Journey of a Thousand Storms Page 14

  ‘My daughter has a urinary tract infection. She’s only six months old. I’m a doctor too so I know what I’m talking about. Please —’

  ‘Get out! Get out now!’ He leaps up and pushes me out the door then slams it shut behind me.

  I stand in the Emergency ward, hopeless and restless. I frantic­ally look around. The nurse has gone to the other side of the department, maybe to make sure the security guy is okay. I spot a medication trolley, and hurry over to see if there’s a small paediatric cannula. I find one and go back to Niloofar, pull up her sleeve and success­fully insert it. Now I need some fluids and a vial of ceftriaxone, the wide-spectrum antibiotic. In the cart I find ten millilitres of normal saline, which I slowly inject into Niloofar. This should save her from haemodynamic shock.

  The nurse comes towards me and I pretend to be waiting for the doctor, while trying to hide the medical equipment I’ve taken. But she doesn’t even glance in my direction. As soon as she’s disappeared again I race back to the drug trolley but there are no antibiotics there. I scan the ward and go over to the main cupboard, but it’s locked and I can’t see the key anywhere. I think, The nurse will have a key. Though I’ll be deported for it, I’m going to get it from her, even if I have to use force.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I spin around, startled. A grey-haired man wearing a tie and a stethoscope is approaching. He must be a senior doctor.

  ‘Doctor, please help me, for God’s sake!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m a doctor from Iran. My daughter is sick – she’s six months old with urinary sepsis and she’s going to die. Please believe me, she needs intravenous antibiotics urgently.’

  ‘Where is she?’ he asks.

  I take him over to Niloofar and pull the blanket off so he can examine her. He seems to be competent and knowledgeable and I begin to feel hopeful. ‘How long has she been sick?’ he asks.

  ‘We noticed it two hours ago.’

  ‘Has she had a urinary tract infection before? Or any other conditions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you put the cannula in?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’ I’m afraid he’ll be furious.

  ‘Good job. I’m sure that lousy registrar wouldn’t be able to cannulate an infant with collapsed veins,’ he says.

  In a matter of minutes, antibiotics are going through Niloofar’s body. Before the senior doctor leaves, he says to me, ‘I’m Dr Mehmet and I’m the head of Emergency here. If you need anything just ask the nurse to contact me. I’ve told her to give your daughter special care.’

  I thank him, my heart bursting with gratitude. I stay beside Niloofar’s bed all night. It takes eighteen hours for her to respond, but she improves and even produces some urine. When I’m eventually able to take her home, I’m told I don’t need to pay anything.

  I walk back to our unit with Niloofar in my arms. She’s breath­ing normally and no longer has a high temperature. I’m so grateful to the doctor, and to my Adonai. I hope that one day I’ll practise medicine again, wherever we end up, and save the lives of those who have no hope.

  It’s now sixty-nine days since my interview – another bitter, glacial morning. Azita and I try to mop up all the water that’s come through the window during the night. At eight-thirty there’s a knock on the door.

  Could this be the police again? I’ve heard that they’re checking units to make sure the electricity meters haven’t been rigged. I’ve already been out to turn on the meter’s counter but if they notice the broken seal I’ll be arrested.

  There’s another knock. ‘It’s me. Asef.’

  I open the door. He’s standing in the doorway with a look of shock on his face.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ It’s unusual for him to be here so early.

  ‘I was signing at the police station and Ibtehal told me . . .’

  My heart skips a beat. ‘What?’

  ‘He said you have a fax.’

  I can’t breathe, and feel as if all the blood has gone from my veins. I sit down.

  Azita gasps behind me. ‘Is it from the UN?’

  ‘It must be. They’re the only ones who fax the station,’ Asef says.

  It takes me a while to gather my courage. Azita says, ‘Good news or bad news, you have to see it, Kooshyar. I’ll stay here with the children. You go by yourself.’

  When I finally step out the door Azita says, ‘Pray! Pray to Adonai!’ This surprises me and I smile at her, grateful. I pray all the way there, not seeing anything or anyone. I’m more fearful than a man going to the firing squad. If the fax says my case has been rejected, this could be the last night I see Azita, Newsha and Niloofar for some time.

  I walk into the police station. Officer Ibtehal has his legs resting on the desk, as usual. ‘Merhaba, Officer Ibtehal,’ I say. Today his face is behind a book, not a newspaper, and I glance at the cover. It says something that would translate as Mouth Service: An Erotic Story. The perfect book for Ibtehal. He ignores me. I want to ask him about the fax straight away but I know he’ll just ignore me. I look at the register and reach into my pocket for my pen but I’ve forgotten it – on this of all mornings. He’ll get angry with me if I ask for one; he might even refuse to show me the fax. He turns another page of his book and a minute passes. I’m getting more and more anxious.

  When Officer Ibtehal senses me looking at him he puts his beloved book down and stares at me with cold eyes. He has a pen behind his right ear. ‘You need a pen, do you?’ he asks me impatiently. ‘Get out of my office and come back with one.’ He resumes reading.

  Distracted by nerves, I walk aimlessly in the streets until I find myself in front of a grocery shop. I go in and buy their cheapest pen then return to the police station. Officer Ibtehal is still there, reading his book. I sign my name then stand there in silence. I don’t want to annoy him by asking about the fax so I wait for almost five minutes. He flips the page and keeps reading so I walk to the door and am about to leave. Is this all some sort of joke?

  ‘Kooshyar, there’s a fax for you,’ he yells from behind Mouth Service. ‘Salim!’ A skinny junior officer comes out of the other room and salutes him. ‘Get that fax for this evsiz.’ Salim goes back out and returns with a folded piece of paper. When I take it from him my hands are shaking.

  I thank him and leave the station. I can’t bring myself to read it in front of Ibtehal or in the street, so I grip it firmly and walk home, constantly whispering, ‘Adonai.’

  When Azita opens the door I give her the fax. ‘You read it,’ I say.

  ‘But it’s in English,’ she says.

  ‘I’m sorry, I forgot.’ I take it back from her and we go to the other room. I don’t want the children to know anything about this.

  I clear my throat, take a deep breath and try to stop trembling. ‘It says, “Dear Mr Kooshyar Karimi, following your interview on 12 September 1999, the UNHCR has checked the information you provided and has reached the conclusion that you were subjected to human rights abuses by the Iranian regime. Therefore, the UNHCR has decided to recognise you as a political refugee. From 27 Novem­ber 1999 you will be under our protection, and arrangements will be made to transfer you safely to a third country. After receiving this letter you have seven days to present at the UNHCR office in Ankara to have a brief interview about your financial situation and the transfer process.”’

  Azita screams and jumps up and down while I dance around like a lunatic. Newsha runs in. ‘What’s going on?’ I pick her up and spin her in the air. ‘Guess what, Newsha? Guess what?’

  ‘What, Baba jan?’ she says excitedly. She can see the joy in my eyes, the joy that disappeared when I was first kidnapped by MOIS almost three years ago.

  ‘We’re going! We’re going to Disneyland!’

  Newsha’s face lights up with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen in my life. ‘When, Baba jan, when?’

  ‘Soon! Very soon, I promise!’

  That night I’m still in a pleasant state
of shock and disbelief. At eight o’clock I go out for a walk. It’s extremely cold but to me the world feels nice and warm. As I stroll I whisper, ‘Thank you, Adonai. I’ll always keep my faith in you.’  Then I can’t contain myself and start yelling, ‘I love you, my Adonai! I love life! I love the UN!’

  When I return home Azita says we have to let Asef and Soosan know about our success. Though I know she’s right, I feel very uncomfortable. How can we express our happiness to them when they’re still stuck here waiting? Wouldn’t it be mean?

  ‘I know you’re worried about upsetting Asef but I’m sure he’ll be happy for us,’ says Azita.

  And so we get the kids dressed and head out into the snow. The good thing about asylum seekers is that you don’t need to let them know you’re going to visit them. They’re so lonely and desperate that anyone knocking on their door is welcome – unless it’s the police, of course.

  When Asef opens the door I can’t hide my joy. He immediately knows everything and gives me a big smile.

  ‘Congratulations, brother!’ And we hug each other. Azita and Soosan hold each other too and we all cry hard. Newsha wants to tell Navid and Neema we’re going to Disneyland but they’re asleep.

  ‘Kooshyar jan, this is the happiest night we’ve had since arriving in Çankiri. Believe me, we’re as thrilled as if it were our own result.’ I so admire his magnanimity. Asef and I plan to celebrate by getting drunk tomorrow evening but we don’t have much hope of accomplishing this. I only have about three hundred and fifty dollars left and Asef has even less, so we can’t justify spending more than twenty dollars on alcohol.

  We go to the liquor shop the following day anyway. After searching through the vast array of drinks on display we realise that twenty dollars will only buy six cans of beer, an alcohol content of less than half a bottle of wine. Next to us a Turkish man is picking up fancy-looking bottles. How I envy him and wish he was my friend. I put the cans of beer on the counter next to his big bag of rum, Scotch and Smirnoff vodka. While the man’s still selecting, the teenage cashier takes the twenty dollars from me and hands me the big bag of bottles by mistake. In a moment of impulse, I walk out of the shop, fast. Asef is talking to me about his fascination with the liquor shop but I focus on moving as quickly as I can without seeming suspicious.

  ‘Slow down! What’s the rush?’ he asks.

  ‘Just keep up,’ I whisper, and go faster. I know I’ve taken a huge risk, but it’s too late to go back. Besides, my desire to celebrate tonight is overwhelming. As soon as we reach a corner I start to run. Asef, who is almost ten years older than I am, finds it hard to match my pace. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks, panting.

  ‘Just keep running and don’t look back!’ I sprint as if an army of police were after us.

  In less than half an hour we arrive home, with Asef gasping for air. I sit on the floor, open the big plastic bag and take out the bottles. I start laughing like a lunatic. A few hours later Asef is so drunk he’s making sheep sounds and crawling on the floor, while I’m dancing and yelling, ‘Fuck Officer Ibtehal!’ Azita’s shrieking with laughter and Soosan’s vomiting out the window.

  Next morning we’re all hung-over. I’ve no idea when or how we got to sleep, but we’re still euphoric.

  ‘The best night of my life,’ Asef says as we head to the police station to sign.

  ‘Me too.’ I put my arm around his shoulder. ‘Asef jan, I know your fax is coming. I have no doubt.’

  We arrive at the station and sign the book, this time using Asef’s pen. In the last two days I’ve been so focused on celebrating that I haven’t yet asked for permission to go to Ankara. I show my fax to Officer Ibtehal. ‘I need to go to Ankara for this interview, please,’ I say to him, though I know he’s well aware of the process.

  He drops the fax onto the desk. ‘I can’t give you permission.’ And he keeps reading his book.

  I’m speechless. If I don’t go to this interview in six days my case might be cancelled.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ he says aggressively.

  I’m about to protest but Asef pulls my sleeve and whispers, ‘Don’t.’

  As we leave the station Asef says, ‘He’s not working tomorrow. Come back and ask the other officer – he’ll let you go.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve been here much longer than you. Every second Thursday is Ibtehal’s day off.’ And we both smile.

  Azita and I sit up late into the night talking about our future. ‘I can’t believe we’re finally going to America,’ I say excitedly, but she shakes her head.

  ‘No, Kooshyar, not America,’ she says adamantly. ‘I know you want to go because it’s modern and has a lot of Jews, but I’m not willing to move there.’

  ‘Why not?’ I’m stunned.

  ‘It’s dangerous. Everyone has a gun and there’s too much crime. I’ve been through enough and I need to ask you this one last favour. Please don’t take us to America.’

  The last thing I expect, especially now we’re going to be free, is her ignorant, implacable stubbornness. On the other hand, Azita has been with me every step of the way so far, caring for our children, and though she’s complained at times she’s never made good on her threat to go back to Iran with them. I owe her something. ‘Okay. Where would you like to go, then?’ I ask her. ‘But don’t forget that the UN will ultimately send us wherever they want to.’

  ‘I know that but when they ask where you’d prefer, I want you to say Australia.’ I have heard it’s a beautiful, safe place so I agree.

  The next day I climb on board the bus for Ankara, legally, after getting written permission from the police that morning. In a few hours I’m at the UN, showing the guards my fax. They escort me inside and I’m treated with respect, which is a strange but wonderful feeling.

  Even so, I have to wait an hour before being interviewed. This time it’s with a young English officer.

  ‘Mr Karimi, congratulations. You’ve been recognised as a polit­ical refugee and the UN is going to send you to a third country.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Unfortunately this will take some time and you’ll need to be patient. We can apply for Norway, Finland, Sweden, Canada, America or Australia but we have no idea which of these countries is going to give you permanent residency. You can tell us your preference and the UN will approach that country first, but there’s no guarantee they’ll accept you. So, do you have a preference?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I would like to be sent to Australia.’

  ‘And why is that?’ he says, ready to type my response.

  I explain that I know Australia is a democratic, multicultural country, one that respects people regardless of their ethnicity or religion. It will also be safe for my children. The officer nods but says, ‘The process is longer for Australia – around twelve months – twice as long as for Norway or America.’ He raises his eyebrows, waiting to see if I’ve changed my mind. But I remember my promise to Azita, and I imagine Newsha and Niloofar walking to school in that beautiful land and enjoying freedom and respect.

  ‘That’s okay. I would love to go to Australia, even if it takes another twelve months or more,’ I tell him.

  Then he asks about my current living expenses, and after doing some calculations he tells me the UN can pay me a hundred and twenty dollars a month. ‘I know this isn’t much but it’s all we can offer.’ Even though it won’t cover all our costs, getting this money will be such a relief.

  By the time I get back to Çankiri it’s nine o’clock. I give Azita the good news about the financial assistance and the bad news about the extra twelve months of waiting.

  ‘Wherever they send us, though, we’ll go and start a new life and Newsha and Niloofar will be happy,’ I say and Azita agrees.

  Time slows down over the next few weeks. Knowing I’m going to leave Turkey makes every day drag on and on. I continue to feel unsafe here and am constantly aware that if I do anything wrong I’ll be deported. I have to be c
autious; I have to survive here for another six to twelve months.

  Two months pass with no news. My own money has nearly run out, and inflation is so high that even with the allowance from the UN, we can still only afford to eat bread, eggs and potatoes, and sometimes rice. Not having enough meat and fruit for so long has made Newsha emaciated and anaemic. Although Niloofar is now eating solid food, I can’t afford to give her a decent meal and I’m worried this will permanently damage her health.

  ‘We have to feed them some meat and some fruit,’ Azita tells me one night.

  I go to the only supermarket in Çankiri and find the meat section. After glancing at the security camera, I pick up two packets of mince: one is a hundred grams for a dollar, the other is one kilogram for eight dollars. I take them over to a part of the shop the camera can’t see and peel off the price stickers, replacing one with the other one, and then put the hundred-gram packet back on the shelf. I walk to the checkout and the woman scans the one-kilogram packet of mince. ‘One dollar.’

  I pay for it and walk out. My heart is about to jump out of my mouth. This is the first meat we’ve eaten in four months.

  After Azita’s fallen asleep that night I take a pillowcase and tiptoe to the grocery shop downstairs. As quietly as possible I pull the covers off the fruit boxes. I’m mesmerised by the shiny apples and large mandarins, and put five of each in my pillowcase. Then I notice a set of six plastic knives and spoons, and I take that too. When I go back to our unit and place everything on the floor I can’t help but feel exhilarated.

  Over the next three months I steal mince from the supermarket once a week and fruit from Barish’s shop once a fortnight. I have no choice – my daughters’ welfare is at stake – but I feel terrible about stealing from Barish, so each time I only take four mandarins and four apples, just enough to keep the girls relatively healthy. I promise myself that one day I’ll send him some money and my apologies. Then one day while I’m at Barish’s shop buying bread as usual, he tells another customer that someone’s been stealing fruit from his shop.