“Yes, I saw.” Mum pats the sofa next to her. I move up so that we’re so close our legs are touching. “Thank you for doing that, Stevie.”
“That’s OK.”
“Hopefully we won’t need to go there again. Once the Department for Work and Pensions get my letter from Dr Ennis.”
“Yes. Hopefully.”
She puts her thin arm round my shoulders and hugs me. Her hair smells of coconut shampoo. “I love you, Stevie.”
I lean closer to her, breathe in her smell. Breathe in this moment. “I love you too.”
HAFIZ
It’s Monday morning and the weather is damp and grey. I trudge along the rain-soaked pavement, trying to convince myself that this video presentation for assembly is a good idea. But I still feel sick with nerves. Stevie and I spent most of yesterday filming, then editing the footage. Last night, when we played it back, I felt truly happy with it. But that was just me and Stevie watching. It’s totally different imagining the entire year watching it in assembly. Especially when I think of Price and Priya. But that’s why you made it in the first place, a wise inner voice that sounds just like my dad reminds me. That’s why I made it – to try and shut idiots like them up. To make them see that I’m not a terrorist or a rapist or out to steal their country.
I start walking faster. The rain is thin and misty. The kind that gets right in your face. I think of Latakia. The dry heat and the sand and the sun. I long to be there. But I’m here now. Like Sinbad on one of his adventures, this is where the sea has cast me. Now I have to try and turn my adversity into triumph.
“Hafiz!”
I turn and see Stevie hurrying along the road. Her hair is tied into a long plait and as usual her eyes are lined with black.
“Are you ready for the assembly?” she asks breathlessly.
“Sure.”
She smiles at me and suddenly I feel ready for anything.
Assembly isn’t until after lunch. At first break I go and see Mr Kavanagh and explain that I’ve made a video to show instead of giving a talk. He watches the video on my phone in total silence and remains silent for what feels like ages afterwards too. I look at Stevie and raise my eyebrows, not sure what to make of this. She shrugs. But then, finally, he speaks.
“Bloody hell, son,” he says, shaking his head.
My heart sinks. He doesn’t like it. He thinks it’s no good. I feel sick. What if he makes me give a talk instead?
“That was…” He clears his throat. “That was very powerful.” After a pause he says, “Can you send me a link to the video?” He writes down his email address and gives it to me. “I’ll show it on the big screen in the hall.” He looks at me and Stevie. “Well done, both of you. It’s a great video.”
“Thank you, sir.” I stand up, my heart racing. I only hope everyone else feels the same way.
Stevie
As we all file into the hall I feel my stress levels cranking up to the max. So far, it’s been a really crappy day. All through registration I worried that Miss Kepinski might say something about the food bank. She didn’t but she kept smiling at me really sympathetically, and she asked if I’d go and see her after school, so I know the most-awkward-conversation-in the-world is coming. Now I’m really nervous for Hafiz. I so badly want everyone to like the video – to like him. The hall is even hotter and stuffier than the humid air outside. At least I’m able to take my jumper off now, thanks to my new Lost Property shirt. I stuff my jumper into my bag and sit down. Hafiz sits next to me, his leg bouncing up and down like it always does when he’s nervous or excited. And the fact that I know this about him instantly makes me feel a tiny bit better. It’s so nice knowing someone well enough to know their little tics and traits.
Lucy Giles and her friends sashay up the aisle of the hall as if it’s a catwalk. I catch a waft of her perfume – clean and crisp and expensive – as they file into the row in front of us. Priya and her friend Gemma sit down in the row in front of Lucy. Across the aisle, David Price and his friends are sprawled in their seats, their faces in their default setting of totally vacant. The chatter in the hall lessens a little as Ms Potts goes up onto the stage.
“All right, Year Ten,” she says. “Quieten down, please.”
The hall falls quiet – but my heart is pounding so hard I swear the others must be able to hear it.
“Before I get on to the usual notices I have something a little different I’d like to share with you.” Ms Potts takes a step towards the front of the stage. “Now, I’m sure you’re all aware of the war that’s going on in Syria. We’ve all seen the stories on the news. But most of us – and I include myself in this – don’t actually know anyone who’s been directly affected by the conflict. Until now.” She pauses and looks out into the crowd until she spots Hafiz and smiles. “This year we’ve been lucky enough to welcome Hafiz Ali to our school. Hafiz is from Syria and he’s come to the UK to seek a safe haven from the war.”
I hear David Price mutter something across the aisle. Hafiz’s leg stops bouncing up and down and his whole body stiffens.
“Hafiz has very kindly made a short video about his experiences, helped by Stevie Flynn, and we’re going to play it for you now. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s worth watching. OK, Mr Kavanagh.” Ms Potts gestures to Mr Kavanagh. He taps something into his laptop and an image of Hafiz flickers onto the large screen suspended above the stage. I close my eyes. Please, please, please let people like it.
My voice suddenly booms out around the hall. “Hi, I’m here with Hafiz Ali, who has just started at Lewes High and is a Syrian refugee. I was wondering if you could tell us, Hafiz, how and when you became a refugee?”
Normally, in assembly, there’s a low-level background buzz of people shifting in their seats or whispering to one another. But total silence falls as Hafiz answers my question. When he talks about his friend losing his legs a few people gasp out loud. And when he gets to the bit about the woman’s baby drowning, the silence thickens. I see Lucy Giles turn to her friend with a look of genuine horror. Priya is completely motionless, staring up at the screen. Then the video cuts to the footage from Cuckmere and another close-up of Hafiz’s face.
“After the incident on the boat, how did you feel about the sea?” I ask, the wind whistling in the background.
“It made me hate it,” Hafiz replies. The camera pans out to a shot of the waves, frothy and wild. “But one thing I’m learning is that you can’t let your fears beat you. You can’t let hate win.”
The video cuts to a shot of Hafiz walking along the beach, beside the sea, his dark hair billowing in the wind.
“I used to love the sea,” Hafiz says in voice-over. “My home town of Latakia is on the Syrian coast. I don’t want to look at the sea and think of death any more. I want to look at it and think of fun and hope.”
The video cuts to a clip of Hafiz running into the water. The camera zooms in as he stands motionless and a wave washes over him. We edited out the sound of me whooping and cheering at this point and added some music instead. Seeing it on the big screen and hearing the music through the hall speakers makes it even more moving. Especially when Hafiz turns back to the camera and the sun breaks out from behind the cloud, shining down like a spotlight on him. Seriously, it’s as if Mother Nature had decided to go all Steven Spielberg on us.
“What do you hate most about being a refugee?” I ask as the video cuts to a shot of Hafiz sitting on the grass by the bunker.
“Being so far from my parents and friends,” he replies. “And not knowing if they are safe … not knowing anything.”
“What do you mean, not knowing anything?”
“Like, will I ever get back home again? Will I even have a home to go back to? What will happen to Syria?” Hafiz looks directly into the camera. His turquoise eyes are even more vivid in the pale sunlight. “I love my country. Just like you love your country. But imagine if a bunch of crazy people started killing each other and dropping bombs here. Imagine if it was n
o longer safe to even travel somewhere as close as Brighton. Imagine if half the buildings in your home town had been blown up and all the schools had to shut down… OK, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing…” Hafiz looks to me behind the camera and grins.
A ripple of laughter echoes around the hall. It fills me with hope.
“Imagine if everyone around you knew someone who had died in the war and loads of people who’d been injured. Think of your best friend.” He looks straight into the camera and his gaze is so intense it gives me shivers. “Think of your best friend and imagine them losing their legs. Imagine them no longer able to play football or swim or run or dance. How would that make you feel? And then imagine you had to leave the UK – leave your parents, your friends, your home, and try to make it on your own to safety – somewhere far, far away.”
I glance around the hall. Everyone is mesmerized. “And imagine…” He breaks off and looks away. “Imagine if the only people who could help you were human smugglers – gangsters who didn’t care if you lived or died, who only wanted your money. Imagine arriving in a foreign country, where you don’t speak the language, imagine being shoved into a camp where it’s dirty and cold and the local people and the guards hate you. Imagine getting to a point where you are so lonely and scared you don’t care any more if you live or you die…”
“What do you wish other people would understand about refugees?” I ask.
“I wish they would understand that we do not want to take anything from you,” Hafiz replies. “I wish they would understand that for a person to leave everything and everyone they love they have to be truly desperate.” He sighs. “All I want is to be with my family and play football and have fun with my mates. I don’t want to hurt anyone or do anything wrong. I wish people wouldn’t act as if we were invisible … or worse.”
“What do you mean by ‘worse’?”
Hafiz looks away from the camera. “Did you know that some people, they wait outside – what are those places called, where people go to wash their clothes?”
“Launderettes?”
“Yes. Some people, they go and they wait outside launderettes to attack refugees because they know that we will need to go there to wash our clothes because most refugees do not own washing machines.”
“What?” My shocked voice echoes round the hall.
“Why do people want to hurt us?” Hafiz asks. “Why don’t they want to help?”
“Maybe some people do want to help but they don’t know how,” I suggest. “What could these people do?”
Hafiz looks back at the camera. “There is a place in Brighton – Sanctuary by the Sea, it is a centre for refugees – they are setting up a library there and they need books.”
“OK, cool, so if people want to make a donation they can come and see you?”
Hafiz nods.
“Thanks so much, Hafiz. And finally, after going through so much, please could you tell us your wish for the world?”
“For all of us to live in peace.” Hafiz starts to grin. “And for Syria to win the World Cup.”
The video ends and there’s a second of pin-drop silence. Then applause starts echoing around the hall.
HAFIZ
They’re cheering. They’re cheering so loud it’s as if they just saw me score a goal from the centre circle. And now Mr Kavanagh is standing up and clapping and all the students around him are starting to stand up too. It’s like a wave building in the ocean, as row after row, they all get to their feet. I look at Stevie and raise my eyebrows. She grins at me and shakes her head in disbelief. And now I’m grinning too.
Ms Potts goes back onto the stage. “Come here, Hafiz,” she says, beckoning to me.
Feeling numb, I stand up and make my way to the front of the hall. Ms Potts comes down to greet me and shakes my hand.
“You are very welcome here,” she says, above the applause. “And I can tell you now that the school would be delighted to coordinate the appeal for the Sanctuary by the Sea library.”
Another cheer goes up.
“Thank you,” I mutter. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn and see a girl who’d been sitting in the front row. She smiles and she puts her arms around my shoulders and gives me a hug. I feel weird and embarrassed and surprised but most of all I feel grateful. The girl sits back down in her seat but now her friend is standing in front of me and she’s hugging me too. And as she sits down another girl comes up to hug me, and another and another. And now there’s a boy and he’s shaking my hand. And another boy I recognize from the football team is patting me on the back.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters gruffly in my ear.
Now there’s a line of students snaking down the aisle, queuing up in front of me. Ms Potts smiles and nods, blinking hard, like she’s trying not to cry.
One after another after another, the students hug me or shake my hand or high-five me. Most of them don’t say anything but they all look so serious and genuine. With each one I feel a little bit stronger, as if they’re lining up to pour hope into me. Finally there’s only one student left in the queue. Stevie. Her eyes are full of tears.
“Nice work, movie star,” she says with a grin.
I put my arms round her thin shoulders and hold her close.
Stevie
Everything has changed. Since the assembly Hafiz has become an instant celebrity. During English loads of people came up to talk to him and now, as we walk out into the quad for break, all eyes are on him. Now the stares aren’t nosy or cold, they’re friendly and supportive. The only person who doesn’t look happy is David Price. He and his friends were the only ones not to get up and greet Hafiz in assembly. The three of them are huddled in a corner, looking sullen.
“Hey.”
I turn to see Lucy Giles and a group of her friends standing right behind us. She’s smiling her perfect smile at Hafiz.
“Hey,” he mutters back. I notice the tips of his cheeks flush pink and for some reason this sight makes me feel slightly queasy.
“I just wanted to say I thought you were amazing in that video,” Lucy says. Her voice is low and husky.
“Th–thank you,” Hafiz stammers. Why is he stammering? My queasy feeling grows.
“I’m so sorry you’ve been through what you have,” Lucy continues, flicking her thick, honey-blonde hair over her shoulder.
I notice other students watching, including Priya, who looks totally confused. It’s not hard to guess why. Her hero is talking to her nemesis. This must be causing some major short-circuiting in her brain.
“Thank you,” Hafiz says again. This really annoys me. Stop saying thank you to her! I want to yell. She’s not that special. I’m starting to feel really hot. I undo the top button on my shirt and roll up the sleeves.
“We were wondering…” Lucy says to Hafiz, her gaze still fixed on him. “We were wondering if you’d like to hang out with us today after school.” She nods to her friends, who smile at Hafiz. “We were going to watch a movie.”
“Sure.” Hafiz looks from Lucy to me and back again. “And Stevie too?”
“Oh.” Lucy looks at me, surprised. It’s like she hadn’t even realized I was there this whole time. “Yes. OK.” She’s still smiling but I notice that the warmth has gone from her eyes as she looks me up and down. “Wait a minute.” She stares at me. “Where did you get that shirt?”
My heart starts thudding. “What?”
She steps closer. “The shirt you’re wearing. Where did you get it?”
“I – uh – a shop.”
“What shop?”
“I can’t remember. It was a long time ago,” I answer lamely. I see Hafiz staring at me and all of Lucy’s friends too. I notice Priya and Gemma moving in closer, like sharks circling their prey.
Lucy stretches out one of her thin golden arms and takes hold of one of the buttons. “This is my shirt,” she says loudly.
“No, it’s not,” I mutter. I pick up my bag, pull out my jumper, as if that’s going to help.
“It is. I recognize the buttons. Let me see the label.” Before I can get my jumper on Lucy has grabbed the back of my shirt collar.
“Hey!” Hafiz cries.
“No!” I wriggle out from her grasp.
“Why not?” She stares at me defiantly. “If you’ve got nothing to hide?”
“Yeah, why won’t you show her, Stevie?” Priya says slyly.
“We must have got it at the same shop,” I say.
“Oh, really?” Lucy’s eyes spark defiantly. “My mum bought that shirt for me when we were in France. In a shop called Amelie. Go on, show us the label.”
Crap! Crap! Crap!
“Are you telling me you just happened to go to that exact same shop in the south of France too?”
“Oh my God!” Priya exclaims, giving me a wide-eyed stare. “Did you steal Lucy’s shirt?”
“No!” My entire body is burning from a horrible mixture of heat and shame.
“You must have done,” Lucy says. “How else would you have it?”
I take a deep breath and try to compose myself. “I got it from Lost Property,” I mumble.
“You stole my shirt from Lost Property?” Lucy looks horrified.
“Yes. No. I didn’t steal it. I thought it was mine.” Oh God, I sound so stupid.
“Yeah, right,” Priya says, making me want to punch her.
I glance at Hafiz. He’s looking shocked. I think of how he just managed to win the entire year over and make them like him. And now I’ve gone and ruined it.
“I want my shirt back,” Lucy says.
There’s something about the way she says it that turns my shame to anger. The fact is, she hadn’t even realized the stupid shirt was missing. Why else would it have been in Lost Property? She probably has two shirts for every day of the week, one for the morning and one for the afternoon. She doesn’t have a clue what it’s like to have hardly anything. To be so poor you have to go begging for food.
Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow Page 16
