Finally we reach Ankara. As I climb down the bus steps the attendant wishes me luck with a cheeky expression. He expects a tip, as if I’m a business-class passenger getting off an Airbus. I need to be careful; there are a lot of police and soldiers in the streets, and I look around to make sure no one’s watching me. I get on a minibus and in less than half an hour I’m in front of the UN building. It’s as crowded as ever and I walk up and down conversing here and there with some Iranians. I fall into conversation with Jabbar, who’s come to Turkey from Lebanon. I tell him I’m an Iranian Muslim and he says he is too, obviously proud of his faith.
He points at the UN and says, ‘I hate them. They all work for the Americans and the Jews. I had my interview ten months ago and still no results.’
‘Can I ask what happened to you in Lebanon?’
‘I’d been in Afghanistan fighting for the mujahedin, for Islam, until things went bad: the Taliban got out of hand, lots of us were killed. So I escaped to Lebanon.’ He tells me he wants to go to America, Canada or Australia.
Jabbar is not the first Muslim I’ve met with a contradictory attitude towards the West. Quite a few consider Western society, especially America, the enemy of Islam and human civilisation, but at the same time they’re desperate to migrate to a Western country – preferably America. Their main excuses are safety and a better job. After being rejected by the UN most of them go back to their original countries, without being persecuted – because they were never in real danger in the first place. I’ve even met people who, while waiting for their results at the UN, go back to their homeland and then return with food and other necessities from home.
I say goodbye to Jabbar and wish him luck.
It’s an extremely cold afternoon and the weather gets worse by the minute. My toes are numb in my shoes and I keep my hands in my pockets. By five o’clock almost everyone has disappeared and it’s getting dark. A police car turns into the street. I start walking, pretending I’m just a passer-by. As it drives past I see that the officers are checking the UN building. The car continues down the street. I begin to shiver.
By five-thirty no one has come out of the building but there are still some lights on inside. Minutes later the main gate opens and two labourers drag out a large object and drop it onto the footpath. When they go back inside I walk closer to it, using my cigarette lighter to see it more clearly. It’s a carpet folded into a square. I lift up a corner of it – it’s the worn-out yellow one from the waiting room. Maybe they’re doing some renovations. I go back to the other side of the street and wait another few minutes. Most of the lights are off now and I grasp just how pointless the whole trip has been. Of course the officers aren’t going to risk their safety by using the front gate; I even said this to Asef. I feel stupid. I touch my cold, shaved face. I wish I could cry or scream. Now I understand why that Kurdish man stitched his lips together. I desperately hope I never get to that point.
I go back to the carpet. I decide to take it with me and put it in our living room, to stop our feet sticking to the frozen concrete floor during winter. Yes, at least I can do this one thing. The kids will love it. I’m thinking about how to get it to Çankiri when a utility truck pulls up next to me. Two Turkish men get out, look at the carpet and say something to each other. I realise they’re collecting used goods from the street to sell them in places like Ulus. I put my foot on the carpet and say to one of them, ‘Bu benim.’ It means, ‘This is mine.’
He jumps towards me and pushes me so hard I fall to the ground. I repeat ‘Bu benim, bu benim’ and the other man punches me under my right eye. I see a flash of light and almost pass out but I crawl quickly over to the carpet and grip the corners as hard as I can. The other man starts trying to pull me off it while the first man punches me in the ribs and stomach. The pain in my abdomen is excruciating but I’m not going to let these Turks take my carpet from me. ‘Bu benim!’
Eventually the men back off. They kick me in the guts one last time, swearing, and get back in their car and drive off. I stay on the carpet for a few minutes. My head is throbbing and my stomach aches badly. Each breath comes with a sharp pain in my chest. Finally I stand up, feeling dizzy, and look around. I have to get out of this street as soon as I can, before a police car comes. I try to pick the carpet up but it’s extremely heavy. I drag it behind me to the main street. I can’t get on a minibus with this enormous object so I hail a taxi. The driver says he can take me and the carpet to the bus terminal for twenty dollars. This is so expensive I consider abandoning the carpet, but the wellbeing of my daughters is too important, so I agree.
Before I get in he asks me where I’m from. ‘Iran,’ I murmur. I wait for him to just take off but he says, ‘My son-in-law is from Iran.’ He gets out of the taxi and grabs a corner of the carpet. ‘Yallah!’ Together we lift it and put it in the boot. When we arrive at the bus terminal he accepts ten dollars from me and says, ‘All the best.’ It’s still a lot of money, but I’m so grateful for the driver’s generosity.
I shuffle into the terminal, dragging the carpet behind me, and can feel the other passengers staring at me. I look like I’m homeless. I’m covered in sweat and bruises and am gasping for air. I still have to go another hundred metres before I’ll reach the last bus for Çankiri. I feel like I’m about to collapse when suddenly the carpet feels much lighter. I look back and there’s a Turkish man with a long beard and traditional clothes pushing it for me.
‘Thank you so much, sir,’ I say to him.
‘That’s fine, brother,’ he replies. I notice his two sons and his wife, whose face is covered with a burqa, walking behind him. I make sure my Star of David is hidden in my shirt. When we finally reach the bus I say to the kind man, ‘Zahmet,’ which means, ‘Trouble.’
He turns to me with a smile and says, ‘Rahmet,’ which means, ‘Blessing.’
The kindness of this stranger on such a horrible night, with my heart overtaken by sorrow and darkness, suddenly gives me a ray of hope. I put the carpet in the luggage compartment of the bus and climb aboard. When we get to Çankiri I drag the carpet as quickly as I can to a backstreet near the police station and hide it, before going in to sign the register. Thankfully, Ibtehal’s shift is over and another officer is behind the desk. Though I notice him glancing at the bruise on my face, he doesn’t ask me how I got it. I leave the station, retrieve the carpet, and begin the long walk home. When I eventually haul it inside the unit, I pass out from exhaustion.
TWELVE
I have five hundred dollars left in the bank. Thank God we’re not paying rent, but food and other expenses are costing us about one hundred and fifty dollars a month. Occasionally we can afford vegetables and rice. I know that our money will run out in a few months and I am starting to panic. I have to generate some kind of income while we wait to hear from the UN. We’re in a sinking ship.
It’s a Thursday night in late autumn, seven weeks after my interview, and Asef and his family are visiting us. He’s as worried as I am about money.
‘I know this builder – he’s constructing a three-storey building in Yildiz Sokak and needs labourers,’ Asef says.
‘Do you think he’d give us a job?’
‘I can ask him.’
Two days later Asef tells me that the builder, Yashar, wants us to work for him.
We turn up at the construction site very early the next morning. Another four workers are also there, all Turkish. Soon Yashar arrives and tells Asef and me that our job is to put the bricks in a wheelbarrow and take them up to the bricklayer on the second level via some temporary steps. We are to work from six in the morning until seven at night and the pay is twenty dollars a week. It’s pathetic but better than nothing. We agree to start straight away.
On our second day, during our lunch, the Turkish labourers tell us they get paid twenty-five dollars a day. Asef and I look at each other. He mutters to me, ‘We have no choice; nobody else will give us work. If the police find out a Turkish citizen has employed us the
y’ll shut down their business for six months. So let’s just be grateful and do our jobs.’ He resents the situation as much as I do.
It’s difficult for me to wake up at five to go to work because I don’t get to sleep until midnight, or even later, after translating The Calendars of Ancient Aryans all night. Labouring is very hard and unsafe work; we perspire despite the cold air and our fingers and toes are constantly numb. We get a fifteen-minute lunch break to eat the dates and bread our wives have packed in cloths for us. The Turkish workers make jokes about Asef and me all the time.
Two weeks after we’ve started, one of these workers on the second level sends me back down because he’s decided the bricks I’ve brought up are not the right ones. I know he’s just being a prick but I can’t do anything. Asef does try to confront him, though, and the whole thing turns into a violent scene. Eventually the foreman intervenes and gets the Turkish men to agree to let me keep working. The Turks are angry about Asef and me because they know we work for less than a quarter of their wages, and they’re worried about losing their jobs.
Every evening when I get home I am beyond exhausted. My hands are covered with blisters and my feet ache. Azita tries to be supportive and help me overcome my humiliation.
‘Kooshyar, I know how hard this is for you but it’s only for a few months. Then we’ll be free and have an amazing life,’ she tells me while massaging my legs. ‘Someone told me yesterday that her cousin was an asylum seeker who spent two years in Turkey, but when she was finally moved to Sweden she was given a unit with a fridge and furniture. And listen to this – when she arrived, there was a big jug of orange juice in the fridge. Imagine that!’
Every Saturday, when we finish for the week, Yashar checks everything and pays the Turkish workers, but when Asef and I ask for our wages he says, ‘I’ll pay you next week – I’m a bit short of cash at the moment.’ After a month of this, Asef and I agree to demand our money.
‘We have family here and we really need some cash. It’s been four weeks,’ I say to Yashar.
‘Can you please pay us?’ Asef says after me.
Yashar reaches into his pocket and takes out some notes. He counts five dollars and gives it to Asef and then the same amount to me.
‘Is that it?’ I ask.
‘That’s it. If you’re not happy, don’t turn up next week.’ Yashar walks away.
‘Yashar, please wait,’ Asef yells, running after him, but Yashar gets into his car and leaves. We shuffle home, our pride deeply wounded.
It’s fifty-seven days since my interview. I count each day, just like the Count of Monte Cristo imprisoned in the Chateau d’If. When I ask Officer Ibtehal whether there’s a fax for me he usually doesn’t respond, a fat cat ignoring an emaciated mouse.
Winter has come early, as tonight it’s snowing heavily. I look through the window at the blizzard – the river has disappeared under a thick frozen blanket. A strong gust shakes the naked trees. Even our yellow carpet has frosted but I have to wait until midnight to dismantle the electricity meter so I can turn on the heater.
Azita calls out to me from the other room, where she’s changing Niloofar. When I go in she says, ‘Niloofar’s burning.’ I touch our daughter’s forehead: it’s as hot as a furnace. ‘She hasn’t eaten or passed urine for hours, and she’s so sleepy.’
‘Is she coughing? Or does she have diarrhoea?’ I ask.
‘No, she’s just lethargic and feverish.’
I pull up Niloofar’s shirt and check her tummy. There’s no rash but she grimaces when I gently press her lower abdomen.
‘I think she might have a urinary tract infection. It’s common in little girls, but she’s probably got it because we’re not using proper nappies,’ I say guiltily. I look at Niloofar – her eyes are closed. I know that urinary sepsis can kill a baby in two hours. ‘She needs intravenous antibiotics,’ I say, and start wrapping her in a blanket.
‘Where are you going?’ asks Azita.
‘To the hospital.’ I pick Niloofar up.
‘But it’s snowing. And it’s ten o’clock at night and the hospital is more than forty-five minutes away. Besides, the dogs will kill you. We need someone to give us a lift.’
‘Do you know someone who’d give an evsiz a lift at this time of night?’ I ask her sarcastically.
I hold Niloofar against my chest and race out the door. As soon as I leave the building a strong, freezing wind hits me. I try to cover her face – I’m worried the blizzard will cause her to go into respiratory arrest. Even I’m finding it hard to breathe. I use all my strength to run but I’m going against the wind and the snow is as high as my knees. Adonai, I pray, please save my daughter.
I cross the bridge. Stray dogs begin to bark behind me. Dogs in this part of the world are not pets; they’re worse than wolves. I try to speed up but my legs sink into the snow. I gather every quantum of energy I have left and push forward, hunched over to protect Niloofar from the gale. I flick the blanket back momentarily: she hasn’t opened her eyes. I put my ear to her mouth. She’s breathing so I cover her face again and keep going.
I reach a deserted, dangerous part of Çankiri. It’s still another few kilometres to the hospital. There are some brown spots ahead, getting closer and bigger. More wild dogs, desolate and ravenous. I keep going and the dogs come to a halt. I’m now so close I can smell the stench of their frosted hides. I remember my father’s advice: ‘If a wolf is about to attack you, don’t run away or it will chase you and sink its teeth into your neck. Just stop, crouch down and stare into its eyes.’
I’m terrified, but I cease running. There are five of them and they’re enormous. One has nasty ulcers around his mouth. They stand there growling, motionless but fierce. I hug Niloofar tighter. I’m not going to let these ferocious animals get my daughter, even if they tear me apart. They begin to form a circle around me. I summon my hope and courage and stare into their eyes. Suddenly one of them starts to come closer. I slowly bend down and make a barking sound, as loud as I can. The creature stops, its eyes still piercing me, and then goes back. I bark again and carefully step towards them. They all move backwards slightly. I’m now right in the middle of the pack; I can see the wet on their noses, their salivating mouths. I keep my pace – not too fast, not too slow – and advance past them. When I’m a few metres away I straighten my back and speed up. Then, when I’m certain they’re not following me, I run.
After another twenty minutes I finally see the sign for the hospital. I rush into Emergency at close to eleven o’clock. A nurse asks for my details, and as soon as she finds out I’m an Iranian asylum seeker her behaviour changes. I take out some cash from my pocket and say, ‘I promise I will pay. Just get the doctor, please.’
‘Wait here,’ she demands and disappears. There are three other patients in the waiting room, including an old woman coughing badly and a middle-aged man vomiting into a bucket. The nurse comes back with a young security guard. Chatting and giggling, they go out again for a cigarette. I wait another ten minutes in profound anxiety, knowing Niloofar’s chances of survival are dropping every second.
‘Nurse! Anybody! Please help!’ I yell out in frustration.
The security guard appears. ‘Be quiet or I’ll kick you out.’
‘My daughter is very sick. She’s going to die —’
‘I said quiet!’ He glares at me and walks away, disappearing behind a pale green door. When the nurse comes back ten minutes later, her lipstick is smudged all around her mouth, making her look like a naughty little girl who’s been scoffing a pink cake. She attends to the vomiting man and I rush over to her.
‘Please, Nurse, for God’s sake, help my daughter.’
The nauseated man says, ‘I’ll be fine, check this man’s daughter.’
Finally the nurse looks at Niloofar.
‘She has a high temperature,’ I say.
The nurse puts her hand on Niloofar’s face and whispers ‘ateş’ – ‘fire’. Then she asks me her name. I tell
her and she says it loudly while shaking her, but Niloofar doesn’t respond.
‘Okay, come with me,’ the nurse says, heading through the pale green door.
I quickly thank the man before following her. I walk past the security guard, who’s hastily adjusting his fly.
There are five beds in the ward, three occupied by patients. Seeing needles and monitors and smelling chlorhexidine and Betadine remind me of my years working in Iran. The doctor on duty, a young registrar, walks in. The nurse takes Niloofar from me and puts her on a bed. I watch the doctor examine her and realise how inexperienced he is. He also seems very tired but I try not to interfere.
‘Check her temperature,’ he tells the nurse.
‘It’s 41.2,’ she says to the doctor, a worried look on her face.
He takes out his stethoscope and checks her chest. Then he looks into her ears and mouth. He doesn’t bother to ask me anything about her symptoms or her medical history.
‘Excuse me, Doctor, I can tell you something about her illness,’ I say politely. The doctor ignores me and tells the nurse to give Niloofar a paracetamol suppository. I know that might lower her temperature but it’s not going to fix the infection. I stand there watching the nurse applying the suppository. The doctor disappears into another room. Another ten minutes pass.
‘Excuse me, is the doctor coming back?’ I ask the nurse, who’s now preparing some intravenous fluids for another patient.
‘I’m not sure,’ she says without looking at me.
I’m about to lose my patience but I say to her gently, ‘I think my daughter needs antibiotics.’
‘I’m busy. And stay there quietly or I’ll call security,’ she says.
I go back to Niloofar. Her breathing has slowed down and become shallower. I’m not going to let her die in this idiotic Çankiri slaughterhouse. I rush over to the room the doctor entered and see him lying on a bed.
Journey of a Thousand Storms Page 13
