Journey of a Thousand Storms Read online

  ‘But how is that possible?’ asks the customer.

  ‘I don’t know – I sleep right next to my shop every night. The bastard must be a professional,’ says Barish.

  I feel a shiver down my spine. I had no idea Barish’s unit is behind his shop. Every time I’ve filled my pillowcase he’s been only a few steps away. I go back upstairs and tell Azita there’ll be no fruit for a while.

  The next month, while I’m signing at the police station, Officer Ibtehal murmurs, ‘There’s a thief in this town. I wonder who that could be.’ He puts his book down and gives me a suspicious look.

  ‘A thief?’ I repeat, trying to sound innocent.

  ‘Things have been going missing from some shops.’ He stares at me. ‘It must be one of the asylum seekers. Turks don’t steal – they have pride.’

  I wonder what pride has to do with poverty and malnutrition. ‘I’m sure you’ll catch him, Officer,’ I say to this Turkish Sherlock Holmes and walk out.

  As soon as I get home I grab the plastic spoons and knives I took from the grocery shop and hide them in my shirt. When it’s dark, I go out and throw them into the river. I feel like a murderer destroying his victim’s body parts.

  A week later, at eleven at night, there’s a violent banging on our door.

  ‘Police!’ I open the door and four policemen follow Officer Ibtehal inside. They search everywhere for anything illegal or suspicious. All they find is the heater. When Ibtehal asks what it is, I have to restrain myself from telling him it’s a rocket launcher.

  ‘Where did you get it from?’ he asks.

  ‘I made it.’

  ‘Really? You made a brick and some wires, did you?’ Officer Ibtehal is not the brightest man in Turkey.

  ‘No, Officer, I found the brick and I bought the electric element. I attached them together with a piece of cable and we use it for cooking every now and then.’

  ‘How did you know to do that?’

  ‘I worked in the electronics industry back in Iran.’

  He puts the heater back onto the floor and continues to inspect the rest of the house, waking up Newsha and Niloofar. Newsha panics and starts crying loudly. Azita tries to calm her down but I can see that her own face is full of anxiety.

  ‘Check the meter,’ says Ibtehal to one of the junior officers. My heart skips a beat. The officer goes out and looks up at the top of the doorway. The counter is spinning.

  ‘It’s working, Sergeant.’

  Before they leave, Ibtehal stands in front of me and scowls. ‘All asylum seekers are thieves; it’s just a matter of time until they get caught.’

  I say nothing. When I finally shut the door, I sit down on the floor and breathe again.

  The weather is slowly improving so I don’t need to interfere with the electricity meter as often, but I’m still stealing meat regularly from the supermarket. Every night before I do this I can’t sleep, and each time I go through the checkout I hear Ibtehal’s words in my head and become convinced that this is the moment when I’ll be caught and sent back to Iran.

  A few months after my last UNHCR interview I receive an envelope from them. I look at it all day with a mixture of anxiety and excitement but decide not to open it until the children are asleep. When I do, it’s the best news: Australia has accepted our visa application. Azita and I celebrate in our small room quietly with a bottle of water.

  The letter is five pages long and provides information about the country. The more I read, the more fascinated and excited I am. We sit there till two o’clock going through it together, with me translating for Azita. ‘They have elections every three years. Can you believe it? And Sydney and Melbourne are always voted as two of the world’s most liveable cities. What a gorgeous country.’

  It also says I need to go to the Australian embassy in nine days for a brief interview. In the morning, when I’m at the police station, I show the letter to Ibtehal.

  ‘So what?’ He shrugs his fat shoulders.

  ‘I need permission to go to the Australian embassy in Ankara, please,’ I say courteously.

  ‘Come back in eight days and apply then.’ He hurls the letter onto his desk.

  ‘But, sir —’

  ‘Are you deaf? I said come back when you have your appoint­ment!’ he yells.

  There’s no point arguing with him. I leave depressed, knowing that Ibtehal’s working every day until the interview. But as I walk home I resolve to find my way there, no matter what it takes.

  The next day I go to the office of a telephone company that provides affordable calls overseas. When I enter, an old Turkish man is at the counter paying his bill. A large number of Turks work overseas, especially in Europe, and they send money back home to their families, so many people use companies like this instead of a home or mobile phone. After the old man’s finished, I ask the young girl at the desk what the price is to call Iran.

  ‘Minimum ten dollars for five minutes,’ she says.

  ‘But I only have three dollars.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She shakes her head.

  ‘Please, it’s very important. I have to call my mother. Can I just buy two minutes?’

  ‘Let me ask my supervisor.’ She takes off her telephone headset and goes to the other room. Shortly afterwards a Turkish man comes out.

  ‘Minimum is ten dollars,’ he says adamantly.

  ‘Please, sir, I’m an asylum seeker. I need to make a call to Iran to say —’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’ He returns to the other room.

  I storm out, frustrated. I just want to make sure my mother is all right and tell her we’re moving to Australia. I haven’t had enough money to contact her, since she was arrested by MOIS.

  I walk home, passing the small park. There are some Turkish kids playing and I notice Asef and his family sitting in a corner in the sun. Navid is waiting for a swing to be free so he can use it. He looks annoyed. I wave to Asef and he invites me to join them. After we say hello I tell him about the phone call.

  ‘Here, come with me.’ He stands up.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Just follow me.’ He walks fast and in ten minutes we’re at the mosque, which is packed with people praying. ‘There’s a man here who’s helped me before,’ Asef says, looking around. ‘There he is.’ And he rushes over to a Kurdish-looking man on the other side. ‘Salam-al-alaykom, Jasim abi!’

  ‘Alaykom-salam, Asef,’ the man replies. Asef introduces us and tells him he needs a favour. Then he explains my situation. Jasim takes out his mobile phone and hands it to me. ‘Here, brother. Use this.’

  I’m shocked. The call will cost a fortune on the mobile. ‘Thank you, Jasim abi, but I can’t. It’s very kind of you but —’

  ‘Yallah, call your mother,’ he insists.

  I thank him again and take the phone before moving away to dial my mother’s home number. I pray that what I said in my interview about the party means she’s still alive.

  After five rings I hear my mother’s voice and feel profound relief.

  ‘Hello, Maman jan. It’s me, Kooshyar.’

  ‘Kooshyar jan, are you okay? May Adonai be your protector! Where are you? Are you safe? I’ve been worried sick. Are Newsha and Niloofar okay?’

  ‘Yes, Maman jan, yes, we’re all okay. Are you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m a tough woman, as you know.’ Then she bursts into tears. ‘They . . . they . . .’

  I know she’s trying to tell me MOIS tortured her, but I don’t want her to say anything because her phone is tapped.

  ‘Maman jan, are you all right?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, but they’ve frozen all your accounts and taken everything you had – your furniture, your fridge, your TV, your books.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Maman jan. It doesn’t matter as long as you’re okay.’

  ‘I’m fine, Kooshyar jan. Are you still in Turkey?’

  ‘Yes, but in a little while we’re going to a safer country.’ I can’t tell her where in
case MOIS is listening. ‘Maman jan, I’m sorry but I have to go. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I’ll call you soon from an amazing country.’

  ‘Thanks be to Adonai,’ she says, her voice full of joy. She whis­pers a Hebrew prayer down the line to keep me protected, and then exhales deeply.

  I give the phone back to Jasim. ‘I don’t know how to thank you, brother.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Anytime,’ he says with a smile and pats me on my shoulder. ‘We’re all brothers and sisters.’

  On our way to the park Asef tells me that Jasim’s father and brothers were executed by the Turkish government years ago.

  ‘He’s a very lonely man but he has the heart of an angel,’ Asef says.

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘When I was first sent to Çankiri I couldn’t find a place to rent for five weeks, and we had to live in the park in the middle of summer. One night he came across us and offered to rent his unit to us. He’s been my saviour.’

  That night Asef and his family visit us. After the usual talk the women and children go to sleep and Asef and I sit up until late. For the first time he asks me guardedly about my story. Now that my case has been decided I feel confident sharing my story with Asef, so I tell him what happened to me in Iran.

  Then Asef tells me his story. He was a successful engineer, the chief project manager for a big company in Tehran, but he was also a member of an underground communist group whose goal was to topple the regime and establish a socialist democratic government.

  ‘One night we put flyers in houses around town, hundreds of them, but one of us was spotted by MOIS. He was arrested the next day, and then we all tried to escape. I was very lucky. The day after I left Iran the head of the group, a forty-year-old journalist with a wife and three kids, was imprisoned then made to appear in a show trial. Four days later he was executed.’ I can see tears in Asef’s eyes.

  It’s easy for me to imagine the profound sorrow of losing a member of your group, especially when you are in charge of their safety. The grief would stay with you forever.

  THIRTEEN

  I wake up at five o’clock on the day of my interview at the Australian embassy. I need to catch the first bus, at seven-thirty, to get there by midday; the only other bus to Ankara leaves at eleven. If I miss this appointment, I’ll have to wait a few months for another one. I’m extremely nervous because I don’t yet have permission to leave Çankiri. At six I arrive at the police station and a young officer is there.

  ‘You’ll have to wait for Officer Ibtehal,’ he says indifferently.

  ‘Do you know when he’s coming?’ I ask.

  ‘Usually at seven.’

  I wait in a corner. When it’s finally seven, there’s no sign of Ibtehal. I wait another five minutes then beg the young officer. ‘Please, I have an appointment I’ve waited months for.’

  ‘I can’t help you.’

  I wait another twenty minutes in absolute frustration; the bus is about to leave. Finally, fifteen minutes after it’s gone, Ibtehal appears. He looks drained and unwell. The younger officer stands up and salutes him. Then Ibtehal stares at me, expecting a special greeting. So I say in English, ‘You look as if five orangutans made you their sex toy last night.’

  ‘What? Say it in Turkish!’ he demands in fury.

  ‘I hope you feel better soon.’

  ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ he asks.

  ‘I need to catch the bus to Ankara. Please can you sign this permission letter?’

  ‘Let me see it.’

  I place the letter on the desk in front of him. He puts his cup of tea on it.

  ‘So you need permission?’ he says derisively. ‘What for?’

  ‘To go to the Australian embassy. The UNHCR has made an appointment for me, sir.’

  ‘So you want to go to Australia?’ He takes a sip of his tea then grins at the younger officer, who smirks back. ‘Are you going to steal electricity in Australia too? And shoplift?’

  ‘No, sir,’ I whisper.

  Officer Ibtehal looks at the letter, then at his watch. ‘Your appointment is for twelve?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and I’ve missed the bus.’

  He signs the letter and throws it at me. ‘There’s always another bus.’

  I grab the piece of paper and hurry out of the station, sweating with exasperation. I’ll just have to catch the next bus and hope I can still be interviewed today.

  I wait in the terminal until I get the bus at eleven. At two o’clock I’m in a taxi going to the Australian embassy. When we get there I ask the driver for a favour.

  ‘Yes?’ he says pleasantly.

  ‘Could you please do the knot on my tie for me? I’ve never tried it before.’ Ties are illegal in Iran because they’re considered a symbol of Western culture. The taxi driver does up the tie I’ve borrowed from Asef. ‘Nice,’ he says, smiling. I pay him and run to the embassy, my long, wide, colourful tie waving like a sail.

  It’s two-thirty when I rush through the door. I’m so embarrassed at how late I am. I show my ID and am told to sit in the waiting room. A young man comes up to me and says in English, ‘You’re more than two hours late so your appointment has been cancelled. You’ll have to come back another time.’

  ‘But I can’t – the police won’t allow me. Please let me see someone today.’

  ‘I have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘But I’ve come all the way from Çankiri. I’m an asylum seeker – please let me see the officer.’

  ‘I’m sorry but if you don’t leave I’ll call security.’

  We’re still arguing when a female voice interrupts us. ‘Is this Dr Karimi?’

  A woman in her mid-fifties is looking at us from the doorway of an office next to the waiting room. It takes a moment to realise she’s addressed me by my title.

  ‘Yes, this is Kooshyar Karimi, ma’am,’ says the young man.

  ‘Come in, Dr Karimi.’ The man steps aside and I go into the office. There’s a photo of an Australian landscape on the wall.

  ‘I’m so sorry, ma’am. I had to get permission from the police and they kept me waiting for hours.’

  ‘I know how horrible the Turkish police can be.’ She smiles and I feel enormously relieved. I notice the right arm of her reading glasses is missing and feel even more respect for such a humble, unpretentious woman. ‘I’ve studied your file from the UN, so you don’t have to repeat all those details again. I already know how much you have gone through. Today will just be a quick interview.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ She has a folder on her desk, which I guess is my file.

  ‘May I ask why you have chosen Australia?’

  ‘To be honest, because Australia is a democratic, free and safe country, and I want my children to grow up in such an environment.’

  She nods. ‘I’ve seen their photos; they’re gorgeous. Now, I know you were a doctor in Iran. What would you like to do once you’re living in Australia?’

  ‘I’d like to practise medicine again, if possible.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘I must warn you that will be extremely hard. You’ll have to pass a series of exams to get an Australian medical licence. It can take years.’

  ‘I’m not scared of hard work, ma’am,’ I reply firmly.

  ‘Great,’ she says, and smiles warmly. ‘I’m assuming you will live in Australia permanently. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘So if one day a country attacks Australia, what would you do?’

  ‘I will go to war the same day.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Australia has given me a second chance to live, ma’am.’ She smiles again.

  ‘And will you miss your home?’

  This question touches my heart deeply. ‘Australia will be my home.’

  Three more months pass without news. The woman who interviewed me said approval would take a lot of time and a lot of paperwork between the UNHCR, the Australian government and its
embassy, and me. Every morning when Newsha wakes up she asks when we’re going, and I try to keep her occupied and happy while we wait. I take her to the river to find rocks. It’s a favourite pastime of ours; we especially like ones that are colourful, round and smooth. We keep them all in a glass jar we found in the street.

  Sometimes I take her and Niloofar with me to sign at the police station and if I get a chance I put Niloofar on the swing on the way back. She loves it. Despite all the deprivation she’s growing fast.

  One day while we’re at the park I notice a Persian-looking man holding a baby girl in his arms. When I walk over to introduce myself, I recognise him.

  ‘Hello, Dariush. Long time no see.’

  ‘How have you been, Kooshyar?’

  Dariush is the asylum seeker I met outside the UN whose wife got cancer after giving birth to their daughter. He tells me, ‘Marjan has had her second round of chemotherapy but she’s not coping very well. She’s so weak and has lost a lot of weight.’ While Dariush is talking I look at the beautiful little girl in his arms and my heart aches. ‘I’ve been trying to get permission to visit her in Ankara but this awful police officer always denies me. Last week when I saw Marjan she wanted to hold our daughter but the nurse wouldn’t allow her because of the chemotherapy. It’s so hard, Kooshyar, so hard.’ Dariush breaks down.

  ‘Stay strong, Dariush,’ I say, gently gripping his arm. ‘Your daughter needs you. I’m sure the UNHCR will help you – they’re good people. You just need to be patient.’

  Dariush simply nods and says, ‘Thank you for listening to me,’ before walking away.

  I gather Newsha and Niloofar and we leave the park. The booth nearby is selling ice-creams again, instead of boiled beetroot during winter, but our savings has completely run out now and we’re solely relying on the allowance from the UNHCR. I’m always looking in the streets for junk to turn into useful goods for our home. I’ve managed to make a clock, a crystal set, two chairs and an electric kettle. Yesterday I found a kitchen rangehood and took it home, removed the engine and made a panel out of some foam.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Azita.