeping in forest,” I tell him.

  Then he looks to me, like he sometimes looks to me. Not funny now, like he is worrying.

  Hall is coming quiet. Announcer Lady with hair in tight knot and black suit comes in stage. She says welcome to finals of George Orwell National Writing and Public Speaking Competition. She says we are all winning. I don’t know why she says this. If so, why is it competition? Why do we come here? She asks all Final people to walk to stage and sit in seats. I stand like robot. I hear Mr Shaw say, “I’m proud of you, Amir Karoon.”

  I don’t want him to think I chicken so I walk to the front. I have no thoughts in mind. I have walk like this before – when I did not know which direction I will turn.

  Announcer Lady gives me number card. I am seven. There are ten finalists, always ten. In past I like this number ten – not any more. The girl in front of me, number six, she looks like Mikah how she would grow … if she would grow.

  Now Announcer Lady is saying we are lucky to have important judges. She says announcement of names and each panel person stands and students is clapping. There is writer, politician, history professor and actor. When Actor Lady stands … I think I have seen in TV, but I don’t know. She smiles, bows and all the people in this hall cheer and clap, stamping feet.

  Announcer Lady welcomes first speaker to stage to address question for George Orwell competition: “If Liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.”

  Number one is standing. Shoulders are wide. Even more wide from mine. His voice is like posh person. If you take film and say this boy is Prime Minister in five years’ time, I believe you. He is saying about what is means by ‘equality in society’. His speech is smooth, clear, easy. Then next speaker comes. Thing in every speech is strong statistics, numbers, repeating phrase to make point. I don’t know half of words. There is much I cannot understand. Number four boy is using all good technique, speaking in confidence, but his eyes stay like ice.

  Now it is girl next to me. She is talking of racism. This I understand, but she takes different direction. She is giving interesting facts of racism in wide society, things she is saying I have not been thinking about before … like asking why so little diversity people are going to university. She is saying also about young black men in prison and how many cannot read. I did not know this. It is strange in such rich country, people cannot read. I really did not know these things. Now she is telling of gangs and why should people want to join. What is motivation? She is even doing some rap music, getting people to rap and clap with her. She is not copying format how to speak. She is someone who has her heart on fire.

  I look to Mr Shaw. I shake my head like to say warning, “I can’t do this”. He only smiles at me. My speech is like different species. My speech is only my story. Number six girl is finishing now and every person is clapping. Actor Lady is standing and cheering. I think this girl must be winning. I hope she is.

  “Thank you, Grace!” Announcer Lady tries to make people stop clapping. They don’t want to. Now she must shout over clapping, using her hands to make audience quiet.

  Number six girl called Grace tells, “Your turn”. I don’t know why I think her eyes are looking so like Mikah.

  “Amir Karoon.” Announcer Lady is calling my name. “Amir Karoon.”

  Looking at my shoes, my legs are shaking. Now I am happy Kabir is not here to see me fail. My friend Mo will think I am fool. He will say, “Yes, I told you it will be shame for us this way.”

  “Amir Karoon.”

  Grace is saying to me, “That’s you, isn’t it?”

  I want to say Grace, I don’t know what is me in this place.

  I stand. I have no notes like others. But I like to try to get things right, perfect like I can, so I learn this speech in heart … by heart. So my speech is better than the way I speak English. I speak like a script I learn of my story, mistakes taken out … most of time.

  In trials people like my speech, even if English is not perfect. People are voting to support me … maybe not only me, but also feeling about refugee children. I am representing. I do this not only for me. This I tell myself, trying to build some confidence.

  I am looking for place in hall to focus. I choose the star at high point of Christmas tree and I start to speak. But my voice is weak. Mr Shaw is smiling too much. Christmas light is shining on my eyes. I am thinking where is this tree come from? Maybe even the forest I hide in.

  Each speech I start in same way. I remember the words I write in my heart and I start to speak. Mr Shaw tells me, “Imagine words like a river flowing.”

  I am Amir Karoon. This is my story. I have lived in this country for one year. This is my first competition I take part in representing my school. When I heard of George Orwell competition, I went to my teacher Mr Shaw and I observe to him … my English is not so good, but I can tell you something about this subject: ‘If Liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear’.

  I am speaking, but audience is looking one to other like something is wrong. Actor Lady is looking down at table, shaking head like she will cry. People move around in seats, whispering.

  Mr Shaw is standing, making others move in row, excuse me, excuse me. Walking through hall. Now he is taking me by shoulder.

  Announcer Lady is saying, “There will be a short interval. Please remain seated – we will recommence in a few minutes.”

  People starting talking. I can hear in their voices they pay me pity. I am sad loser boy they will go home and talk… I am foreign boy they will say … he is nothing, should not be making speech with so little English.

  Mr Shaw takes me to room with one mirror, chair and soft sofa seat. He says it is a dressing room for theatre performance. I don’t care what is.

  Mr Shaw is wearing deep lines. “What happened, Amir?”

  “I was telling my speech like all the other times.”

  Mr Shaw is shaking his head. “Amir, I’m so sorry. You froze when you stood up there. I should have gone with my instinct. I should never have put you through this.”

  “I know these words by my heart! I want to smash my stupid head.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Amir. You won’t be the first or the last to get stage fright! Let me go and speak to the judges and see what happens now.” He is biting lips like he is not sure what to do.

  Mr Shaw opens the door wide. I hear clapping. “They must have started again… Amir, I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Words are in my head like waves moving in and out… Frightful
, stage fright, frightening, fear, fear… Fear made me silent Boy again, made me suck on bitter lemon-half. I am looking at my face in a mirror. Lights on border make my grey eyes shine.

  My eyes grow bigger. In reflection I see other face. Behind in chair is sitting tall man, black hair, small glasses, wool jacket, moustache. Question in eyes. He smiles at me.

  I don’t know to turn or no, so I stay looking in the mirror.

  “You’re George Orwell, from the painting in hall?” I say to reflection.

  “I am. And who are you?”

  “Amir Karoon.”

  “So tell me, Amir Karoon. What did you come here to say?”

  “You looking little like my father,” I tell him. I begin to turn to talk with him.

  “Amir, don’t turn around. Please let me hear your story.” Reflection George takes a book from his pocket and a pen.

  “What are you writing in your book?”

  “Meeting with Amir Karoon… Old habits!” He smiles at me. I don’t get this, but I feel in my heart he is a good man like Kabir, like Mr Shaw. “Take your time.”

  I sit tall and take deep breaths. Then I look him in his reflection face.

  *

  I am Amir Karoon. This is my story. When I heard of George Orwell competition, I went to my teacher Mr Shaw and I observe to him … my English is not so good, but I can tell you something about this subject: “If Liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.”

  *

  “I like that title,” George reflection says, leans forward in his chair. “Go on!”

  *

  This is not the country I am born in. My land is Iraq. I came here one year ago, when I was thirteen years old. Now I am fourteen. When I come … came here, I had little English. When I came here I had not much speech at all. My speaking voice I think was buried in war … ash and dirt. You see I was looking for my mother, my father, my brother Suli, under fallen wall of my garden. I find … I found nothing but one lemon. I put it in my pocket. I think how it is … how is it—”

  *

  “Don’t worry! It is, is it – just speak, Amir!” Reflection George says.

  *

  How is it possible I can find this lemon and not my parents? Days I look for them. I am hungry. I am thirsty. Bitter taste is in my mouth, like in my heart.

  I look down on my feet and they are walking. Like they know better than me, I must leave to survive. In my mouth I hold the lemon-half. My face is swollen like fish shape. I suck in bitter taste, I walk, I cry, I taste the bitter, I walk, I cry. I follow others. I do not know where we go, but it is somewhere. Only one thing I know is we walk away from my home, my land.

  Sometime people talk to me at border … at checkpoint. I have no papers.

  One soldier he ask me, “Where do you go?”

  I stay silent.

  He asks me, “How old you are?”

  I do not answer.

  Then he pays me pity. “Go through, go through, son. Try to join another family. You must walk three days to get to camp for refugees. Inshallah you are strong boy, you will be safe.”

  I think maybe camp can be a better place for me.

  This is the moment I must step away and be Boy. If I stay Amir, I cannot speak this part of the story. This is the moment I ask you to switch off pictures you see on news, step sideways out of your everyday mind, like when doors slide from real world into dreams.

  Boy is walking.

  *

  “And that boy is you. Isn’t it, Amir?” Reflection George says.

  I nod. I turn to see if he is real.

  “Don’t turn back now, Amir… Go on!” he says.

  *

  Boy is walking. A strange boy who sucks a lemon in his mouth.

  What is he walking away from?

  Death.

  What is he walking towards?

  Life.

  Boy will ask each one of you if you will do the same in his shoes. He thinks you will.

  Boy is in search of a sweet taste. He can tell you this. If you eat too much poison it takes long, long time to feel sweet again.

  Camp is not the home Boy hopes for. Camp is many people. Many, many people who want only to be home. Camp is a dangerous place for this silent boy.

  Boy sees many things. Many people here have poison flowing in their blood. Poison makes them ill, like good meat when flies suck too long in heat.

  One night into his tent walks a man of rock. Boy calls him Rock Heart.

  He says Boy must go with him. He says he takes children to freedom. He says, “You must not speak. You must be silent.”

  He does not know Boy has lemon-half in mouth. Only if he spits it, he can speak and Boy has no wish to speak. Rock Heart takes Boy’s hands and pulls him out of tent. Boy starts new life, but this man does not care to give Boy a name.

  In that night, in that darkness, Rock Heart takes five boys, five girls from camp. On many days walking, Rock Heart is not kind. He is not gentle. He is not good. Boy does not like the way he looks at girls, especially Mikah from Boy’s village. Rock Heart has wanting eyes like grown man should not look to young girl. Boy holds Mikah’s hand to keep her safe. Rock Heart man spits on Boy. “What are you, fish face! Her great protector?”

  “Hurry, hurry,” he say. “We must reach the sea for dawn breaking.”

  Boy is afraid of sea. He cannot swim.

  Rock Heart pushes Boy inside the boat. Boat is not good looking. Boat is soft like toy you take for holiday.

  “Look after this lot! Valuable cargo if you can get them to the other side,” Rock Heart tells Cargo Man. Boy sees they are passing money one to other. Cargo Man touches Mikah’s hair. Making of her beauty a joke. She is starting to cry. Boy knows no one cares for them – all the children know this. Only Cargo Man is wearing jacket for saving his life.

  Boy makes decision. If he gets to land in safety, he will run from Cargo Man. He will take Mikah with him somewhere no one may find them. Boy knows Cargo Man does not think to make them free. Poison blood … corruption like disease is spreading.

  Sea is quiet in first hours. Moon is like a silver coin. Sea and sky are no difference – where one ends, other begins. Only land is missing. Stars is our universe shining. Boy wishes on light of universe to take him to safe place, Inshallah.

  Boy is on the boat

  Sun rise, slow, pink, orange

  Red scar dawn

  Stomach heaves into Boy’s mouth

  Sick is in the boat

  Stink is bitter

  Boy sucks on bitter. It is nothing new

  Best time of day is the time of two lights

  Twilight

  Where moon and sun kiss

  Then the sky is full of magic colours

  Anything can happen

  In his mind Boy sings to Mikah every night they live on boat

  Sea stays calm for one whole night, then comes the anger storm

  Boy is sure all must die

  Sun sets like giant blood-red eye.

  *

  Cargo Man’s eyes are full from fear. He shouts for children to still. He stands. But children don’t stop screaming. Maybe sea hears them cry. Wave rises up like justice hand from bottom of sea, reaches into boat and takes only Cargo Man.

  Children are silent, holding for life on to rings on side of boat. Children are all hating Cargo Man … but now he is not here to hate.

  Boy lies on the floor of boat. Sea is calm but sun is cooking skin. Lips are dry. Mikah sleeps on Boy’s knee. Boy watches the waves. Mikah’s head is a ball of fire. She is the sun.

  Boy falls deep in sleep. In his dream Boy reaches land, takes Mikah’s hand and runs away.

  It is twilight, but now the sun is leaving fast. Boy takes lemon-half from mouth, kisses Mikah’s head and holds and holds her. She is cold, but still he holds her. How many days must they rock like this together? Dead girl, living boy. Boy sleeps, he wakes, he sleeps, he wakes. There is no water, no more dr
eams of happiness. Boy closes eyes and prays to Allah for what is his will. He sleeps again and when he wakes there is land in the distance… Rescue boat comes to find … one boat with ten children. Only three are living.

  Boy will not let Mikah go. Rescue people pull her from him and he screams like a wolf in the night. Then he puts the lemon in his mouth and sucks.

  They take Boy to another kind of camp – with high wire walls. But before the wire, Boy escapes and runs and runs and runs into the forest. He lies on earth floor, face in dirt, and cries. He hears others in the wood. He is thinking, I am dreaming. He does not know how long he stays like this.

  A woman’s hands are on his shoulders turning him, speaking in his tongue. “Is that you, Amir? Are you alone?”

  This woman speaks Boy’s name. It is Mirsa from Boy’s village and Kabir. Friends of his parents. Mirsa takes the lemon from his mouth and gives him water.

  They have baby Kalila … a daughter maybe six months old, but they hold Boy like he is their own son. They cry to hear Boy’s story. They sing and pray for all the leaving and the lost. They eat what they find in the wood – berries and mushrooms. Slowly, slowly, Boy starts to hear his name. Slowly, slowly, he becomes Amir again.

  *

  Kabir has a plan. They say they have family in England and I should go with them. There are people who will come to help, but until this time, everywhere we go we must hide. We must not be seen.

  Happy times and hungry times were in the forests. Mirsa singing to baby Kalila and me singing, too. After song one day, Mirsa tells me that if we go to England she will make me like her son. Then she will have one son, one daughter.

  I keep the lemon in my pocket.

  After the forest I take fever in my head. I cannot remember all this journey. Mirsa says it is good to not remember everything. It is mercy.