Journey of a Thousand Storms Page 3

  Ilana’s words are heaven-sent and I immediately feel relieved for the first time since leaving Iran.

  After thanking Ilana profusely, I go back to our room to tell everyone the good news. Ilana’s family is very well established in Tel Aviv. All we have to do is wait a few days to get our visas.

  At noon we go to a restaurant. I haven’t felt this happy for a long time. Azita is concerned about the expense, but my appetite’s returned and I want to celebrate our imminent journey. We order food and beer. Newsha keeps asking where her Nan and Pop and cousins are. I tell her we’re going to a beautiful country and they’ll join us soon.

  Back in our hotel room, when Newsha and Niloofar are finally asleep, Azita says she wants to talk to me.

  ‘Kooshyar, I have to be honest with you. I don’t want to go to Israel. You know I don’t want to raise my kids as Jews.’

  ‘But that’s fine, they can choose their own religion.’

  ‘No, I’ve decided I’m not going. That’s it.’

  ‘But this is our only chance,’ I plead. ‘We can’t stay here. They’ll track me down. Plus we haven’t got much money.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Listen to me, Azita, please! We’ve come this far. Let’s just get to Israel, then if you’re not happy after a couple of years we can move somewhere else.’

  ‘If you want to go to Israel, go. I will take the kids back to Iran.’

  I look at this woman – my wife, the mother of my daugh­ters – and can hardly believe what she’s telling me. Yet from the time I was forced to marry her instead of Mahshid, whom I truly loved, I’ve seen how stubborn and narrow-minded Azita can be. She hates Jewish people. She knew when our marriage was arranged I had a Jewish background, but she thought I was a Muslim. When she found out that I’m Jewish through and through, she was out­raged. We never should have married. It was only forty-eight hours between us meeting for the first time and the ceremony, so we didn’t realise we hardly had a thought in com­mon. Though I agreed to stop smoking, I sneak around finding places to light up; I also listen to Pink Floyd, whom she hates, in secret. I’ve attempted without the least success to get her inter­ested in literature and philosophy.

  I don’t understand why Azita’s anti-Semitic attitude is more important to her than our family’s safety. What should I do? Azita is not in real danger, as she has an Iranian passport and in theory can return anytime. I could go to Tel Aviv with Newsha and Niloofar while Azita returned to Iran but the girls travel on her passport, and of course there’s no way I can transfer them onto my fake one. Besides, Azita wouldn’t agree to being separated from her children. But neither will I: the idea of living without my daughters appals me.

  In the end, I surrender to my wife. After all, she has shared my exile until now and this has not been easy for her. However, I also know that it’s unlikely Azita will return home. She has no education and no means of earning a living. She has to stay with me: divorce is unthinkably difficult and humiliating for Iranian women (that right belongs almost exclusively to men). Knowing this, I can’t abandon her. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘We’ll try other embassies tomorrow. Hopefully one of them will give us visas.’

  Azita goes to sleep and I head to the balcony to have a cig­arette. I look down at the lights and cars in the busy streets while I smoke – all those people going about their lives, having somewhere to call home. Beside me a moth flutters against a light bulb protruding from a rusted fitting on the wall, returning again and again in a futile attempt to find solace in the dim glow. I stub out my cigarette on the railing and watch the ash float down to the street. I feel as if my heart is on fire.

  Next morning we set off for the American embassy. It’s extremely hot and humid again and Niloofar is restless.

  ‘Americans are big supporters of Jews. They’ll help us,’ I say to Azita as we get on the bus.

  When we arrive there’s a queue almost two kilometres long outside the huge building. All ages and races are here but most are from the Middle East. I ask several people what’s happening, trying both Farsi and English, and am told they’re lodging application forms for visitor and immigration visas. A Turkish man sitting behind a metal desk in the shade is selling the forms for one hundred dollars each, but fortunately I only need one for the four of us. After I’ve filled out all seven pages, we line up for five hours. Niloofar’s nappy has to be changed three times.

  Everyone in the queue is complaining about the embassy. ‘Bastard Americans,’ hisses a fat Lebanese man next to me. ‘This is my second time applying. They won’t give me a visa because they’re racist.’

  ‘This is our fifth try,’ says the young woman in front of us. ‘They’ll probably never give us visitor visas, just because we’re from Turkey.’

  ‘Do you think we have any chance?’ I ask her. ‘We’re from Iran.’

  She smiles wryly. ‘Isn’t Iran one of America’s biggest enemies? I don’t think your chances are high, especially if you’re applying for the whole family.’ Her English is better than mine. Even though their governments have a close relationship, it seems that the Turks themselves aren’t treated with much friendliness by the Americans. Despite what I’ve heard, I still cling to my belief we’ll get visas because I’m a Jew. My Jewish blood brought me here – maybe it will save me.

  It’s late afternoon when we finally reach the front of the queue at the gate, where an official demands we hand over the form along with our documents. I’m surprised we’re not even going to be dealt with inside the embassy.

  He shakes his head as he looks through our form. ‘You’re from Iran.’

  I whisper, ‘Officer, please, I’m Jewish. We had to flee Iran because of the recent political unrest.’

  ‘You’re Jewish? Then come back tomorrow, but not here. You must go to the gate on the eastern side of the building, where there is a small door. Be there at two in the afternoon and someone will take care of you.’

  When we return to the hotel I feel exhausted but full of hope. Azita, on the other hand, is sceptical. I look at Newsha, who was so tired when we got back she went straight to bed. Just a few days ago she had a big bedroom with a TV, VCR, lots of Disney movies and lovely dolls. Countless relatives would come by and pamper her. Now we are alone with nobody to support us.

  The next day we go to the American embassy again. Even though it takes us some time to find the small door, we’re early and have to wait an hour. When the door opens I tell the American official that I’m an Iranian Jew and was involved in the arrest of the thirteen Jews.

  He nods. ‘Show me your documentation. Your ID and your family’s ID.’

  I desperately search my bag. I have my Iranian driver’s licence, some of my books, and Azita’s passport. I show them to him but he’s not convinced.

  ‘I need to see proof that you’re Jewish,’ he says.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I had to escape. I didn’t get a chance to collect many documents. I have ID for my wife.’

  ‘No, I need to see yours.’

  ‘Look at these books – my name is on the covers. Also, if you check your database you’ll find me. I’m from the Haiim family. They’ve lived in Iran for fifty generations.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you,’ he says, before closing the door. We’re devastated. We’ve spent more than a hundred and fifty dollars in the last two days trying to go to America. I knock on the door but I know it’s pointless.

  We go back to the hotel. The receptionist asks, ‘How are things, my Iranian brother?’

  ‘Fine, brother, fine,’ I respond. I can’t bear to tell him the truth.

  There’s a young Iranian couple at the desk and the woman is crying. ‘They were following us and when we left the last shop one of them attacked me, grabbed my handbag and ran away. We reported it to the police but they’re not doing anything. I’ve lost all my money and my passport. I don’t know what to do.’ She sobs and her husband shakes his head in frustration.

  The receptionist s
hows little sympathy. ‘The police are on the criminals’ side because they get a kickback. I told you to be careful of your belongings.’

  Walking upstairs, I touch the small bag holding all our documents and money. It’s strapped to my waist but I realise that doesn’t mean it’s safe, as thieves here use Stanley knives to cut the straps of bags. If mine is stolen, the four of us will be on the streets.

  We’re all drained and exasperated when we reach our room. Newsha wants me to take her to the shops and I promise her we’ll go tomorrow and I’ll buy her a nice toy. She’s still asking about her cousins, and I keep promising that we’ll see them again very soon.

  When the girls are asleep I go downstairs to buy another bottle of water. The receptionist watches me search for the right money in the bag strapped to my waist.

  ‘Don’t worry, brother.’ He hands me a bottle of water, free of charge.

  Over the next two days we visit various European embassies, from Britain and France to Cyprus and Albania. All of them say there are no visas for Iranian citizens, or that we don’t have the correct documents, or that it will take about two years to process our application. We don’t try the Australian embassy, as we’ve heard from other asylum seekers that Australia has a strict immigration policy and that it’s impossible to get a visa.

  Every afternoon on coming back, frustrated and shattered, to the hotel I see some Middle Eastern and Turkish men talking in the lobby. After sending Azita and the girls to our room I sit down and eavesdrop on their conversations. I soon realise that these men are called insan kacakci, which means people smugglers in Turkish. An Iranian couple staying in the hotel tell me that these are the people who can get you a fake passport and fly you to another country. For enough money you can go virtually anywhere.

  ‘What happens when you arrive?’ I ask them.

  ‘Then you apply for asylum in that country and the authorities take care of you,’ the young wife tells me.

  ‘How much does it cost?’

  ‘It depends on where you want to go and how many of you there are,’ the husband responds. ‘Everyone has a different fee but it seems to cost around ten thousand American dollars to go somewhere decent.’

  I feel so disappointed. ‘I only have three thousand at the most.’

  ‘Well, maybe you could go to Greece, and then you might be able to try for a better country later on,’ the young woman says.

  I thank them and go back to our room, but I can’t sleep. As I’ve done almost every night since we arrived, I stay awake and smoke Demir Teppe cigarettes, the cheapest and strongest in Istanbul.

  On day seven someone in the Swiss embassy tells us about HIAS, an organisation that helps asylum seekers in immediate danger. I have a glimpse of hope again. The next day, after taking several buses and walking for ages, we finally find the right building. Before we go in I put my right hand on my heart and pray to my Adonai.

  A middle-aged German woman in the office tells us that the organisation has helped thousands of religious minorities in the Middle East settle in other countries. She seems kind and I feel confident that my story will convince her to help us. While I’m excitedly explaining to her how I managed to escape from Iran, she interrupts me politely. ‘Did you say you’re a Jew?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say proudly.

  A tight smile appears on her face, an expression I’ve seen often in the last eight days. ‘I’m afraid we only help Catholic refugees,’ she says, ending our conversation.

  We return to the hotel, our hopes dashed yet again. I’m starting to panic. Our money won’t last more than a few more weeks here. I knew that Iranians are almost never given visas but I really believed being a Jew would help.

  It’s nine o’clock and we’re all tired out. Azita and the children go to sleep but I can’t relax. I’m chain-smoking my horrible Turkish cigarettes when I decide to find a people smuggler. I know I probably don’t have enough money, but it’s worth a try.

  I go down to the crowded lobby. On one side is a bar with a few people, mostly Iranians, dancing to loud music. An overdressed middle-aged man is sitting on a large lounge with a suitcase on his lap. I’ve seen him before and there’s a good chance he’s a people smuggler, so I go over to the couch and tell him I need some advice. Straight away he asks, ‘You want to fly?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I’m not sure what’s distracting me more: the man’s strange barcode-like fringe, or his funny tie that has exactly the same pattern as the tablecloth my mother used to place over her ancient black and white TV. When it stopped working four years ago, she turned the TV into a fish tank.

  ‘I’m guessing you want to go overseas. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’ I’m suddenly brought back to the present, and am worried this man might work for Iranian Intelligence.

  ‘I think I’ve seen you with a young woman and two kids.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Where would you like to go?’

  ‘To be honest I’d go anywhere, but Canada or the USA would be great.’

  ‘No problem, brother. I can get all of you there in three days.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course. This is my job.’ I should’ve come to this guy instead of wasting time and money on different embassies. I sit down next to him.

  ‘How much will it cost?’

  ‘Four people to the USA is twelve thousand dollars, and for Canada it’s ten thousand.’ When he sees the look on my face he says, ‘Believe me, brother, I’m giving you a discount because you have little children. The real price is normally around sixteen and twelve.’

  ‘No, this is too much. I can’t afford it.’

  ‘People smuggling is expensive, brother – you can ask around but be careful. A lot of these guys are crooks. They’ll take your money and disappear. But not me. I take half now and half when you arrive.’

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘I’ll buy foreign passports for all of you – I know people who steal them from tourists, but they cost a lot – and put your pictures in them. Then we get plane tickets for the country the passports are from. Sometimes we have to disguise you a bit, by bleaching your hair or using makeup. If you can’t afford American or Canadian passports, ones from the Netherlands are cheaper – seven grand – and you can go to Canada as Dutch citizens. All you’ll need to do is talk gibberish to the customs officers as nobody knows Dutch.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, but I don’t have seven grand either.’

  ‘Okay, brother. Good luck, but I don’t think you’ll get anywhere without that sort of money.’

  Just after I’ve got up from the couch, a man with a big belly approaches me. ‘Iranian?’ he asks in a harsh voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wanna fly?’ He gestures with his hand.

  ‘Yes, in fact.’

  ‘Follow me.’ He walks over to a chair in another corner. ‘I can fly you to Germany or the Netherlands for eight thousand dollars.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have that much. Can you please do it for less? We’re desperate. If I go back to Iran they will hang me. Please, sir, for God’s sake, help me.’

  He sighs. ‘I understand, brother, but passports and tickets are expensive.’ He has a thick Turkish accent. ‘I think I can do it for six thousand eight hundred, but that’s my lowest price.’

  This is a crushing blow. I decide not to beg anymore, but as I’m going back to the room a sturdy bald man in a black jacket grabs my arm. ‘Come with me, brother,’ he says. He has a big scar on his left cheek and a heavy gold chain around his wide neck. His top shirt buttons are undone, revealing thick black hair on his chest. I sit down next to him on a couch.

  ‘Iranian? And you want go USA?’ His English is much worse than the last man’s.

  ‘I would go anywhere. I promise I’ll take any job there and send money back to you. I was a doctor in Iran.’

  ‘If you were doctor, you are loaded.’

  ‘No, things are . . . complicated. I lost
everything because I had to flee overnight. I’m not lying, brother – please believe me. I need to protect my children.’

  ‘How much you have?’

  ‘Only three thousand dollars.’

  The sturdy man scratches his head. ‘I take you Greece with that money.’

  I want to hug him. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I fly many refugees. How old your kids?’

  ‘One is five and the other is two months old.’

  ‘God bless! I have seven kids.’ He shows six fingers with his hands. ‘The oldest is twenty-four. Youngest is half past two.’ Then he gets down to business. ‘We have to go ten hours by boat and then eight hours walk in jungle. Can you carry your kids?’

  ‘Of course I can.’

  ‘I will come with you to jungle and then I show you way and you will go Greece. Near Greece, police will stop you. Tell them you are asylum seeker and they take you detention centre. It’s safe and has food and everything. And they send you to a nice Europe country in three months.’

  This is wonderful news. ‘Thank you so much, brother. God bless you.’

  ‘I organise things in two days, but I need money. I bribe some people for this, you have to give me two thousand tomorrow and rest when we depart.’

  ‘No problem, brother.’

  ‘Okay.’ Then he lowers his voice. ‘Do not talk to anybody about this, understand?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I see you here tomorrow night at nine.’ And off he goes.

  I’m so full of joy that I decide to have a beer at the bar and enjoy the music. A few minutes later a young man leaves the dance floor and sits down next to me. He starts talking in Farsi.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

  ‘Just having fun. That girl really likes me, I might get lucky tonight.’  Then he adds, ‘Are you staying in this shithole?’

  ‘Yes, with my family.’

  ‘Be very careful. There are a lot of crooks and violent people in this area. They’ll rob and even stab you, especially after dark.’