‘I’m making a fan. I’m going to change its panels so it will blow the air out.’ We now have a small rotating motor that, when plugged into the power outlet, spins a foam panel that I have cut into the shape of a fan blade. It’s attached to a fruit box I found in the street and is very ugly – just like our table – but it works perfectly.
‘Wow, that’s amazing!’ says Asef when he visits us that night. This is our second summer in Turkey and his third. Asef hates the heat and can’t afford a fan so he starts coming over every day to sit in front of mine.
Another month passes. I receive a letter from the Australian embassy telling us we all have to go to Ankara for medical tests. Fortunately Ibtehal is on leave and the new officer gives me permission without any drama. When we’re seen by Dr Noori in his surgery, he reads a brief report about my case then smiles and says, ‘Ah, you’re a doctor too, that will make things much easier and quicker.’ His respectful manner makes me feel at ease. ‘After I’ve examined you all, we’ll then have to do chest X-rays as well as urine and blood tests. The Australian government wants to make sure you don’t have any serious illnesses like HIV or tuberculosis.’
Dr Noori checks us thoroughly and, miraculously, we’re all reasonably healthy. After he’s finished he offers to give us a lift to the imaging and pathology building because it’s raining heavily. When it’s time for the urine tests, Newsha can’t produce a sample, Niloofar isn’t toilet-trained yet and we have to catch the last bus to Çankiri. I decide to urinate in all four jars.
The next week, when I take Newsha and Niloofar to the park, the air is full of smoke. The local council is pumping it out with big trucks to repel mosquitoes. Though the insects are terrible in Çankiri, using smoke to get rid of them is just as bad. The air isn’t breathable, and I worry it’ll make the girls ill or affect our medical tests.
The following morning there’s a knock on our door. When I open it and see Barish, I feel sick with nerves. I’m sure he’s found out I stole fruit from his shop.
‘Kooshyar, you have a phone call,’ he says.
‘A phone call?’ I can’t believe it.
‘Yes, a Dr Noori from Ankara. He wants to talk to you – he says it’s important.’
Then I remember giving Barish’s number to the embassy; it was the only phone number available to us. I run downstairs to his shop.
‘Dr Karimi, I have the results,’ says Dr Noori. ‘They’re all perfect, except for the urine tests,’ he says. ‘For some strange reason all four of them have traces of blood. If I send these results to the embassy your departure will be delayed by at least another six months. I don’t think these specimens are right, though, so I want you to produce new ones. Can you all come back tomorrow?’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you so much for your care.’ I appreciate that Dr Noori is probably jeopardising his job by doing us this favour.
As I leave Barish’s shop he yells out, ‘Congratulations, Kooshyar, you’re going to Australia soon!’ He seems genuinely glad for me.
I thank him and go back up to our unit. I know I won’t be able to get permission for us to go to Ankara tomorrow. Officer Ibtehal would love to know there’s something wrong with my medical test so he can make sure I’m not able to get my application processed. I’m so anxious that I don’t sleep at all that night. I realise that we have no choice: we’ll have to travel to Ankara illegally.
Next morning I’m at the police station at seven-thirty, while Azita and the girls wait outside. I have my pen in my pocket, ready to sign, but I know that won’t be enough to make Ibtehal happy.
He’s resting his legs on top of the desk with the register, so I stand there waiting for him to move them. But he ignores me and reads his book, as usual. I notice that he’s finally finished Mouth Service and is now reading another erotic story.
Minutes pass until finally he says from behind his book, ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘I wish to sign the register.’
‘Sign the fucking register then!’
‘I’m sorry but your legs . . .’
He pokes his head above the book and glares at me. ‘Are you telling me to take my legs off the desk, you fucking refugee?’ He seems particularly angry today. ‘Come back later! Get out!’
If I stand up to him he might fabricate a case against me and lock me up. I walk out, frustrated and furious. We’ll have to catch the next bus at eleven.
We go to the park and sit there for three hours. When we return to the police station and I go inside, a high-ranking officer is there. I gather that Ibtehal has done something wrong, and now I know why he’s crankier than usual. Before signing the book I notice a rash on the senior officer’s right temple, quite close to his eye. I look more closely – it doesn’t seem harmless to me.
I sign the book while they keep talking. Officer Ibtehal is clearly quite fearful of the senior officer. Once I’ve finished, I know I should leave immediately to catch the bus – at least this time Ibtehal is too distracted to follow me – but something is bothering me.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ I say to the senior officer in Turkish. My language skills have improved significantly by now.
‘What?’ he almost yells.
‘I’m a doctor – not in Turkey, of course, I have no licence to practise here, but —’
‘I’m not interested in refugees’ affairs,’ he interrupts me.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I just wanted to let you know that the rash on your forehead looks like shingles to me.’
He touches the red spots on his temple and murmurs, ‘I was probably just bitten by something last night,’ before dismissing me with a wave. But as I’m stepping out of the office he asks, ‘What’s shingles?’
‘Sir, it’s a serious viral rash that can spread to the eye and cause permanent damage to your cornea. I think you should see a doctor.’
The senior officer says nothing. I leave the station and hurry with my family to catch the bus.
I drink four bottles of water on the way to Ankara. I know that a trace of blood in urine is quite common if you’re dehydrated. When we arrive at Dr Noori’s surgery, I go to the toilet and produce a much clearer specimen. Luckily Newsha doesn’t have any problems this time, and Dr Noori helps us get a sample from Niloofar. He promises that our medical results will be ready in a few weeks.
We catch the bus home and I feel relieved. As soon as we reach Çankiri I go to the police station to sign for the afternoon, while Azita takes the girls home. Officer Ibtehal is still behind the desk, seemingly just as furious. He pretends I don’t exist.
The next night we’re eating our dinner of dates and bread when a knock on the door startles us. I’m worried it might be the police, coming to do another search or to check the electricity meter again, or maybe to arrest me for going to Ankara. I walk slowly to the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Police.’
I open it and see the senior officer from the previous day, and I have trouble controlling my nerves. I notice a patch over his right eye.
‘Dr Karimi, it’s okay. I’m not going to search your house,’ he says with a stern smile, then offers his hand. ‘I’m here to thank you. Yesterday afternoon the rash on my forehead got worse and I remembered your warning, so I went to my doctor. He immediately sent me to hospital and they diagnosed me as having shingles. When the eye specialist applied the medication he said if I hadn’t started taking it within the first seventy-two hours of getting the rash, I would’ve ended up with irreversible damage to my eye.’
‘I’m happy you started the treatment, sir. I hope you get better soon.’
‘They tell me you’re going to Australia.’ He smiles. ‘It’s a beautiful country and they’re lucky to have you there.’ Before he leaves he gives me his card. ‘If you ever need any help, give me a call.’
When he’s gone I read the card. He’s Colonel Shams, Chief Commander of Police in Çankiri. I give the card to Azita for safekeeping.
A month passes – it feel
s longer than a century. Finally we get a letter from the Australian embassy telling us we’ve passed the medical test. Now we have to wait for the UNHCR and the embassy to organise visas and plane tickets, which might take another four months. Though I’m very happy we’re getting closer to moving, I can’t help feeling frustrated. Newsha is now six and should be at school. Any time she sees Turkish girls in their school uniforms she says to me, ‘Baba jan, you told me last year I’d be going to school soon. Can I go now?’ I promise her it won’t be long until she’s at school in Australia.
Late one afternoon, when I’m about to take the girls home from the park, Newsha insists on having one more go down the slide. I wait for her to climb up the steps and when she’s sliding down I notice a man walking towards us with a little girl in his arms. It’s Dariush.
‘Salam, Dariush jan, how have you been?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not too good. My wife . . .’ He bursts into tears.
I take his daughter from him and sit her and Niloofar on the swing. While I push them gently I ask Dariush if he’s had any news from the UN.
‘Nothing,’ he says, utterly exasperated. He picks up his daughter and they sit down on a rotten bench. It’s getting dark but I can see the tears on his cheeks by the light of the only lamp in the park. His daughter has started crying too.
‘She must be hungry,’ I say, before immediately regretting it.
‘I can’t afford proper food for her,’ Dariush says. I reach into my pocket and take out a five-dollar note.
‘Please accept this,’ I say, holding it out to Dariush.
‘No, thank you. It’s very kind of you but she’ll be fine.’
‘Please, brother, take it. We all have families – I know how hard it is. Use this to buy some milk or eggs for her, I beg you.’ I push the note into his pants pocket.
Dariush looks up at me. ‘Thank you,’ he murmurs.
Time passes slowly and painfully. Our only relief from boredom and anxiety is through Asef and his family. Asef’s situation is much worse, however: they’ve still not heard from the UN, and Soosan has developed severe depression. We’re all really worried about her.
I keep myself busy by continuing to write my novel. I have finished the translation work but I’m also still teaching Newsha English. She’s progressed a lot and now she can read simple words: Iran, Turkey, Australia, home, family, love, sister and, of course, Disneyland.
But we’re increasingly finding it difficult to afford anything. Every day when I go to Barish’s shop the price of bread has gone up a fraction. ‘Zam,’ he says, just like the fruit seller in Ankara. Today I only have five dollars, and I won’t be paid for another four days.
‘Just two eggs, please,’ I say to Barish.
‘You don’t want bread today?’ He raises his eyebrows.
‘No.’
‘Why’s that?’ he asks.
I feel ashamed. ‘To be honest, I’m a bit short of cash this week.’
Barish silently goes to his shelves, picks up a loaf of bread and puts it on the counter. ‘Take it.’
‘Thank you, but I can’t.’
‘It’s yours, please have it.’ Then he adds, ‘You are my neighbour.’
As I climb the stairs to our unit I hold back tears. I’m so grateful to Barish – though he’s poor, he’s so generous. I renew my vow to one day pay him back. I hope he never has to be a refugee, never has to experience what I’ve been through. That’s all I can do now for this lovely, kind-hearted man: pray that he will never be in my shoes.
FOURTEEN
It’s eight in the morning and I’m signing at the police station. I’ve noticed that Ibtehal doesn’t rest his legs on the desk anymore. When I’m about to leave he tells me to wait, and then goes to the other room and comes back with a small parcel.
‘Sign here and here,’ he demands, showing me some forms.
‘Can I ask what these are for?’
He doesn’t answer and stares at me coldly, so I just quickly sign them.
When he hands me the parcel he says, ‘Your passports are here, plus your visa and tickets.’
I’m so elated I smile at him. ‘This doesn’t mean it’s over,’ he says in a threatening tone, but nothing can take my joy away. I pick up the parcel and virtually run back home.
We all open the parcel together, and I show the tickets to Niloofar and Newsha.
‘Look, baba! We’re going to Sydney in ten days!’ Niloofar smiles. She’s seventeen months old now and certainly understands how wonderful this is.
‘We should celebrate tonight,’ I call as I go out the door. There’s only forty-seven dollars in my account but I don’t care anymore. In ten days I’ll be a free man living in Australia. I rush to the supermarket and buy some ingredients, and this time I pay for them properly.
‘We’re having pizza,’ I announce when I return home.
‘Yay! Pizza!’ Newsha shrieks happily. We haven’t had it since we arrived in Turkey.
‘But how are you going to cook it?’ Azita asks.
‘Leave it to me.’
Asef and his family join us for dinner and for the first time in months Soosan smiles. Her depression has been worsening recently but this evening, at least, she seems to be enjoying some relief.
Once Asef and I have put the ingredients on the base I place the pizza on the concrete floor, turn on the heater and hold it upside down above the food to cook it.
‘This is crazy. You’re going to get electrocuted,’ Asef warns me.
‘Don’t worry, I don’t die easily.’
Asef goes over to the fan to enjoy the cold wind blowing from it. ‘I’m going to steal this one day soon,’ he says.
That night we enjoy our wonderful pizza and some beer Asef brought. He and I stay up drinking after everyone else has gone to sleep.
‘I’ll miss you,’ he says.
‘You too. I’ll do everything I can from Australia to help you,’ I promise him. ‘You’re like a big brother to me, Asef.’ I hug him. ‘Please look after yourself and Soosan.’
In the morning I call Bulent from Barish’s shop to give him the news and let him know when we’re leaving. He’s delighted. I tell him, ‘I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Bulent. I wish you the best.’ I say it from the bottom of my heart.
Finally our last night in Turkey arrives. Tomorrow morning we’ll get on the bus for Istanbul and catch our flight to Sydney. Our Emirates airline tickets have been paid for by the UNHCR. They’ve told us that when we arrive in Australia, immigration officers will be waiting for us at the airport and they’ll take us to our temporary accommodation.
At six o’clock I go to the police station to sign for the last time. It’s meant to be Ibtehal’s day off, so when I enter the office and see him behind the desk I’m surprised. I think, Maybe he’s come to say goodbye to me. After I sign the book I walk towards the door.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he says sarcastically. He drops something onto his desk. ‘You are arrested for stealing hundreds of dollars’ worth of electricity from the Turkish government.’
He must be joking. I go closer to the desk and see something that freezes every cell in my body: the broken seal of the electricity meter. I realise he must’ve known what I’ve been doing for some time but waited until the last minute to tell me. Before I can say anything, he saunters over and puts handcuffs on me.
‘Ibrahim,’ he yells out. ‘Take this evsiz to the lockup.’
The other Turkish officer comes in and grabs my arm.
‘No, you can’t do this, I have a plane ticket for tomorrow, I’m under UN protection!’ In less than a minute I’m locked in a windowless, concrete room. ‘Let me go, please, my family are waiting for me!’
I pace up and down in my dingy cell. It’s lit by a single fluorescent light and there’s a small rusty metal toilet seat in a corner. I want to rip my shirt and smash the walls and scream. I bang on the big metal door and yell again but no
body answers.
Agonising hours pass by. I picture being given a jail sentence for theft and the UNHCR giving up on me. Everything I’ve been through and achieved over the last thirteen months in Turkey will have turned to ashes.
Suddenly there’s a noise and a small panel in the door opens. ‘Karimi!’ cries an officer.
‘Yes, yes!’ I run to the door and put my hands on it.
‘Your wife is here. You have two minutes.’
Azita’s face appears through the panel. She looks pale and shocked. ‘Kooshyar, they say they’re going to take you to court tomorrow for stealing and we’re going to lose our flight, our visa.’ She bursts into tears.
‘Listen to me, Azita. Do you remember a few months ago I gave you a business card for that colonel? Do you still have it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, good. Call him and tell him where I am.’
‘But how?’
‘Go to Barish’s shop. Wake him up and use his phone. Go now!’
The police officer leads Azita away. The panel shuts. I sit down and hold my head between my knees, trying to stay calm.
It’s almost an hour since Azita left and I’m losing hope. What if Barish didn’t let her use his phone? Or what if Colonel Shams didn’t answer? Maybe he doesn’t remember me – it’s been months since he came to our unit.
Suddenly I hear footsteps approaching. I stand up.
‘Open it!’ It’s the colonel’s voice – a voice from heaven. When the door’s unlocked I see the colonel with another officer, and Azita is behind them in tears.
‘Dr Karimi, I apologise for this. You are free to go,’ says the colonel.
I rush over to Azita. ‘Are you okay? Where are the kids?’
‘They’re at Asef’s house.’
I turn to the colonel and thank him profusely, shaking his powerful hand. Then we leave the station for the last time. I hurry, pushed along by the knowledge that I’ll never have to see Ibtehal again.
All the way back home Azita talks about her conversation with Barish and the colonel. ‘I can’t believe it. We’re so lucky,’ she says.
First thing the next morning I go to Barish’s shop to thank him. ‘It’s okay, Kooshyar, I’m just happy you’re free now.’
Journey of a Thousand Storms Page 16
