by Dean Hughes
“But that’s just the problem. We can possibly help you go to school, but I can’t let you think that will solve all your problems. You can’t become a citizen of Lebanon, so you can’t take a job other than farmwork, as your father said, or construction. People here believe there are far too many Syrians refugees and that you’re a burden that is destroying the economy. The Jordanians feel the same way. The European countries opened their doors for a time, but now they say they have done enough for you. America has stopped taking Syrians, and Canada and Australia are taking only a few. So here we are, trying to change minds, trying to help refugees, but no one is willing to offer you a way to live once you do finish school.” She folded her arms and sat stiff for a time, but then she added, “It breaks my heart to tell you such things, but those of us who want to help are dealing with an almost impossible situation.”
“We know these things,” Baba said. “We understand. But for now we need to eat, and we need to have a place to live.”
Hadi couldn’t stand to hear all this. “If I go to school,” he said, “maybe things will be different by then. I want to own a shop. Garo, my Armenian friend, was a refugee, and his father started a business. I want to do something like that.”
“But everything has changed, Hadi. The doors that were open to Armenians, long ago, are closed now.”
The room was silent again.
That seemed the end of everything. Mona was telling him that she couldn’t help.
But Hadi didn’t want to accept that. “Do you know a book by a man named Kahlil Gibran? It’s called The Prophet.”
Mona smiled. “Everyone in Lebanon knows this book,” she said.
“Kahlil Gibran said, ‘Even those who limp, go not backward.’ I’ve thought a lot about that lately. I just keep telling myself, I have to go to school, and then maybe something will change. If I stop walking forward, then I know nothing good will happen.”
Mona set her glasses down, leaned forward, stared at Hadi. “You’ve read The Prophet?” she finally asked.
“Most of it.”
“But I thought you hadn’t gone to school.”
“I haven’t for a long time. But I’ve been trying to improve my reading.”
“By reading Gibran?”
“It’s the only book I have.”
Mona shook her head slowly back and forth. “Hadi, you astound me,” she said. And then she looked toward the Risers and talked with them for a time in French. When Mona finally looked back at Hadi, she said, “Klara believes that we should help you go to school. And I must say that any boy who wants to learn as much as you do deserves a chance. But I’m concerned about something. I still want to know why those men were chasing you. You never really answered my question.”
Hadi was actually relieved that she hadn’t believed his half-truth. He was tired of being ashamed of himself. “I delivered drugs,” he said. “I didn’t sell them, but I gave them to people who came by to pick them up. I did it because my mother was in pain and needed to see a dentist. But I knew it was wrong, and I tried to quit. The men who were chasing me were drug dealers, and they were afraid that I would testify against them in court.”
Mona was nodding, looking solemn. “I understand how these things happen. These drug dealers know how to draw you boys into their system. It’s awful. I’m not blaming you, but you have to understand, my donors would be outraged if they knew I was using their money to help a drug dealer. And I’m afraid that’s how many of them would see it.”
Hadi tried to think what he could do. “If you can’t help me go to school, can you at least help my family find a place to live? I’m the one who did something wrong, but I’ve put them in danger too.”
Klara said something, and then Mona spoke with the Risers again. Maybe she was telling them that she couldn’t help Hadi and his family, and maybe the Risers were arguing with her. They seemed agitated.
After a time, Mona said, “Emil and Klara have been telling me what a good boy you are, how hard you have worked for your family. And they say that the drug dealers took advantage of you. They think I should not mention the drugs in my report and that I should enroll you in a school. What do you think of that?”
“If you can’t do that, I understand.”
“What would Kahlil Gibran say about that?”
Hadi tried to think what he would say. “I don’t know exactly,” he said. “But he said, ‘Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.’ I’ve thought about that for a long time, and I’ve talked to Baba about it.”
“And what do you think it means?”
“We should love people… but not for any reason.”
Mona smiled. “So you want me to love you and give you a chance?”
“I didn’t mean that. I just mean that the world gets worse when we do what’s wrong, and it gets better when we care about each other. I did something I shouldn’t have done, and now I have to hope that the world can forgive me.”
“So you want me to forgive you?”
“Yes. But maybe the people who give you money could forgive me too. I can limp forward, but I would like to walk.”
“Oh, Hadi, you’re a philosopher.” She was nodding her head, maybe thinking.
“He studies his book every night,” Mama said.
“That’s impressive,” Mona said. And then her voice changed, as though she had reached a decision. “Our organization has a program for children who are too old for first grade but haven’t had a chance to go to school. If I enroll you, I’m sure you will advance quickly. And then, perhaps, we can enter you into an afternoon session in a Lebanese school.”
“That would be wonderful,” Baba said. “Could our other children—”
“Yes. I could include all those old enough to go to school.”
But Mama had a question. “Is the school here in Jounieh?”
“Yes.”
“Where could we live?”
“We have some housing. It’s only temporary, but you can live there for a time, without paying rent, until you can manage on your own. There’s something we recognize. Displaced people—refugees—can manage all right if they get a start, but as Hadi said, it’s the world that has to reach out to them and lift them to the first step on the ladder.”
Hadi looked at Mama, who had begun to cry. Baba’s head was down. Maybe he was trying not to cry, or maybe he was ashamed that he had to accept such help. Hadi didn’t know. He only knew that relief was spreading through him, relaxing his muscles, letting him breathe again in a way he hadn’t for a long time. It seemed as though he and his family might finally see better days.
But then another concern hit him. “I have a friend,” he said. “He worked with me on the street. He got beat up—and he got hit by a car. And it happened because he tried to protect me. His father has no work. Is there something you can do for his family?”
Mona let out her breath, seemed to sag a little. “There are thousands of families like that in Beirut,” she said. “I can’t help them all. The truth is, I don’t really have room in my budget for you and your family. It’s only because Emil and Klara brought you here and spoke so strongly for you that I’ve decided to make some adjustments and do what I can for you. I simply can’t take any more right now. I’m sorry.”
“But Malek deserves help. Is there another office like this one that he could go to?”
“I don’t know. Every nongovernmental organization is facing the same problems that I am. People around the world felt sorry for all the displaced families at the beginning of the Syrian war. But most people forget after a while. There are so many problems in so many places, they get tired of hearing all the sad stories.” She turned then and asked the Risers a question, listened to them, and then she told Hadi, “Klara tells me that they know some people in another organization who might help—and they know this boy you’re talking about. They will try to see what they can do.”
Hadi nodded. “Malek wants to be an engineer,” he said. “He’s smar
t, and he can read everything. He helped me improve my reading while we were selling things on the street together, and we’re friends now. We promised to help each other.”
“That’s fine. You’ve spoken up for him. That’s all you can do for now. Leave it to Emil and Klara to see what they can find out.”
But Hadi could tell that she still didn’t understand entirely. “If I can own a shop someday—or do something like that—and he becomes an engineer, we want to help other people. People like us. We promised we would never forget each other, and we would figure out how we can help other people who are displaced—the way you do. We don’t want kids to beg or—”
“Hadi, it’s hard for you to comprehend what it would take to get all the children off the streets of Beirut, not to mention the rest of the world. There’s no way to solve all the problems we face.”
“But Malek and I want to do what we can.”
Mona smiled, but only sadly. “It sounds good to say that. But you’ve only seen a tiny part of the overall problem. There are sixty, maybe seventy million displaced people in the world. People across the world feel bad about that, but not many care enough to do something significant to help.”
“But that’s why we can’t stop trying.”
Mona smiled again. “I wish you luck, Hadi. But the challenges are bigger than you can imagine. If I can help you today, I’ll feel good about it, but when I take the bus back to my house at night, I’ll see children on the street and I’ll know I’ve hardly touched the problem.”
“But you don’t stop trying,” Mama said. “Hadi shouldn’t stop either.”
Hadi was surprised, but very pleased that Mama would speak up for him. He had the feeling that she was coming back to life.
“Yes,” Mona said. “Hadi should keep trying. I’m sorry that I’ve sounded so negative.” She smiled at Hadi. “Maybe your generation can do better than ours has done. I hope so. I really do.”
20
After the meeting with Mona, the Risers filled their car twice and drove Hadi and his family to a building not far away. The apartment they would live in, at least for a time, was better than Hadi had imagined. It had a living room, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. And there was a bathroom with a shower that they didn’t have to share with other people. There was even furniture: actual beds in the bedrooms and a couch and soft chairs in the living room. But more than anything, the place looked clean, smelled clean. There were no water stains on the walls, no mold, not even any cockroaches running around on the floors.
The kitchen cabinets were stocked with pots and pans and dishes. The bedroom closets were filled with sheets and blankets, and the bathroom cabinet with towels. Mama looked happier than Hadi remembered her since they had made their way to Lebanon, and Baba seemed more himself. He sounded determined when he said, “We won’t be here long. I want to earn enough on my job—if I get it—to rent our own apartment. Then someone without a job can move in here.”
What amazed Hadi was that he seemed to trust that something was going to work out. The next day he met with the manager of the trucking company, and two days after that he went to work. When he came home after his first day, Hadi heard him tell Mama, “The company is getting into its busy time of the year. My boss said he can use me almost every day. I’ll make much more than I ever did on the streets.”
“Alhamdou Li’Allah,” Mama said, giving thanks.
“Yes,” Baba said. “Alhamdou Li’Allah.”
Hadi thought he still ought to help in some way, but Baba said, in addition to a better income, he could bring home plenty of fruits and vegetables that were too ripe, like the produce Hadi had brought home from Garo’s fruit stand. “I won’t be paid the way I was back in Syria, when I was making long hauls all the time,” he told Hadi, “but we won’t worry about having enough to eat. Mama can start cooking some of the good things you ate when you were little.”
“If we need to save up to get our own apartment, I could sell gum here in Jounieh—you know, after school.”
“No. I don’t want you and Khaled to go out into the street ever again. I’m sorry you ever had to do that.”
Hadi was relieved—and thankful—but he still had one great fear. “Do you think Rashid is still looking for me?” he asked.
“I don’t know. If he knows we’ve left Cola, maybe he’ll decide we’re gone for good and he’ll stop searching for you. I doubt he would look for you all the way out here. And the manager told me he would put me on a northern route, away from Beirut.”
Hadi hoped he and his family really were safe, but he hated to think of Malek’s life by comparison. Malek was probably working the corner by himself now, still injured and still having to satisfy Kamal. And Malek’s family surely didn’t have enough money to live a decent life. Hadi kept trying to think what he could do for them.
* * *
Over the next couple of weeks Hadi felt a change in himself that he hardly understood. He had started school and it was even better than he had imagined. Khaled and Aliya also attended school, and they were still learning to read, but Hadi was now beyond that and far ahead of most of the children in the class, so the teacher, a Lebanese woman named Miss Saad, let him read on his own much of the time, and he read everything she gave him. He wanted to understand more about science and about the world—the countries and all the sorts of people who lived in other places. Everything was interesting to him now. He had felt for a long time that he knew too little, but now he realized how much there actually was to know and what a tiny fraction of it he had even been aware of.
Miss Saad was teaching him addition and subtraction, and he began to learn multiplication and division. He took problems home with him every day, and Miss Saad said he was learning math faster than any student she had ever taught. “You’re very smart, Hadi. Do you know that?” she asked him one day.
“A friend of mine told me I was smart,” Hadi told her. “But I wasn’t sure.”
All that was pleasing to Hadi, exciting, but he didn’t tell anyone the other side of what was happening to him: he still woke up at night sometimes, sweating and breathing hard. And he saw the scenes in his mind: the sound and flash of explosions, the man who was dying from breathing chlorine gas, and Marwa in her mother’s arms, the sound her mother made as she moaned and cried. As he lay there, he always managed his fear the same way: He thought of the bright-pink blossoms on the flower tree, and he tried to imagine that it was still alive, reaching into the soil for sustenance, not giving up. He knew he had to be like that. Allah had blessed him, and good people were helping him; now he had to make the most of whatever opportunities came to him.
Khaled didn’t love school as much as Hadi did, but he liked to play soccer during recess, and the sorrow that Hadi had seen in his eyes when the two had worked the streets together was gone. He was a boy again, and Hadi thought that was what he needed to be.
Aliya, finally freed from that dark room where they had lived, was almost too exuberant. Mama had to calm her down sometimes, but she was behaving much better, being nicer to her sisters and especially to Mama. Hadi heard Mama tell Baba how pleased she was to see all the children so much happier than they had been during those dark days in Cola.
One Sunday, about a month after the Salehs had moved into their new apartment, the doorbell rang, and when Hadi opened the door, there was Malek standing in front of him, grinning. It was like that first day Hadi had met him at the corner.
Behind Malek were Emil and Klara Riser, smiling too. “I wanted to see you,” Malek said, “so the Risers brought me.”
“Come in,” Hadi said. “Come in.” He had never kissed Malek on the cheek before. But it felt right now, so Hadi kissed him on both cheeks, as Syrians normally did.
Malek looked around. “This is a nice place,” he said. Then he greeted Mama and the children. Baba was not yet home from work.
The Risers did their best to talk to Mama, but Hadi asked Malek, “Are you still working on the corner in Bauchrieh?”
“Yes, I’m back there,” he said. He shrugged. “But it’s not too bad now. Like you always said, people buy more tissues when the weather is better. And some days I sell gum. It’s good not to sell the same thing every day.”
Hadi didn’t know what to say. It was painful to think of Malek still having to work at the old corner.
But Malek was quick to tell him, “Emil and Klara have been talking to people. Maybe—someday—they can find work for my father. They won’t stop trying.”
The Risers told Malek—and Malek told Hadi—that they had things to do and would be gone for an hour or so. Malek could stay and talk to Hadi. Hadi and Malek walked outside so they could talk by themselves. There was a parking lot behind the apartment building, with a low wall around it. The two sat down on it. To Hadi, it seemed the same as before, when they had sat next to each other and eaten shawarma sandwiches behind the wall. But there was no rain. The season of rain was almost over.
They talked about the corner and about Malek’s latest idea about how to approach people in the cars. “Lately, if their windows are open, I’ve been saying, ‘I hope you’re having a nice day.’ I wait a second to see if they look at me. Then I say, ‘I also hope you can make my day better.’ ”
“Do they like that?”
“Not really. But I like to say it. Sometimes it surprises people, and they at least look at me.”
Hadi laughed, but then he asked, “Do you think Rashid is still looking for me? Has he asked you where I am?”
“Rashid is gone. Samir told me that he’s in jail. He said the police are cracking down more than before, trying to get drug dealers off the streets. But Samir knows about Rashid sending his men to chase after you, and he’s angry about that. He’s hoping, this time, they can come up with enough evidence to keep Rashid locked up.”
Hadi felt another moment of relief. But Malek said, “Samir also said that as soon as the police put a few dealers in prison, others will show up. As long as people want to buy drugs, someone will supply them. I guess that’s right, but he told me not to get involved with any of the taxi drivers—so I stay on my corner and I don’t cross the street.”
