Journey of a Thousand Storms Read online

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Bulent. I have to move there. Can you please help me?’

  After a few moments deep in thought he says, ‘I don’t know anyone in Çankiri and I assume there wouldn’t be many places for lease there. Besides, country people are more reluctant to rent to an asylum seeker.’

  ‘I understand,’ I mumble in despair.

  ‘How much time do you have?’ he asks.

  ‘Ten days.’

  ‘If you pay for my petrol, I can take you there in a couple of days. Hopefully we’ll find somewhere and then somehow we’ll take your stuff there after that.’

  ‘That sounds like a plan. Thank you so much, Bulent.’

  He also reminds me that we have to go to the real estate office and terminate our lease for the current place. I feel nervous. I’ve been paying my rent on time but I don’t know how the real estate agent will react to the news.

  At midday on Thursday I walk to the real estate agency. When I enter the old man who dealt with us three months ago is busy doing some paperwork.

  ‘Merhaba!’ I say loudly.

  ‘Merhaba abi.’ He says hello back to me.

  I start trying to explain the situation but he seems upset. The more I talk about the police and their decision, the more confused and annoyed he looks. My Turkish is much better than when I first arrived in the country but I still understand less than fifty percent of the words exchanged in the street. Thankfully Bulent arrives a few minutes later and takes over, talking in fluent Turkish. The old man’s expression slowly lightens, and he gets up and walks towards me. I have no idea what he’s about to do. He reaches out his hand and we shake. Then he says something that Bulent translates for me.

  ‘You were my best tenant, much better than my Turkish clients. Thank you for always paying your rent on time. God be with you.’

  I press his hand and ask Bulent to say to him in Turkish: ‘I’m so sorry to break the lease. I’m very grateful for what you did for me and my family.’

  After Bulent translates my words the old man pulls me in and hugs me, squeezing me in his big arms. Then he goes back to his desk and writes something on a piece of paper. I look at Bulent and he shrugs his shoulders; he doesn’t know what the old man is writing either. Seconds later the old man gets up and gives the paper to Bulent. We leave the office and plan the trip to Çankiri for the next day.

  I’m ready at four in the morning for Bulent to pick me up. He turns up soon after with a full tank and we head for Çankiri. As we leave Ankara the houses and streets become narrower and fouler. We drive along a twisted, slender road for two hours until we reach a small village. A rusted sign on the road says in Turkish Welcome to Çankiri. It’s a town of tiny streets and rickety houses.

  It is eight in the morning when we walk into the first real estate agency, a small dank office on the ground floor of a two-storey building. As soon as Bulent says ‘asylum seeker’, the agent demands that we leave.

  There are only five agencies in town. We go to the second and face the same reaction: paranoia and hatred. The person at the third agency tells us we have to wait for the boss, and when he finally appears – hours later – he shakes his head. Bulent is trying to keep me optimistic. I keep thanking him for going through all this hardship and humiliation for us. He says, ‘We have to find a roof for Newsha and Niloofar.’

  By four in the afternoon we’re starving and tired, and almost every store is closing for the day. We rush to a takeaway shop and buy some cheap hamburgers. It is a typical Turkish grocery, selling everything from pliers and power boards to deodorants and condoms, from mousetraps and fly swatters to transistor radios and medicinal herbs. It also has a small kitchen where sandwiches are made. I discuss with Bulent the last real estate office we’re going to check and I notice the shopkeeper is listening to us. Eavesdropping is common in small towns like Çankiri.

  ‘Are you looking for a place to rent?’ he asks Bulent.

  ‘Yes, for my Iranian friend,’ Bulent replies.

  The shopkeeper shakes his head. ‘Good luck with that.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Bulent asks.

  ‘The real estate agent who owns that office hates asylum seekers. Last year he rented a room to an Iranian woman and when she left she didn’t give him the final payment. Since then he doesn’t even talk to anyone from Iran.’ Then he adds, ‘We call him Dog. He’s a very moody man. His second wife committed suicide three years ago.’ He continues chopping tomatoes.

  ‘We really need to find a place for my friend. He’s a very good man who pays his rent on time.’ Bulent takes out the letter the agent in Ankara gave us and hands it over. The shop owner stops slicing and reads.

  When he’s finished he says, ‘I know about a unit for rent. It’s upstairs, right on the top of my shop, and it’s got two bedrooms. But the owner is a fussy man.’

  ‘Can you talk to him?’ says Bulent. He takes out his driver’s licence and student card. ‘I’m an English student at Hajetepe University and I live in Ankara. I can be the guarantor. In fact I’ll sign the lease, so if he gets behind in his rent I’ll be accountable and will pay it. Is that good enough?’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll let you know by tomorrow.’

  Bulent gives the shop owner, whose name is Barish, his mobile number and we head for the last real estate office. The man behind the desk is a fat, bald middle-aged Turk with a thick moustache. He looks up from his newspaper and says, ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘My name is Bulent, I’m from Ankara and I need a unit for rent. Doesn’t really matter what part of Çankiri, just a place to live for three to six months.’

  The Turkish man looks at me suspiciously. ‘Is it for you?’ he asks Bulent.

  Bulent hesitates. ‘No, it’s for my friend Kooshyar. He is a doctor from Iran. He’s waiting for his visa to go to —’

  ‘No. I have nothing to rent to evsizs.’ He stands up, puts his newspaper on the desk and waves for us to get out.

  ‘But I can guarantee him. And here’s a letter from his previous real estate agent.’ Bulent tries to show the piece of paper to the man but he pushes us out of his office.

  ‘I said no!’

  At seven in the evening we arrive back in Ankara empty-handed and extremely disappointed. I have no idea how I’m going to face Azita.

  ‘Don’t worry, Kooshyar,’ says Bulent. ‘There’s still that unit above the grocery shop.’

  ‘I know, but our chances are next to nothing.’

  ‘You never know. Besides, you’re one lucky bastard!’ Though he’s trying to make me laugh, I’m finding it hard to smile.

  On the way to our basement I think about how the Çankiri real estate agents behaved towards me. I was treated like a terrorist. Although maybe they have a point, considering Iran’s support of Islamic terrorists in the last three decades. I can’t blame the Turks for being suspicious.

  ‘So what happened?’ Azita asks later in the evening, once the girls are asleep. Newsha has been very down – she constantly talks about Iran and wants to go back. Her arm is still in a sling and she’s in pain every day. It breaks my heart that when we go to the small park near home, she can’t play on anything.

  ‘Did you find a place to rent? And is it a nice town? Does it have a park for the kids?’ Azita asks.

  ‘Yes, it’s a beautiful little place, with lots of greenery, and the people are friendly.’ I know she won’t come if I tell her the truth.

  ‘But you didn’t answer the question. Did you find a place?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did. Thank God for Bulent.’ Another lie.

  ‘What is it? A unit?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a unit. There weren’t many places available, of course, because it’s a small town, but we found somewhere.’

  ‘Did you sign the lease? We only have a week or so to move.’

  ‘Yes but we have to wait for the landlord to approve it. It’s not that easy.’

  Azita looks into my eyes. ‘Are you sure you’ve found a place?’ she asks suspici
ously.

  ‘Yes. In a day or two we’ll get the confirmation and then we can move there.’

  The next day there’s no news from Bulent. The following day I wait until midday and call him. He says he hasn’t heard anything from the landlord, so I beg him to contact Barish to find out what’s happening. Bulent rings me back an hour later. ‘The landlord wants to meet you.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I think he wants to see if you’re trustworthy before renting it out to you.’

  ‘But Bulent, I can’t go by myself. It’ll be pointless because of my Turkish. Please come with me.’ I know I’m asking too much but I’m desperate.

  ‘Okay. I have exams tomorrow and the next day. We can go there next Wednesday, but you’ll have to pay for my petrol again.’

  ‘Of course, that’s fine.’ Petrol is expensive in Turkey and I only have nine hundred dollars left, but we simply have to find a place to live.

  When we arrive back in Çankiri the following Wednesday, we go straight to the grocery shop. I notice it’s on the outskirts of town, technically in the last block: beyond there’s nothing but bare land. Opposite the building is a small river that runs through the main part of the town.

  When we get to the shop, before we can ask about the landlord, Barish says, ‘I have an Iranian customer who’s been living here for almost two years. I told him your story and he’s keen to share his accommodation.’

  ‘That’s great. Can we meet him?’ I ask enthusiastically.

  ‘Let me give him a call.’

  Shortly afterwards a man in his late forties appears in the door­way and introduces himself as Hamed. He’s delighted another Iranian will be living here and we speak Farsi to each other – an immense relief.

  ‘Are you an asylum seeker?’ Hamed asks me.

  ‘Yes, just had my interview with UNHCR.’

  ‘Fucking bastards. I had an interview four years ago. I was rejected, like so many others, and have been waiting for them to reopen my file. I’ve even forgotten what my house in Iran looks like. It took me six months to find a place here. People are so hostile to refugees – small-town mentality.’

  Hamed’s manner and turn of phrase suggests he’s highly edu­cated, so I ask about his background. ‘I was a university chemistry lecturer,’ he tells me. ‘Now look at me. They treat me like garbage.’

  I nod in sympathy and he says, ‘Where I’m living is far from per­fect but there’s space for other people. If you like I can show it to you. The landlord is a nice man – there aren’t many of them round here.’

  ‘Yes please, I’m more than happy to see it. I’m not fussy.’

  Bulent and I follow Hamed through the narrow streets of Çankiri. After twenty minutes Hamed stops at a small ancient wooden door. He kicks it open and we walk through a cobblestoned yard towards an old mudbrick building with a large shed next to it. We enter the shed, which has a thatched roof, bricks walls, and stinks of sheep and cow droppings, and I realise it’s actually a stable. Hamed has placed his blankets and pillows in a corner and there are some pots next to a small woodfired stove.

  ‘This is it,’ Hamed says. ‘What do you think? There’s probably room for another three or four people.’

  I’m speechless. I look at Bulent, who’s also in shock. I wonder, How can I tell Newsha this is her new home? How would I convince Azita to move into a stable?

  Hamed says, ‘I’m paying ten dollars a week. You’d only have to pay half.’

  Bulent gently says, ‘Brother, thank you so much for your help. We’ll think about it and let you know.’

  ‘Okay. All the best with your search, but I know this town very well. People won’t rent to you even if you’re rich, just because you’re Iranian. And don’t forget you’re an asylum seeker!’

  On our way back to the grocery shop I try hard not to cry. The thought of my daughters living in a stable cuts through my heart. Bulent pats me on the shoulder and says, ‘Don’t lose hope, Pislik Yahudi.’

  When we arrive, Barish has some news. ‘I spoke to the landlord and he’s finally agreed to see you here at five-thirty,’ he says to Bulent. I look at the time: it’s now three-thirty.

  ‘Go for a walk around town in the meantime. By the way, the landlord is a very strict Muslim. He won’t even shake your hand if you’ve used aftershave, as it has alcohol in it.’

  As we leave the shop I wonder whether the landlord will shoot me if he finds out I’m a Jew. Thank God I’m not wearing aftershave; the last time I cared about such a thing was more than six months ago. But I’m also worried about Bulent. He should be at home with his fiancée and I feel so uncomfortable, making him go through all this for me.

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you, Bulent, but I hope I’ll be a free man soon and return the favour,’ I say to him.

  ‘Don’t worry, Kooshyar. Let’s just pray this man agrees to rent out his unit to you.’

  We walk along the river towards the centre of town. Almost every building in Çankiri has three or four storeys. Most people in Turkey live in units, including Bulent and his mother. With the country’s overpopulation, struggling economy and high unemploy­ment, there aren’t many who can afford to live in an actual house.

  We come across a couple of women with baskets, selling tiny fish caught from the river. They’re so small that I wonder out loud who would eat them. ‘People mince them, including their bones and guts, then fry them and eat them with a piece of bread,’ Bulent explains.

  We’re ten minutes early when we return to the grocery shop. Barish is serving customers and selling eggs, homegrown tomatoes and onions. The most common foods here are eggs, green beans and bread. Most Turkish families, especially in the country, can only afford to buy meat once or twice a week.

  Time passes slowly. It will be dark soon and we’ll have to head back to Ankara. When the landlord is fifteen minutes late Bulent politely asks whether he’s forgotten his appointment with us.

  Barish just shakes his head. ‘He will come.’

  After another half an hour there’s still no sign of him. At six-thirty Bulent finally loses patience. ‘We have to go back soon. Could you please give him a call?’

  Barish looks at his watch and after serving a customer he takes out his mobile phone and calls the landlord.

  ‘No, they’re still here. I see . . . Okay.’ He hangs up then says to us, ‘He can’t come today. He has a visitor.’

  ‘You must be kidding,’ says Bulent. ‘We’ve driven all the way up from Ankara and we’ve been waiting for hours, and now he says he can’t see us for just a few minutes? This is ridiculous!’

  ‘Listen, I’m not a real estate agent. I just wanted to help you and now there’s nothing else I can do for you. Please leave,’ says Barish.

  We walk out, me trailing behind Bulent. It’s getting dark already. Bulent is silent. Suddenly I have an idea, and start turning back.

  ‘Where are you going, Kooshyar?’ calls Bulent.

  When I re-enter the shop, Barish is serving a customer and gives me a furious look. I wait for him to finish then ask for the landlord’s address.

  ‘No, I can’t give it to you.’ He walks over to the other side of his shop. I follow him.

  ‘Brother, please, I just need to talk to him.’

  Barish shakes his head and avoids my eyes.

  ‘I have two little daughters, and my youngest is only a baby. For God’s sake, please help me.’

  Bulent walks in. Barish points at me and says to him, ‘Tell your friend I’m not going to give him the landlord’s address.’

  ‘Would you trust me with it? I promise I won’t tell the landlord how we got it,’ says Bulent. He then says something in Turkish, and I can see that something’s changed. Barish looks at me, takes out a piece of paper and writes down the address, then gives it to Bulent.

  We walk the streets of Çankiri asking passers-by for directions. The landlord’s name is Habib and luckily one of the people we come across knows him very well
. ‘You have to go to the other side of town. Continue straight and at the end of this road, turn left and keep going until you reach the roundabout, then turn right and continue on until you see the sign for Gholamoglu supermarket. Just opposite that there’s a big new two-storey house with white bricks and a black roof. That’s Habib’s house.’

  Bulent thanks the man who, while we’re walking away, giggles and says, ‘Habib won’t like a visitor with a ponytail.’ Now I have to worry not only about Bulent’s aftershave, but also about his modern clothes and long hair. Turkey is slowly westernising but I can see there’s significant resistance, especially among the older generation.

  In less than half an hour we’re standing in front of a magni­ficent house. Bulent looks at me nervously. ‘It’s almost seven o’clock. I don’t think it’s a good idea to knock on his door.’

  I lean forward and press the doorbell. A musical sound echoes inside the building, then there’s silence. Bulent takes a step back, as if he’s going to be attacked by a python.

  ‘Who is it?’ It’s a young voice.

  ‘Bulent Kaya.’

  A boy in his early teens opens the door. Bulent asks, ‘Is this Habib’s house?’

  ‘That’s my father,’ says the boy.

  ‘Can you call him, please?’

  We wait restlessly in the dark street. If Habib refuses me, my family will have to sleep in the streets of Çankiri. Eventually a large man in his late forties appears at the door. He’s wearing a white shirt and holds prayer beads in his hand.

  ‘Salam-al-alaykom,’ he says seriously, looking us up and down. He doesn’t say the modern word ‘Merhaba’, but instead uses the old-fashioned Islamic greeting in Arabic.

  ‘Alaykom-al-salam,’ we reply.

  Bulent says, ‘Mr Habib, I am sorry to bother you at such an odd time of night. My friend Kooshyar is an Iranian asylum seeker and he has to live in Çankiri for the next few months. We were wondering if you would be kind enough to rent your unit to him.’

  Habib turns his severe gaze from Bulent’s ponytail to me. He looks unhappy. Before he says anything a little girl, around three years old, runs up to him and grabs his feet. Habib pats her hair and murmurs, ‘Go back inside, Niloofar.’ She skips away.