Sanctuary

by Judy Nunn

  Hala, realising in turn that she had been caught out, kept her reply casual. ‘Of course, Azra, we will look after Hamid,’ she said, and was pleased to note that Jalila’s nod of agreement was directed to Azra rather than her.

  They had dug up the last of the potatoes, a half-dozen or so, and as Jalila started gathering them Hala rose, easing the stiffness in her back.

  ‘We must select some for Sanaa to put aside,’ she said as she crossed to the bucket that sat in the corner, ‘the smaller ones though. We’ll save the big ones for eating.’

  She expected no reply of course, but as she returned with the bucket she realised the girl had not even heard her. The girl was not gathering the potatoes; she was playing a game with the child.

  Jalila had chosen a particularly round potato and had bowled it along the rough ground where it bounced its way to land beside Hamid.

  Hala watched as the boy, delighted, picked it up and tried to repeat the action, which didn’t work, the potato travelling barely a metre, trapped by a tuft of grass. He tried again with the same unsuccessful result.

  Jalila, crawling forwards on hands and knees, picked up the potato, returned to her original position, and lobbed it to him, a gentle toss high in the air. Hamid tried to catch it and missed altogether, but no matter, this was a much better game. He scampered to pick it up where it had rolled a short distance away. It was his turn to throw now.

  Hala continued watching as she collected the potatoes in the bucket, Jalila and the boy paying her no attention at all, concentrating instead on their game of catch. Azra should see this, she thought and quietly she left for the kitchen.

  ‘Here are the potatoes,’ she announced upon arrival.

  Sanaa barely looked up from the bench where she was meticulously sifting through the fish stock, lifting out the backbones that would be discarded, setting aside the shreds of meat that would be added to the other seafood; nothing must be wasted. She was a tall woman, nearly as tall as her husband and equally fine-boned, with black hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck. A capable woman too. Hard-working, never stopping to draw breath, it seemed at times that unlike the others Sanaa was indefatigable.

  ‘Thank you, Hala,’ she said. ‘Would you mind peeling one of them for me?’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Azra offered, eager to help. She’d washed the herbs and placed them in a tumbler and had been standing by feeling useless.

  ‘No, no,’ Hala insisted, ‘I’ll help Sanaa now, you go outside.’

  Azra hesitated, feeling more useless than ever.

  Hala crossed to her where she stood at the kitchen sink. ‘You will be of far more help outside,’ she whispered meaningfully.

  Azra’s spirits lifted. Nurse Hala wanted her to serve some purpose. What it was she had no idea, but she would willingly do whatever Nurse Hala wished. She set off towards the garden.

  ‘Stay out of the wind,’ Hala called after her.

  Azra stood at the door observing them, her son and the beautiful girl at play, and she knew instantly what it was Nurse Hala wanted of her. Nurse Hala wanted her to communicate with the mysterious Jalila, who never spoke and who was obviously damaged in some way.

  She sat on the milk crate, out of the wind as instructed, and patiently waited.

  ‘Mama,’ little Hamid called eventually as the game started to pall and he noticed his mother there. He ran to her side.

  ‘Why don’t you go in and see Sanaa,’ Azra said, ruffling his hair, ‘it is time for your cup of milk.’ They kept the powdered milk for the boy, rationing it out two cups a day.

  As Hamid obediently ran off, Jalila rose to her feet, watching him go.

  Azra rose also and crossed to her, both gazing after the child as he disappeared through the back door.

  ‘He is very fond of you, Jalila,’ Azra said quietly.

  The girl turned and their eyes met, not for the first time it was true, but on this occasion they held the gaze, each recognising a need in the other.

  ‘He is a good boy,’ Jalila said quietly.

  Azra beamed with pride, barely able to believe that of all the people in the group, it was she to whom Jalila had spoken.

  ‘He is a handsome boy too,’ Jalila said, ‘so like his father.’

  Azra made no reply, but stood motionless.

  ‘Karim must be very proud,’ Jalila said.

  ‘He is.’ The response was breathless, tears involuntarily welling. ‘Oh yes he is,’ Azra whispered. ‘Thank you, Jalila.’ She turned away in order to hide her emotion. The mysterious girl could have no idea how important her words were. No idea at all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Azra Sarabi had fallen in love with Karim Samar when she was sixteen years old. The feeling had been mutual, eighteen-year-old Karim equally besotted, but their families, Hazara people from Afghanistan’s Daykundi Province, had refused to approve the match. The stance taken by the elders on both sides was unreasonable. They were peasant farmers of equal status, and there should have been no obstacle to a marriage within their ranks. But the families had been feuding for years, possibly two generations. Over exactly what could no longer be remembered – a few livestock, a small plot of land, who could say? But the personal grudge was longstanding. A Sarabi and a Samar did not marry.

  So, in defiance, Azra and Karim had run away together. Leaving their village in early 2010, they’d run as far as they could from the families who would undoubtedly seek retribution for such blatant disobedience. With the war raging, travel through Afghanistan had been fraught with danger, but undeterred they’d continued to make their way south-east, crossing the border into Pakistan’s Balochistan Province, where they’d finally settled in the city of Quetta. It was there they’d married, and there they’d consummated their relationship, for throughout the ordeals of their journey they had remained chaste, Azra keeping herself pure for her husband and Karim respecting the virginity of his future wife.

  The two were blissfully happy as they settled into their new life and their new community. There were many Hazara people in Quetta and they made good friends through whom Karim found regular work, saving all the while for the family they intended to have. But it wasn’t long before the problem that had for some time confronted the community reared its head, and with renewed force. The Hazara had long been targets of militia groups in Pakistan, and the assassination of Osama bin Laden by American Navy SEALs in Abbottabad on 2 May 2011 could mean only one thing. Political tensions would escalate and this border region would become a hotbed of violence, leading to ever-fiercer persecution of the Hazara.

  Many of the community decided to flee, Karim included. The time had come, he told Azra, for them to leave Pakistan altogether.

  ‘It is as well after all,’ he said, ‘that we do not have a newborn and that you are not with child, Azra – either situation would impede our journey.’ He’d said this in order to comfort her. She had been trying to conceive for the past year and he knew she felt personally at fault in failing to do so. ‘We will start our family when we are settled,’ he assured her.

  They had their hearts set on Australia. The destination had initially been Azra’s idea, which had surprised Karim. Until its involvement in the war Australia had been a country unknown to them; they would not even have been able to place its whereabouts on the world map. Now, given their knowledge, it was the country’s very location that made Azra’s suggestion surprising to Karim.

  ‘But Australia is so very far away,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she conceded, ‘the travel will be arduous, but Australia is such a safe country, Karim, the perfect place for us to bring up our children. And the Australians are our friends. They are allies to Afghanistan. We will be welcome there.’

  ‘It is true,’ Karim agreed. ‘The Australians have been fighting for us for years, we are brothers.’ He was proud of his wife – her argument was most certainly sound. ‘Yes, Azra, you are right; they will welcome us there. We will go to Australia.’

 
; On the advice of well-informed friends, some of whose family members had successfully undertaken the journey to Australia, the young couple had travelled north to the capital. There in the bustling, modern city of Islamabad they had made enquiries at a particular ‘agency’ to which they had been directed. The ‘agency’ was really no more than a room above a shop just off the Luqman Hakim Road, but it served a very active purpose. One of several such seemingly humble offices situated in a number of major Middle Eastern cities, it was here desperate people sought help to escape the conflict or persecution that threatened their lives and those of their families. In truth, these ‘agencies’ functioned as recruitment centres for a highly profitable enterprise headed by a man called Benny Hitono.

  ‘Oh yes,’ they were told by Nadia, an extremely efficient young woman who spoke any number of languages, including Dari, a dialect mutually intelligible with their own Hazaragi. ‘Over the years Benny Hitono has helped many, many people get to Australia, including his own family. He is a good man, Benny, famous for saving the lives of others.’ They were warned however … ‘But you must understand the journey is expensive,’ Nadia continued, ‘it is a costly exercise getting people all the way to Australia.’

  Far too costly for the likes of Karim and Azra as it turned out. But as it further turned out, Nadia proved sympathetic to their cause.

  Seated opposite her at her desk, they had told her their story in full, and upon discovering the prohibitive cost entailed, they had then pleaded with her. They would be only too happy to work for their passage to Australia they said. Any form of manual employment would do.

  ‘And we are good workers,’ Karim insisted, Azra beside him nodding vigorously, ‘we are strong. We are not afraid of hard work, I swear to you.’

  Nadia, touched by the young Hazara couple’s earnestness and naiveté, felt oddly maternal. How peculiar, she thought, I’m no older than they are. Then she surprised herself. ‘You must go to this address,’ she said, scribbling in her notepad. ‘I shall telephone the housekeeper and explain your circumstances and background. I’m quite sure you’ll find employment there.’ She had no idea why she was doing what she was doing – she dealt regularly with people fleeing for their lives, and always distanced herself, never became involved. But there was something about this pair …

  She ripped the page from her notebook and pushed it across the desktop to Karim. ‘It’s a wealthy Arab home,’ she said briskly, ‘complete with servants’ quarters and always in need of workers. In fact when it comes to workers, there’s a rather quick turnover,’ she added drily, recalling the time she had served in a secretarial capacity at the household. She didn’t bother telling them of her employment there, deeming the fact overly personal and inappropriate under the circumstances, but she couldn’t resist adding a little inside information. ‘They’re typical Saudis,’ she said with disdain, ‘arrogant snobs who’ll treat you like dirt, but this is only one of their many houses dotted all over the place, so half the time they’re not even here in Islamabad and you won’t see them at all.’

  Realising she may have given herself away a little, Nadia picked up her cell phone and got back to business. ‘I’ll ring the housekeeper right now,’ she said in a tone that signalled the interview was over.

  Karim pocketed the slip of paper and he and Azra rose from the table. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘thank you so much,’ Azra echoing him as they backed towards the door.

  But the young woman was paying them scant attention as she keyed in the phone number. ‘Good luck,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Nadia’s intervention on their behalf proved a godsend. Karim and Azra were not only hired that very day, they remained in the employ of the Arab household for close to a year, he as a gardener and handyman, she as a kitchen maid and cleaner.

  When the Saudi family, together with their large entourage, was in residence the work was hard. The patriarch, an extremely wealthy middle-aged businessman, was mostly absent during the day, together with his adult son and four-man team of chauffeur, bodyguard, interpreter and male secretary. The two wives, three daughters, and various other female members of the extended family, however, were demanding of attention every minute of the day.

  The home being the centre for family socialising, the wives and older daughter were particularly fussy about the running of the household and the tidiness of the garden, despite the fact that all had been kept immaculate during their absence and remained that way throughout their stay. The women were also insistent that every household staff member, and every single servant in the family’s employ, however lowly, communicate in Arabic. Those heard conversing in any language other than Arabic were to be instantly dismissed. This was the house rule and always had been.

  ‘I’m not sure why,’ the housekeeper, a pleasant Pakistani woman in her fifties, had told Karim and Azra, ‘perhaps for security purposes. Perhaps they believe others may be plotting against them,’ she’d said with a shrug, not believing this to be the case herself. ‘But it’s rather inconvenient at times,’ she’d admitted. ‘I’ve employed many different language speakers over the years, and they’ve all had to learn in a hurry or risk losing their jobs.’

  Forewarned, Karim and Azra had quickly set about broadening their knowledge of Arabic, which had previously been only as much as was required for religious purposes, prayers always being conducted in Arabic. The other servants had been only too happy to help with their tuition, just as they themselves had been helped in the past.

  Given their humble status in the household’s hierarchy, Karim and Azra had no fear of being caught out should the occasional order be given directly to them, for this would simply require a ‘yes sir, no sir’ response. But they were nonetheless uncomfortable during the family’s visits. They did not in the least mind the extra hard work, but the fact that they dared not communicate in their own language for fear of being overheard added a strain to their lives.

  Grateful though they were for the employment, their year spent in the Saudi household was not particularly happy. And no matter how hard they saved, the meagre salary they received was never likely to amount to the exorbitant sum required to get them all the way to Australia.

  But they remained resolute in their choice of destination, poring over maps and discussing possible routes. Then one day they came to a decision. The savings they’d accumulated would afford them airfares to Bangkok and enough to set themselves up in cheap accommodation. Bangkok was in Thailand, well on the way to Australia. This was an excellent start, they agreed. Bangkok, furthermore, was a huge city with many tourists, and there was money to be made in such cities. They would settle in Bangkok, illegally if necessary, and they would work hard for however long it took, a year, possibly two years. Then they would travel to Indonesia where, in Jakarta, they would make direct contact with their saviour, the famous Benny Hitono.

  Having made their decision, they gave notice to the housekeeper and shortly after left the Saudi household.

  Their plans went as smoothly as they could possibly have hoped. Arriving in Bangkok on visitors’ visas proved no obstacle at all in gaining employment. The colourfully chaotic city abounded with building sites and there was a healthy demand for labourers. When a strong young man like Karim applied for work no one asked for his passport or made enquiries. No one seemed to care in the least about his residency status so long as he accepted the wage on offer. He and Azra agreed that the figure was probably well below what it should have been, but Karim was hardly going to argue the point.

  Azra encountered a similar response upon applying for a job at one of the big city hotels, which in catering exclusively for tourists employed hundreds of staff.

  ‘I was accepted without question, Karim,’ she said excitedly upon her return to the cheap boarding house where they’d rented a second-floor room. ‘The hotel employs many nationalities from many different countries and I was not asked for my passport. I am to be a chambermaid,’ she added with pride, ‘and I am to unde
rgo a week of training. I am even to learn some English words so that I can greet the guests as they pass by.’

  ‘I am not surprised they hired you without question,’ Karim replied, ‘and particularly as a chambermaid. They employ only the pretty girls as chambermaids,’ he’d laughed, kissing her lightly. ‘The ugly ones they put to work in the kitchen and laundry.’ He’d said it jokingly, he knew nothing of grand hotels, but upon reflection he decided he was probably right.

  Azra had been employed at the hotel for close to six months when it happened. During that time, she’d proved herself a hard worker and, although shy by nature, was popular with the other chambermaids. Probably because she knew her place: there was a distinct pecking order within the ranks of the housekeeping staff. She’d proved an apt pupil too, happily greeting the guests in her newfound English, always with a smile and a curtsy-like bob.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she would say to the businessman striding down the hall, ‘good afternoon, madam,’ to the woman in the towelling robe on her way to the pool, even ‘good day, miss,’ to the woman’s daughter. She knew also how to say ‘thank you’ when a guest was courteous, and how to say ‘it is a pleasure’ when she herself was thanked. This was the extent of her English and all that had been taught her by the hotel management, yet it proved perfectly adequate under the circumstances. She had learned from a fellow non-English-speaking worker one other phrase, however, which she found useful on the odd occasion when a guest halted in the corridor and made some incomprehensible remark that appeared to require an answer. Or when, while making up a guest’s room in their presence, something was asked of her.

  ‘I am sorry, I not understand,’ she would say. She had taken great care to perfect the phrase as it prevented unnecessary confusion, and she would say it with a smile and an apologetic shake of her head. She would add a deferential bob as a further sign of apology, for she did not like having to admit to her ignorance and hoped the guest would not think poorly of her, or find her inability to converse irritating. But on each occasion the guest appeared neither critical nor irritated. Quickly gathering she did not speak English, the guest would pass on down the corridor or turn away, allowing her to continue her work.