Displaced

by Dean Hughes

  But Malek didn’t seem fazed at all. “People in this country pay no attention to traffic laws, and the police don’t seem to care,” he said.

  “There’s a policeman on this corner sometimes—a man named Samir—and he blows his whistle and yells at people, but they pay no attention. He has no way to stop them and they know it.”

  Malek was laughing again. “Well, that was a close one,” he said. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

  But Hadi didn’t like that. He wasn’t looking out for the boy. They weren’t partners. They were just working on the same corner. And it was still Hadi’s corner.

  2

  After a couple of hours, Hadi was beginning to think that Malek might not be a bad guy—except that he talked too much. The sound of his voice filled Hadi’s brain. Hadi wanted time to himself after he approached a new round of drivers. He didn’t like all the questions Malek kept asking.

  As the afternoon dragged on, however, Hadi could tell that Malek was getting tired. He kept begging people to buy his tissues, but most of them ignored him. A few even yelled at him. Hadi remembered how all those insults had cut into him when he had first started. It had taken a long time to teach himself to shut all that out and just keep going until he found someone who would buy his gum. He knew he had changed over time. He didn’t feel much anger—or happiness—but he got through his days, and he took a little money home every night.

  But Malek was shocked by the rudeness he heard. “Some of the people call me names,” he told Hadi.

  “You can’t listen to any of that,” Hadi told him. “And don’t say anything back to them. That only makes things worse.”

  Malek was nodding. “All right. Thanks. I’m glad you’re here. I can learn a lot from you.” Malek hesitated, seemed to think things over. “But some people aren’t sure if they want to buy from me or not. I can see it when they look at me. I need to find the right thing to say to people like that.”

  Hadi shook his head. He wanted to tell Malek he didn’t know what he was talking about. But maybe it was good for the kid to try something new. He would probably give up after a while and just do what Hadi did, but for now his days might turn out better than Hadi’s.

  Late in the afternoon, as the sun was sliding behind the buildings to the west, Malek finally said, “I haven’t taken in enough money. I could be in trouble.”

  “What did that Kamal guy tell you?” Hadi asked. “How much money does he expect you to earn?”

  “I’m not exactly sure.”

  But Hadi thought maybe Malek was sure. And from what Hadi had heard about these gang people, Kamal would take everything Malek earned today and leave him with nothing to take home. Hadi found himself feeling sorry for Malek, and he hadn’t expected to feel anything like that.

  For the first time all day Malek was quiet as he stood next to Hadi waiting for the cars to go by. “I thought I would sell more,” he finally said.

  “Kamal can’t expect too much from you on your first day,” Hadi told him. “You were only here half a day or so, and you can tell him you’re trying to figure out what to say to people.”

  “You said it doesn’t matter what I say.”

  “I know. But he doesn’t know that.”

  “I guess that’s right. So that’s what I’ll tell him. He’ll understand that, don’t you think?”

  Hadi doubted that he would. But he said, “It’s not your fault that you didn’t earn more. You’ve worked hard.”

  Malek was nodding, probably rehearsing the words he would say to Kamal. “I’ve done my best,” he muttered.

  “That’s right,” Hadi told him.

  But Hadi could only think that Malek knew nothing about the street, about people, especially nothing about men who sent kids to these corners and then took their money from them each night. The truth was, Hadi had hoped all day that Malek would fail, maybe even give up and get off his corner. But now he sensed how frightened Malek was. Hadi had never been forced to give his money to someone like Kamal, but he knew what it was like to go from car to car all day and end up with little to show for his work—knew how he felt when he saw in his mother’s face that she was disappointed that she wouldn’t have adequate food to prepare for her family.

  Hadi took a big breath, tried not to feel too much. He couldn’t help it if he hadn’t had a great day either. He just hoped Baba, who sold items at another intersection, had done well, so their family could eat all right tonight. Lately, on these cold winter days, food had been sparse, and their apartment—their room—had been cold and miserable.

  When the boys went back to the cars this time, Hadi didn’t hear Malek say anything to the drivers. He moved quickly up the hill, keeping pace with Hadi. But neither boy sold anything, and when they returned to the corner, Malek said, “Why do people hate us so much, Hadi? When people look at me, even if they don’t say anything, I can see that they hate me.”

  “They say there are too many Syrians in Lebanon, that we’re ruining their country. My father says there really are too many of us. Like one or two million.”

  “But we lost our homes. We had to go somewhere.”

  “I know. But the people in Lebanon think we get all the help we need from the government—or from charities—and we don’t need to bother them on the streets. That’s not true. But they believe it.”

  “Why do they say we’re dirty?”

  “I don’t know. Baba says it’s easier to hate people if you think bad things about them.”

  Malek was shaking his head, looking confused.

  “Malek, you’ve been in Lebanon awhile,” Hadi told him. “Don’t you know what people here think of us?”

  “Sort of. But I didn’t know that they were so angry. One man told me to move on or he would spit on me.”

  “I’ve heard that. I’ve heard everything.”

  Malek laughed. “At least he didn’t do it. That’s something to be thankful for.”

  Hadi turned and looked at Malek. He could hardly believe that the boy was still smiling.

  Malek shrugged. “I always figure that things will get better after a while. They can’t get any worse.”

  It had been a hard day for Malek. Hadi was impressed that he was still finding ways to keep his spirits up. “This is about the time I usually quit,” he told Malek. “I meet my father before it’s dark, and we ride home on a bus.”

  “I guess I’ll quit too. I’ll have to promise Kamal that I’ll do better tomorrow.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “It’s called Bourj Hammoud. It’s over that way.” He pointed to the west.

  “I know where it is. I walk through there to meet Baba.”

  So the two walked together. It was not what Hadi had thought would happen just a few hours earlier.

  * * *

  It was almost eight o’clock when Hadi and his father reached home. On the bus, Hadi told his father about Malek and about Kamal sending word that he should leave the corner. He tried not to sound too worried about it, but Baba told Hadi, “We might have to look for another place for you to work.”

  “I don’t think we have to do that,” Hadi told him. “We sort of worked things out so we can both stay.”

  “But be careful,” Baba told him. “These street-gang bosses are dangerous people.”

  “Okay. I’ll leave if I have to.”

  By the time Hadi and Baba got home, Hadi was very tired, but when they walked in, it was Mama who looked drained. “Where have you been?” she asked. “These children haven’t eaten.”

  “The traffic was terrible,” Baba told her. “I know we’re late.”

  Hadi had stopped in Bourj Hammoud and bought some overripe fruit from his friend Garo, who operated a fruit and vegetable stand. He held up his net filled with apples and oranges, and his brothers and sisters ran to him. “An orange. I choose an orange,” Khaled was yelling.

  Hadi handed him one, but that set off a cry of protest. His three sisters were grabbing at the net, so he l
et them take it and tussle with one another over the other oranges and the apples. Little Aram, who was almost three, begged them for an apple, and Aliya gave him one that was half-rotten.

  “Cut out the bad part,” Hadi told his sisters. “It isn’t right to give him that one. He doesn’t understand which part he can eat.”

  They didn’t listen, but Hadi knew how hungry they were, especially when they had waited until later than usual to eat. Aliya, who was seven, liked to boss her little sisters, but she was usually kind to Aram. After she took some bites of her apple, she found a knife in a drawer and cut his apple enough to salvage what she could. Aram didn’t seem to care, as long as he had something. He was bundled up in a heavy coat—as everyone was. It was even colder than usual in the room. At least the charity organization in the neighborhood had made sure they all had heavy coats.

  Rabia, who was six, and Samira, who was four, sat down together on the floor with blankets pulled around their legs and chomped on their apples. They also had an orange, which Aliya had told them to share. The floor was strewn with tangled blankets, but there was nothing else: no table like the one they had had in Syria long ago, no beds. It was just a room, mostly empty, with a little cookstove that ran on propane gas, which they bought in tanks. A blanket hung across the room dividing off a little section where Baba and Mama slept.

  Hadi always forgot the smell of their apartment when he was out on the street all day, but it struck him when he came in at night. He didn’t know exactly what it was: a hint of the toilets that were down the hall; probably mold from the incessant water leak that worked its way down one wall and spread onto the floor so everything felt damp all the time; and surely smells from little Jawdat, the baby. Mama washed his cloth diapers as best she could and reused them.

  Mama was sitting quietly on the one chair in the room. Hadi picked up an apple that Aliya had left on the floor. He took it to a little counter by the sink, cut out the bad spots and sliced the apple into thin wedges, put them on a plate and carried them to his mother. He knew she couldn’t bite into an apple. She had had a terrible toothache for more than a week now. Still, he thought she could eat the slices. She looked at him when he offered the plate, and he saw the appreciation in her eyes, but he also saw the pain. “Chokran,” she said, and she patted his hand. It was sometimes hard to see Mama behind her sadness, but he felt her affection in the little touch.

  “Have you money to buy more food?” she asked.

  “Yes. Some. I brought home—”

  “We can’t afford much,” Baba said gently. “It’s not been a good month for Hadi and me to make sales. We can buy a package or two of bread and some rice, but we have to keep out all we can for rent or on the first of the month we’ll be out in the street.”

  Hadi watched his mother. She stared at her husband, didn’t speak, and Hadi knew she was holding back what she was thinking. A few months back, she might have complained, but now she only looked beleaguered. What Hadi feared was that she was giving up.

  Hadi wanted to tell his mother that all would be well, that she need not worry so much. He wanted to sound like Malek. But he couldn’t get the words out. He watched her as she looked at Baba, her face strained with worry. She usually didn’t wear her hijab over her head in the house, but she wore it now against the winter cold, and she wore her long black robe over heavy clothes. It made her look stout, but she wasn’t. Her face was thin, all bones, her eyes hidden deep under her black eyebrows. Hadi remembered when people had told him how pretty his mother was, but they didn’t say that now.

  “Go, Hadi,” Baba said. “Buy some food. Hurry.” But he only gave Hadi eight thousand lira.

  So Hadi headed for the door. He thought he could bargain for a little more than just the bread and rice, maybe some potatoes. “Come on, Khaled,” he said. “Go with me.”

  So Khaled hurried to get his coat on. He always loved to go outside, or to do anything other than sit in the room. Hadi waited, and then, as they were walking down the dark flights of stairs, he said, “Khaled, I have something for you.” He pulled the half sandwich from his jacket pocket. “It’s cold now, but it will taste all right.”

  “A shawarma,” Khaled said, as though Hadi had handed over a great treasure. And as soon as they were in the street, he bit into it and laughed at the same time.

  “I know you don’t get enough to eat,” Hadi said. “Your little sisters can get by on what we give them, but you need more. You’ll be starting to grow a lot before long.”

  “Thank you. Thank you.” He was still chewing. When he swallowed, he said, “I am growing up. I want to go with you tomorrow—to your corner. I can earn some money and add it to what you and Baba take in. I want to do it.”

  Hadi had heard this all before. Khaled had begged over and over to join Hadi and Baba in their work. Hadi understood how much Khaled hated being cooped up in the house with his sisters all day. But he also knew that Khaled wasn’t ready for the streets. “You’re too young.”

  “You were not much older than me when you started.”

  Hadi had no answer for that. He continued down the stairs and then stepped outside into the narrow street. Rain was falling again. He put his hood up. People were laughing nearby in a little stall where old men went to drink Turkish coffee and play cards. Another man across the street was closing up his electric supply shop, shutting bars over his door to lock out burglars. The smell was even worse out here, the stench of the sewer filling the air.

  “This is not a good time to start,” Hadi told Khaled. “There’s a man who wants to take my corner away. He might beat up on me. I may have to run from him tomorrow and find another corner.”

  Khaled didn’t seem to hear that. “It’s terrible to stay home,” he said. “The girls argue and Mama doesn’t try to stop them. She wants me to watch Aram and Jawdat all the time, and I’m sick of doing that.”

  “Everything is very hard for Mama right now. Her tooth is hurting really bad.”

  “I know. Her face is swelling. But she’s changed, Hadi. She used to play with us and think of things for us to do. Now she just sits, and sometimes she cries.”

  “She cries?”

  “Yes. She doesn’t want us to see, but we do.”

  Hadi felt a little sick. He had worried about his mother’s toothache, but he hadn’t known it was quite so bad. Sometimes the pain and the mounting problems for his family seemed more than he could bear to think about.

  “That’s why I want to work,” Khaled said. “If I earn even a little, we can save it up, and Baba can take her to a dentist.”

  Hadi had thought the same thing. He and Baba had even talked about it. They understood that Khaled wanted to be a man, but they also knew that he wasn’t ready to face people in cars cursing him and telling him he was filthy.

  “No, Khaled. Not yet. But it’s good you want to help.”

  “Baba said we’ll be kicked out of our house next month.”

  “No. He said we could be. But we eat something every day. And we always manage to pay the rent. It’s all we can do for now. But don’t worry. We’ll be all right.”

  “What if you lose your corner?”

  Yes. That was the problem. Hadi doubted he could earn as much money if he moved to another intersection—one that no one else wanted. He felt fear pressing on his chest, had felt it almost constantly lately. But today, since Malek had arrived and told Hadi that a man named Kamal wanted to take his corner away, he had felt as though he couldn’t get enough breath into his lungs.

  3

  On the following morning, Hadi hoped that Malek wouldn’t come and he could have his corner to himself again. But Malek did show up, and not just the next morning, but each day after that. Hadi didn’t know whether Kamal knew that he and Malek were working on the same corner. What he feared was that Kamal would spot him still there, or maybe send someone to spy on them. Hadi looked around at times, trying to spot someone watching them. If that happened, he worried what Kamal would do to him
.

  But a week passed and nothing changed. By then Hadi had begun to like having Malek around. He sometimes missed having time to sit on his concrete blocks to let his mind drift away from the tediousness of his day, but he was finding it was actually better to talk with Malek, laugh with him, and not be alone. The two kept learning more about each other, and Hadi was finding out that some things about their lives had been much the same.

  One afternoon, with a drizzle of rain falling, they stood in their usual spot and waited for the cars to stop. Malek asked Hadi, “How many years were you in school before you came to Lebanon?”

  The subject had come up before, but Hadi had avoided a clear answer. He decided now that he might as well admit the truth. “Our school got hit by a bomb when I was in second grade. So that was the last year for me. By then the city was all blown apart. In our part of the city, no schools were open.”

  “But I guess you at least learned to read.”

  “Yes. Some,” Hadi said, “but I haven’t had much chance to practice since then.” He knew he hadn’t learned much at all. Before the schools closed, the siege had begun and all supplies from outside the city had been cut off. Aleppo had been under almost constant attack with barrel bombs and cluster bombs falling. The continuous distress had only been broken by periods of terrible panic. Hadi remembered the thunder of bombs and the flash of the explosions that, even when fairly distant, made concentration almost impossible. Eventually, most of the buildings on his street had looked like skeletons, partly blown away but still standing. He had never stopped worrying that the next bomb would hit his building. Maybe Malek understood what that was like; maybe he didn’t.

  “Next year I’m going to school,” Hadi told Malek. “My father promised me.” And it was true about the promise. But Baba had made the same promise the year before. Once, the foreign couple had parked their car and walked to his corner. They had asked him whether he attended a school. Hadi had told them that he didn’t, and as best he could understand, they had said they could get him into a school. He had wanted to take them up on their offer, but he couldn’t. He didn’t think they had fully understood what he tried to explain. But without the money he earned each day, his family wouldn’t be able to eat.