Journey of a Thousand Storms

by Kooshyar Karimi

  On a cold morning a few days after removing Newsha’s cast I decide to sneak out and pick up the logs we saw on our way home from Asef and Soosan’s. I can’t imagine that anyone else would want these soggy, mouldy lumps of wood. The logs are heavy and I struggle to carry them home, eventually resorting to dragging them behind me. I have even greater difficulty getting them through the building’s front door and up the staircase to the second level. At least I don’t have to go through the grocery shop to get to the stairs, which have a separate entrance. When I finally drop the wood on the floor of the unit, Azita wakes up.

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  ‘I’m going to make a table for us,’ I announce, as proud as the architect of the Empire State Building.

  With tools I’ve borrowed from Barish I start sawing and hammering and sanding and chiselling. I also pull out the crooked, rusty nails so they can be reused. Straightening nails was the first job I ever had, when I was a cobbler at the age of five. As I work I have an unusual, bitter taste in my mouth, which I attribute to the effort of dragging the logs so far. Finally, at six in the evening, I’ve finished. It’s the ugliest table in Turkey and would require four men to lift it.

  ‘Are you okay, Kooshyar? You look so pale,’ says Azita.

  ‘I’m fine. A bit tired, that’s all,’ I murmur, wiping the sweat from my face.

  Less than half an hour later I’m feverish, perspiring profusely and shaking violently. I feel disoriented and unaware of what’s going on around me. Later on, in a lucid moment, I realise I’ve con­tracted a severe case of influenza, and I know that more people die from that than from AIDS.

  Azita is terrified. Every day Soosan brings a bowl of soup with chickpeas and noodles but I can’t eat anything.

  ‘Please try, Kooshyar,’ says Azita. ‘You were hallucinating last night. You kept shouting, “Get out! Run away! Run!”’

  On the second night of my illness there’s a knock on the door. Azita opens it and Officer Ibtehal walks in. ‘Where is Kooshyar?’ he demands.

  ‘He’s sick,’ Azita says nervously.

  He comes to my room and sees me in bed. As he towers over me I try to look directly at him but my vision’s blurry. I feel as if I’ve swallowed razor blades. ‘Hello, Officer,’ I manage to whisper.

  ‘You didn’t come to the station today.’

  ‘He is sick, Officer. Very sick,’ says Azita.

  ‘Are you sure you haven’t been out of Çankiri?’ Officer Ibtehal asks me.

  ‘I really . . . can’t . . .’

  ‘Then I’ll send someone to make sure you haven’t left town until you’re well again. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I say weakly before passing out.

  An hour later I wake up with Azita’s voice in my ear, begging me to see a doctor. But I say no – we can’t afford it. On the third night I have a seizure.

  ‘Wake up, Kooshyar! Wake up!’ She shakes me vigorously. ‘You had a fit. We must take you to hospital.’

  I refuse, though I wonder if I’ve developed viral meningitis. I go back into a stupor.

  For five more days my whole body aches as if I’ve been hit by a truck. However, eventually my energy begins to return and a few days later I’m back on my feet again. The first time Officer Ibtehal sees me in the station again he says sarcastically, ‘Evsiz, you don’t die so easily.’ I sign the book and leave the room, demeaned and hurt. I ask myself, How is it that some people are simply incapable of kindness?

  On my way home I remember a fiery speech given by the mullah in our slum encouraging us to join the war against Iraq. Mullah Mohamad was a bald, squint-eyed 75-year-old with a long white beard who looked like one of Snow White’s dwarfs. He was connected to everybody in the slum, if not by blood then through marriage or the influence of money. His sparkling altruism was ostensibly for the glory of Allah, but in reality it was merely camouflaged egoism spiced with dogmatic ideology. The mullah would respond to any question by quoting or paraphrasing the Koran. At least he had a talent for making his rehearsed phrases sound spontaneous and original.

  When Mullah Mohamad gave the speech about the war, I was fourteen and the conflict had been going for four years. In a packed mosque I sat next to my friend Vahid. Because we were now taller than an AK-47, in the eyes of the mullah we should’ve been battling infidels instead of going to school or playing football in the streets.

  Mullah Mohamad said, ‘I wish I was younger so I could be at the front line. One shouldn’t rest at night in bed while our brave men are fighting to protect our Islamic territory with their lives.’

  Vahid elbowed me. ‘Why is his son Hassan not at war?’

  ‘He’s a wuss,’ I replied. ‘I scratched his face with dry toast at school one day and he ran to the principal.’ We both giggled.

  The mullah passionately urged us to follow the path of Imam Ali, the most important figure in Shia Islam after Mohammad. ‘Nobody could defeat him in battle. He had the power of ten men!’

  ‘Then how come eleven men didn’t get together and bash him up?’ I whispered to Vahid.

  The mullah warned the crowd, ‘Saddam is secretly supported by Israel. In fact all the troubles in the Middle East, such as war, corruption and poverty, are caused by Jews.’

  I wondered, If the six million Jews in Israel can cause so much trouble for the hundreds of millions of Muslims in the Middle East, they must be very clever.

  Then the mullah raised his voice even more. ‘Allah says in the Holy Koran that every man who dies fighting for Islam will go to heaven straight away and be given seventy beautiful virgins.’

  There have been hundreds of thousands of martyrs in Iran. Every street, every important building or square or lane has been named after one. Islamic fatalism has destined young Iranians to a paradise that resembles a chaotic, overcrowded brothel.

  After Mullah Mohamad eventually finished his invitation to violence and murder, he sat down behind a small desk in a corner of the mosque, opened a big book and started writing the names of volunteers for the war. Several young boys and men lined up, while some old men enjoyed tea and biscuits as they relaxed on the massive handwoven carpet. Mullah Mohamad offered advice to each volunteer, and his favourite line seemed to be: ‘When you look into the mirror, see who is in there, not whom you want to see in there that is not you.’ Nobody knew what he meant, probably including the mullah himself.

  A young Revolutionary Guard started loudly lamenting Imam Hossein’s death, a tragedy that took place almost fourteen hundred years ago, and many joined him in his weeping. Sorrow is my nation’s delight. We can’t be detached from it, like the interlocking fingers of two hands. In a land where freedom and joy are forbidden, grief and malice are admired.

  That night after dinner I said to my mother, ‘I know Dad has three wives, but can a man sleep with more women?’

  My mother glared at me. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, can a man sleep next to a few women in one night?’

  ‘How many women?’

  ‘Seventy?’

  My mother took off her rubber slipper and ran after me.

  ELEVEN

  ‘I’m going to Ankara tomorrow,’ says Asef, when he visits us with his family one evening.

  ‘Why?’ I ask him.

  ‘To see if I can catch my case officer leaving the UN building so I can remind him I’m still waiting for my result. I do it every two or three months.’

  ‘But that makes no sense.’

  ‘I know.’ He shakes his head. ‘But what else can you do? I’ve heard that some people have spoken to their case officers outside.’

  ‘That’s a myth, Asef. I’ve heard a lot of bullshit from asylum seekers, like you can bribe the case officers or get a lawyer to defend you. You should know by now that these are fabrications.’

  ‘But I’m going crazy waiting. I need to do something.’

  ‘Have you even seen your case officer once since you’ve been doing this?’

  ‘No. I thin
k they leave through a back door. But I’ll try again tomorrow. I’m hoping that if he comes out to the street, I can jolt his memory.’

  ‘But he probably wouldn’t remember you. They interview people every day.’

  ‘I know, Kooshyar, I know.’ He stares at the ground.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I just don’t want you to be disappointed.’

  ‘No, I understand. But you’ll see – there comes a point when you want to do something other than just endlessly wait.’

  ‘But how do you get around the police? We’re not allowed to leave town.’

  ‘I go at six in the morning and sign, then catch a bus to Ankara and stay outside the UN building for the whole day. Around six at night I get on the bus for Çankiri and sign the police book at eight-thirty.’

  ‘But if they find out you’ll be deported.’

  ‘I know, Kooshyar, but I have to go. It’s my only hope.’

  ‘Just be careful. Please,’ I say to him, and he nods.

  Asef goes to Ankara and comes back with no result. He’s frus­trated but at least the police didn’t find out he left Çankiri.

  Time passes slowly. When I go to the police station every day I try to ask about a fax but before I’ve opened my mouth they tell me there isn’t one.

  I begin to understand how Asef has got to the point where he’ll risk everything to go to Ankara. He wants to feel like he has some control over his life. Hanging on for news feels like waiting to die in the bottom of a deep, dark well. But I worry that before long I too will break the rules and jeopardise our future.

  Asef and I begin to look out for each other. I still have the mobile phone I purchased in Ulus but there’s now only two dollars’ credit on it, so I only keep it in case of an emergency or if Bulent needs to contact me. However, after my influenza, Asef and I use it to check on each other on nights we don’t see each other. Before going to bed I ring his mobile, let it ring twice then hang up. I like to think of it as saying to him, ‘I’m fine, brother. How are you?’ When Asef responds with two rings of his own, he’s saying, ‘I’m fine, brother. Good night.’

  It is already bitterly cold in Çankiri. I’m worried the children will get sick when winter arrives. Only two groups in Turkey can heat their houses with electricity: the super-rich, and the crooks. And I am not super-rich.

  I walk around Çankiri for three days until I find a broken toaster, thrown out by its previous owner. I bring it home and take out the heating element, which I wrap around a big brick and attach to the power point. Now I need power. I wait until midnight and go into the corridor. There are three units next to each other on this level. Azita is with me to let me know if anyone starts coming.

  ‘Kooshyar, are you sure this is the right thing to do?’ says Azita.

  ‘Of course not. It’s stealing.’

  I place a chair outside our unit door and stand on it, reaching into the meter that controls our electricity supply. After gently breaking the lead case, I open the glass door and use a screwdriver to stop the counter.

  ‘Done,’ I say with a big smile on my face, as if I’ve dismantled a bomb in a packed football stadium.

  We go back inside and I turn on our new heater. It’s surprisingly effective as long as you stay next to it. Azita and I move the girls so they’re closer to it and we all sleep soundly that night, although at four in the morning I turn it off and reconnect the meter. I know I’m breaking the law but I can’t let Newsha and Niloofar freeze to death.

  The next day, on our way back from the police station, we walk past a man who looks familiar. He says hello in Farsi and keeps going.

  ‘Who is he?’ asks Azita.

  Suddenly I remember – it was Hamed. He’s lost so much weight I didn’t recognise him. ‘He’s an asylum seeker. He’s been here four years, waiting for UNHCR to help him.’

  ‘Oh no,’ says Azita. When we get home she starts crying. Hamed’s plight has underlined our situation, and she cannot bear it. I understand her frustration, and want to do something.

  But what? It’s now more than a month since my interview with the UN. I hardly sleep; I’m losing my patience and my sanity. I finally decide to go to Ankara as Asef has done. It’s probably pointless, but maybe the myth really happened. Maybe I’ll be lucky and see Mersey.

  At six I go to the police station. Officer Ibtehal is there, having his coffee. As I leave the room after signing the book he says sus­piciously, ‘You’ve come early today.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, Officer.’ I try to avoid eye contact with him.

  I go home, change my clothes and put on sunglasses and a hat I found in a garbage bin. I check myself in the mirror: I look like a KGB spy who’s been sacked for poor performance. I go to the bus terminal at seven-thirty to get the eight-o’clock bus, glancing around to make sure nobody notices me. I plan to wait until all the passengers are on the bus and then when it’s about to leave, I’ll approach the driver and ask for a seat. Usually in this situation you’re seated at the back without a ticket, which means your name isn’t recorded anywhere. I remember hearing my father talk about people doing this on his bus.

  I look at my watch: it’s seven-fifty. I see the bus is almost ready to go so I start walking slowly towards it. I look around again and see Officer Ibtehal with a young police officer arriving at the terminal. My heart racing, I keep walking while surreptitiously watching Ibtehal as he heads directly for the bus to Ankara. I stroll past it and continue on towards the exit. I’m almost there when I look back: Ibtehal has got on the bus and is checking the passengers. I speed up and arrive home in less than thirty minutes. I go inside, shut the door and drop to the floor.

  Two weeks after my first attempt, I try again to go to Ankara. This time I’m much more cautious. During those two weeks I’ve been going to the police station at six-thirty every morning, so Officer Ibtehal gets the impression I’ve become an early-morning person. I wear my KGB uniform again and when I get to the bus terminal I duck into the bathroom to shave off my beard and moustache – a blasphemy, of sorts. I’ve always had a well-trimmed beard and getting rid of it feels as if I’m taking my clothes off in public.

  The bus for Ankara is almost full when I see a man who looks like Ibtehal. He’s not in police uniform, but I’m still suspicious. I sneak closer to him, and I realise he’s the fisherman who sold us the river fish in the bazaar – if you can describe those tiny creatures as ‘fish’.

  The bus starts moving and the attendant sticks his head out and yells, ‘Ankara! Ankara!’

  I look around again. I can’t see any signs of any policemen so I run over. ‘Ankara?’

  ‘Yallah!’ yells the attendant, his voice much bigger than his stature.

  I climb up and walk to the back but there are no seats. As the bus moves out of the terminal I try to avoid eye contact with everyone but I know I look awkward standing in the aisle. After a few minutes the attendant finally comes over and tells me to sit on another passenger’s luggage. When we leave the outskirts of Çankiri, I exhale in relief.

  The bus travels smoothly. There are about forty passengers, and a few kids cry every now and then. Suddenly I notice Barish two rows in front of me, but he can’t see me unless he turns around. Though he’s a nice man, I can’t afford him knowing I went to Ankara without permission. News spreads fast in Çankiri. I keep my sunglasses on, even though I’m sure if Barish did see me he wouldn’t recognise me. I don’t think even Newsha would recognise me without my beard.

  I close my eyes and try to relax. I remember a time when I was with my father in his bus, and we were driving through a mountain range. It was a spring morning and a refreshing rain had fallen the night before.

  ‘Look,’ my father said, pointing at a sea of red on the plain below the mountains.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Siavash’s blood,’ he murmured. ‘Siavash was one of Iran’s greatest heroes. He sacrificed his life for love, and for our country. Every year after the first spring rain
millions of red poppies blossom in honour of Siavash.’

  I stared at the plain, completely mesmerised and lost in admiration of Siavash. I felt proud of my homeland and of my father, who knew so much about our history. I thought, When I grow up, I will tell all these stories to my own son.

  Later on that trip, my father took a small grapevine from the side of the road. When we got home he planted it in our tiny yard and for many years it gave us juicy red grapes. Ah, my father, I think, please forgive me for not having a chance to say goodbye to you before I left Iran.

  My reverie is interrupted when, about thirty minutes from Ankara, the bus suddenly pulls over.

  ‘Checkpoint!’ the attendant yells out.

  I stop breathing. I know there are occasional checkpoints on the road but I didn’t expect there’d be one today.

  ‘Cumhuriyet Bayrami!’ says the man in front of me to his friend. I then realise that this is the day Turkey commemorates Ataturk’s declaration of a republic. I sit on the bus hating myself, my life and my destiny.

  I notice several special armed forces personnel at the checkpoint inspecting other vehicles. Two soldiers get on the bus – one stands in the aisle while the other walks down it, looking at the passengers. He points at one young man then another, both of whom have long beards and are wearing traditional Muslim clothing, and demands they show him their identification. He comes to the end of the bus and I can feel my stomach churning. I try to stay calm but it’s impossible.

  The soldier says to the man in front of me, ‘Take your sunglasses off and show me your ID.’

  He checks the man’s papers and gives them back to him. The soldier looks at me. I take off my sunglasses and hat and return his gaze, knowing that if I avoid eye contact he’ll get suspicious. I feel the same way I did twenty years ago when I hid Ali Mazaheri in my father’s bus.

  But suddenly he turns around, walks to the front of the bus and both soldiers get off. I wonder if it was shaving my beard that saved me. Perhaps they were looking for Islamic hardliners, in case of a terrorist attack on the anniversary of Turkey becoming a secular republic. I can only guess. The bus starts moving again but my limbs are completely paralysed. I begin to love my destiny once more.