Journey of a Thousand Storms Read online

  Habib turns back to us and asks sarcastically, ‘You want to rent my unit? For this Irani stranger?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Bulent murmurs.

  Habib takes a deep breath and says, ‘But he is from Iran and you are one of us. What makes you come and ask me this? How do you know he’ll pay his rent?’ He stares at Bulent.

  ‘Because for the last three months he has been paying it in Ankara.’

  ‘But how do you know he will keep paying it? Obviously he won’t have a job here.’

  Bulent is quiet for a moment. Then he says, ‘The Prophet Mohammad tells us to treat our guests as our brothers. This man has come to our country with no hope and no shelter. I see it as my duty to help my Muslim brother.’

  Habib’s face softens slightly. ‘You have horrible hair, Bulent, but also a great heart,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry, though – that unit is not for rent, and this Irani man is not a guest in my house so I am not responsible for him.’

  Habib reaches for the door and starts to shut it. I feel like I’m drow­ning in a vast ocean and this is the last stick floating on the water.

  ‘Mr Habib, please look at this before you close the door.’ I pull out of my pocket my small picture of Niloofar and show it to him. The photograph was taken a few days ago by Bulent’s fiancée, and shows Niloofar sitting on the concrete floor of the basement with nothing around her, looking lost and lonely. ‘She has the same name as your daughter. She’s only five months old.’

  Habib looks at the picture for a while and then gives it back to me. ‘She is cute.’

  There is silence again. With my heart pounding I say, ‘Mr Habib, you are my last hope. I have searched everywhere in Çankiri but no one wants to give his house to an evsiz.’ I look directly into his eyes.

  He is quiet. I cannot guess what’s going on in his religious mind. However, I have learned one thing in my life: we humans have much more than religion to unite us.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

  ‘Kooshyar Karimi.’

  ‘Come inside, Kooshyar,’ he says, before walking off.

  Bulent and I look at each other. ‘Come in, yallah!’ calls Habib from somewhere within the house.

  We enter and follow Habib’s voice to a vast living area, decorated with three sets of luxury furniture in different colours and styles.

  ‘Please have a seat,’ says Habib, sitting down in the largest chair. ‘Have you had dinner?’ His tone is friendly for the first time.

  ‘Yes, we’re fine,’ says Bulent, though we’re actually starving.

  ‘Get us some tea, Ebro!’ Habib calls out to his wife. A minute or so later Ebro, a good-looking young woman with a scarf carefully covering her hair, appears with a tray of tea. After our exhausting day, the tea tastes wonderful.

  ‘How many children do you have, Kooshyar?’ asks Habib.

  ‘Two, sir. Niloofar and Newsha, who is five years old.’

  ‘Allah bless them,’ says Habib.

  ‘Mr Habib, Kooshyar pays his rent on time, I promise,’ says Bulent.

  ‘My unit is not for rent, Bulent. I don’t need money from that place – thanks to Allah I am rich enough not to rely on that.’

  ‘But we were told that it is,’ Bulent insists.

  ‘Last year my mother-in-law passed away. She was a great woman, with strong faith in Allah. Before she died she asked me to do something for the poor, so I decided to give that place to a family who are really desperate for shelter. So many have tried to convince me they deserve it. Even though they were poor and desperate, I didn’t feel any of them were right for my mother-in-law’s last wish. Until tonight you, ponytail man, brought this Irani to me.’

  I am stunned. Suddenly I have enormous respect for Habib. He turns to me and says, ‘It’s a nice unit, with three rooms, but it’s a bit hard to keep warm in winter.’

  He asks Ebro to bring him the keys. While we wait for her to come back, I close my eyes and silently pray to Adonai.

  ‘Here, Kooshyar, these are the keys to the unit. You can move in any time.’ I have tears in my eyes. I don’t know what to say. I glance at Bulent, who looks dumbfounded. ‘Take the keys and go back to Ankara. Your children must be waiting for you.’

  ‘But what about the ren—’ Bulent elbows me in the chest.

  Habib says with a smile, ‘Go and tell the news to your family. Bring your Niloofar to Çankiri – we will look after her.’

  As we walk back to the car, Bulent turns to me and says, ‘You Pislik Yahudi, you definitely have an angel looking after you.’

  TEN

  It is 2 October 1999. We’re leaving almost everything I’ve collected over the last three months in Ankara and are starting afresh. I know there’s nowhere in Çankiri that sells cheap stolen items, but I’m sure we’ll find a way to survive. We take two suitcases, packed with children’s clothes and bits and pieces, as well as the blankets and pillows Bulent’s mother gave us.

  ‘Where are we going, Baba?’ asks Newsha.

  ‘To a beautiful town called Çankiri and we’re going to live next to a gorgeous river for a while.’

  She looks at me blankly. I can see the dark circles under her beautiful eyes, like those under Niloofar’s and Azita’s and my own. These shadows are beacons of loneliness and neglect, of hopelessness and misery. They reveal the true depth of our sorrow and despair.

  ‘Look after yourself,’ says Bulent, shaking my hand. Saying goodbye to him and Funda is awful – I don’t know if we’ll see them again.

  I hug him and say, ‘I owe you big-time, brother.’

  Funda and Azita are hugging and crying loudly. Just before I get on the bus Bulent reaches into his pocket. He grabs my hand and pushes something into it, closing my fist around it.

  ‘I want you to have this – it will protect you.’

  I can feel that it’s made of metal but have no idea what it is. I suspect it’s expensive. ‘But why, Bulent?’

  ‘Because you changed my life. Now, put it in your pocket and don’t look at it until you get to Çankiri.’

  I do as he says and walk onto the bus after Azita and Newsha, holding Niloofar in my arms. Before I sit down I see Bulent still standing there.

  ‘I’ll miss you, you crazy bastard!’ I yell out.

  ‘I’ll miss you, Pislik Yahudi!’ he replies.

  The trip in the packed, stuffy bus is bumpy and tiring. When we finally reach Çankiri it’s a cold, cloudy and gloomy evening. We walk for forty-five minutes from the bus terminal to the unit. I’ve only seen it from the outside so I’m nervous about what we will find. When we get to the grocery shop, Barish is there.

  ‘Merhaba, Kooshyar!’ he yells out as we enter. ‘Did he rent it out to you?’ I nod proudly and we walk through to the narrow staircase that leads to the apartments above.

  ‘Baba, our new house is above the ground,’ says Newsha excitedly.

  The building has nine units on four levels. We are on level two, right above Barish’s shop. When we open the door we gasp with joy: it has large windows and we can see the world outside, even though the view is only of a few leafless trees and a thin trickle of water called the Çankiri River.

  That night we lay out the blankets and our spare clothes on the concrete floor for makeshift beds. Azita and the children fall asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows, but as usual my thoughts keep me awake. I have no idea how long we’ll have to stay here, or how long Habib will let us live in this unit, or what is awaiting us at the end of this journey.

  I get up and go over to the window. There’s a full moon and I can see the streak of water across the road. I take the gift from Bulent out of my pocket. It’s a chain with a Star of David hanging from it. I squeeze it in my hands. I remember carving a Star of David on the wall of our basement apartment with a rusty nail when I was six years old. That star became a constant source of hope and relief for me, and I took an oath on it to always keep my devotion and to help others. I place Bulent’s gift around my neck, look at the moo
n and take my oath again, knowing that while we’re in Turkey I’ll have to keep the necklace hidden. And so our life in Çankiri begins.

  Our first task the next morning is to register as asylum seekers. The police station is in the centre of town and it takes us forty-five minutes to get there. While we’re registering, a short-tempered officer with a name badge saying Sergeant Yashar Ibtehal tells me I have to sign twice a day, morning and afternoon.

  ‘But in Ankara it was just once a day,’ I tell him.

  ‘I have special orders for your case. Twice a day – is that clear?’

  Then we go for a walk and find the bazaar. We also pass a decent-sized supermarket, near the town’s main roundabout, as well as many small grocery shops. We also come across a small green patch with a rusted slide and an old swing. This is Çankiri Park. It’s now early afternoon and we’re tired and want to go home, but Newsha insists on trying the swing. There’s a Turkish boy on it, his mother pushing him. After almost twenty minutes they’re still there, giggling as they watch us waiting. Finally Newsha goes forward and, surprisingly, says confidently in Turkish, ‘My turn.’

  ‘Get lost,’ says the boy, and his mother laughs. It breaks my heart and I pull Newsha aside. I need to distract her. I see an ice-cream booth near the park.

  ‘Look, Newsha, ice-cream!’

  ‘But we can’t afford it,’ Azita murmurs in my ear. I don’t care. For ten cents I buy Newsha a cone with one scoop of homemade ice-cream. She’s happy again and we walk back home.

  Over the next few days, life returns to some sort of routine but we’re extremely lonely. We’ve heard nothing from Arya and Shadi since their mysterious disappearance, and I just hope they’re all right. On Friday there’s a temporary market in the centre of town and we browse through it. Though everything is cheaper than in Ankara, it’s still too expensive for us. We buy some of the tiny fish from the river and Azita cooks them with olive oil and green beans. Newsha hates them and eats bread and cheese instead; Azita and I force down a few mouthfuls with water, and vomit all through the night. It takes us three days to feel normal again.

  One morning on my way to the police station, I see ash raining from the sky and there’s a strong smell of smoke in the air. Soon my shirt is covered with slag and I can hardly see the street in front of me. When I reach the station the same angry officer is there, resting his legs on his desk and reading a newspaper. He throws the pen at me without saying anything. As a sergeant he should love asylum seekers – we behave better than anybody else, because we know we’ll be deported if we do anything wrong.

  I try to sign the book but the pen isn’t working.

  ‘Sergeant Yashar, I’m sorry but I need another pen,’ I mumble.

  ‘Who said you can call me by my first name? I am Officer Ibtehal! Got it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I shake the pen but it’s out of ink, and I’m too scared to tell him again. I stand there like a statue.

  Eventually Officer Ibtehal notices me. ‘Signed?’

  ‘Sir, the pen is out of ink.’

  ‘So? Go get a pen, then. This is a police station, not a stationery shop.’ I can see he’s doing a crossword, pen in hand.

  I walk out and, after searching for a while, find a small shop and buy a pen for fifteen cents. When I return to the station, Officer Ibtehal is still holding his pen.

  I sign and write the date and time in the book. Before I leave he glances at his newspaper and says, ‘Plenty of oil in Iran, yeah?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘Bastard.’ Somehow it’s my fault Iran owns cheap energy. Then I realise the ash and smoke are from burning firewood. Heating is expensive in Turkey, and it’s already colder here than anything I experienced in Iran. I’m relieved we brought Bulent’s mother’s blankets.

  Time passes slowly in Çankiri. The nights are deeply dis­heartening. Azita and I talk about our future and I always end up saying that if our case is rejected she can take the kids back to Iran. Then Azita cries and I try to calm her down by pointing out that Mersey seemed positive we’d be successful. Eventually Azita falls asleep and I stay awake, until two or three in the morning, thinking.

  To keep my mind occupied I’m translating a book Bulent gave me about the constellations and calendars of the ancient Aryans, specifically in the Persian Empire. It contains remarkable research that shows ancient Persian palaces did not follow Assyrian architecture, as previously thought, but instead were designed according to their own mythology based on astronomical observations. I have always loved translating such books, and working on this one is a welcome distraction. Whenever I feel exhausted from translating, I work on a novel I’m writing about people who betray each other.

  One day, not long after moving to Çankiri, we’re returning from the police station when we decide to go to the park so Newsha can play. As we walk towards it we can see there are no other children around – Newsha will finally get to play on the swing. After a while another family arrives, with two boys around ten and twelve years old. Azita pulls my sleeve. ‘I bet they’re Iranian.’

  One of the boys goes over to Newsha and says something in Farsi. She’s so excited she runs up to me with a wide smile. ‘Baba, this is Neema. He’s my friend.’

  Soon Azita and I are chatting with his parents. Finding people who speak our language is like discovering water in the middle of a scorching desert. We can see that Asef and his wife Soosan are delighted too.

  ‘Çankiri is where the Turkish police send political asylum seekers – not many end up here,’ says Asef. ‘You must have a dan­gerous case.’

  ‘Yes.’ I can’t tell him any details of my story.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ Soosan asks us.

  ‘Only ten days or so but it feels like a century,’ says Azita, sighing.

  ‘We’ve been here for more than a year and we still haven’t heard anything about our interview,’ says Soosan. My heart sinks.

  When the kids finish playing we head home. The boys are curious about Newsha’s cast and want to know why her right arm is in a sling. Not mentioning the Turkish boy who pushed her, Newsha tells them she slipped off a swing in Ankara and broke her arm.

  As soon as we walk past the ice-cream booth Newsha, Neema and his brother, Navid, ask for some. Asef and I glance at each other.

  ‘Tomorrow, I promise,’ I say to Newsha.

  ‘If you behave tonight, you can have a cone tomorrow,’ Asef says. And we speed up our pace.

  A small Turkish girl comes towards us, holding her mother’s hand and licking strawberry ice-cream. I watch Newsha stare at her as she walks past. I enclose my daughter’s small hand in mine and look away.

  The next morning, a Friday, I meet Asef accidentally at the police station. This time the officer behind the desk is a junior policeman who’s not as revolting as Officer Ibtehal, maybe because he hasn’t been poisoned by bribery and anger yet.

  ‘No fax for you, Asef,’ says the young officer. Asef shakes his head in disappointment.

  After signing the book, Asef and I leave and continue talking. He says, ‘I feel guilty that because of my activities in Iran, our kids are here with no education and no future.’

  I know exactly how he feels. ‘So you can’t go back to Iran?’ I ask him.

  ‘Are you kidding? They’d cut me to pieces.’

  We walk in silence for a while. When we get to the ice-cream booth I ask, ‘So, how do you know if the UN has decided the result of your interview?’

  ‘They send a fax to the police station. That’s why whenever I go to sign the book I ask if there’s a fax for me. The police know me very well by now, although that’s also because the only other Iranian asylum seeker here is Hamed. I feel sorry for him – I think he’s about to lose it.’

  ‘I know. I met him when I was looking for a place to rent,’ I say. Remembering Hamed’s stable makes me feel grateful once more for Habib’s generosity.

  We keep talking until we reach the main road ou
t of town. Asef lives in a very small one-bedroom unit across the road from me on the other side of the river.

  ‘We should catch up some time for a cup of tea,’ says Asef.

  ‘That would be great.’

  It’s not long before our families are meeting almost every second night. I find Asef a pleasant man – he’s in his late forties, was a qualified engineer in Iran, and is quite knowledgeable and humble. Though we become close, and we talk constantly about our interviews, we don’t confide in each other our reasons for seeking asylum.

  One night we’re walking back from Asef’s unit, around midnight, and I’m carrying Niloofar while Azita holds Newsha’s hand. We hear wild dogs barking and shake with fear – these diseased dogs can kill. We speed up but after we’ve crossed the narrow, rotting bridge I notice a pile of wood in front of an old house. It looks as if builders have left it behind after finishing some renovations. I head over to have a look.

  ‘Come on, Kooshyar, let’s go. The dogs are going to get us,’ Azita whispers loudly. I check the woodpile: there are five long logs, wet and mouldy from the rain. I form a plan and decide to return later.

  The next day I deal with a more pressing concern: taking off Newsha’s cast. I cut it with a serrated knife, which takes hours. Newsha is brave but I can see she’s trying to hide the pain, and I feel pride mixed with anxiety.

  While removing the cast I try to remember how her fracture looked on the X-ray. Though children’s bones tend to mend very well, I’m worried her arm has healed crookedly or that she might have some permanent nerve damage. We can’t afford another X-ray or a proper examination by a paediatric orthopaedic surgeon.

  ‘It’s sore, Baba,’ she says, trying to move her arm.

  I teach Newsha an exercise to mobilise her arm, and over the next few weeks Azita and I encourage her to perform it regularly. At first she often cries in pain but after two weeks she has almost restored normal function and can play with Neema and Navid.