“I don’t know where the doctors are and you are in this country illegally, in case you have forgotten. If you want to be safe, you will wait until your contacts can take him somewhere.”
Luckily, Samira’s ankle had not gotten much worse. It was still swollen, but the gash was healing. Aziz was a bigger concern, lacking the energy to fuss.
The open landscape gave way to buildings and a grid of roads. The smugglers dropped us off at an apartment building in Tayyebat, a border town. It was a four-story building with cloudy windows that overlooked the street.
“Take off those burqas. Wear these.” The driver tossed two black cloaks into the back of the van so we could better blend in with the Iranian women.
We were sent to an apartment on the second floor. The other family headed up to the third floor.
“May God be with you,” I said as we parted ways. “I’ll pray for your little boy’s arm to heal quickly.”
“And may God be with you too, my brave sister,” came the mother’s broken voice. “Allah keep you all healthy and safe in this journey.”
The trip from Afghanistan to Iran had been a largely silent one. It was not a time for making friends. I did not have enough for my own children and could not afford to befriend a stranger who might take any little bit of what we had.
The door opened and a woman ushered us into the two-room apartment. I was grateful for shelter. This was one way for sympathetic Iranians to house Afghan refugees and earn some money in the meantime. I was much more at ease around this strange woman than the shifty men who’d gotten us here. She fed us a simple feast of bread and yogurt. We slept soundly for the first time in days.
After one night, we were put on a local bus and sent to a similar apartment in Mashhad, a bigger city where we would be staying until we were ready for the next leg of our journey. Our time in Mashhad was relatively easy. We were hosted by another Afghan family who had fled Kabul a few months earlier. They had crossed the same treacherous desert trail and narrowly escaped capture once they entered Iran. They were living as refugees now with modest means but generous spirits.
In exchange for a small sum, we were given a room and a place to take a warm bath. The children were fed and Samira’s ankle returned to a proper size and color. Aziz cooed contentedly — a most inspirational sound. We were restored.
Iran had opened its doors and accepted hordes of Afghans as refugees. Countless others lived there illegally. But Iran was never in the plan Mahmood and I had devised. Many Afghans complained of being treated poorly, and opportunities were scarce. If I wanted to give my children a real chance, we needed to continue. The longer we waited, the heavier our feet would become.
WITHIN A MONTH, I’D PLANNED OUR ROUTE TO TURKEY. I BOOKED bus tickets to Tehran, the country’s capital. In my flowing black burqa, my tired children in tow, we blended in with Iran’s peasant class, migrating across the country in search of a better life.
From Tehran, we caught another bus and traveled across the border into Turkey, this time using the passports Abdul Rahim had secured for us. The customs officer stared at me and my passport picture, stamped it, and handed it back with an uninvited caress on my wrist that I ignored in light of our falsified visas.
We’d put one more border behind us — one more buffer between us and the life we’d left behind. Turkey looked less like Afghanistan than Iran had. The language, the earth, the food — everything was one degree more foreign. On reconsideration, it was we who were foreign. We were drifting into lands where we were not welcome and scared every step of the way that we would be sent home, a fate I could not bear to consider.
I was leading my children into an unknown world, and whatever happened to us, to them, was my responsibility. It would have been easier to close my eyes and disappear, to not be responsible for their next meal or keeping them safe while we trespassed borders. But these lives depended on me, even Saleem who could brood like a grown man and questioned the choices I made. The shadow of hair on his upper lip, the way he shouldered our bags, the wristwatch he coveted — Saleem believed he was a man. As much as I needed him to be just that, I was also afraid for him. The person most likely to drown in the river is the one who believes he can swim.
In a pouch I’d sewn into my dress was all the money I’d managed to gather by selling off our household belongings. Gone were our dishes, a silver plated tray, a chiming clock. I kept my jewelry in the pouch as well. It was all we had to finance our trip to England. Mahmood had chosen England because we had family there. I wasn’t sure it was the best decision but he insisted.
I did not want to impose on our relatives in England, especially when I didn’t have Mahmood by my side. But to change our destination would be letting a time in my past matter more than it should. I could not afford to be sentimental about material belongings, but I could be as emotional as I wanted about my husband. I wouldn’t change our destination now. I wouldn’t change a thing Mahmood had decided for us. In some way, it made me feel my fingers were still intertwined with his, following his lead.
Besides, I had no better plan in mind. We would go to London.
CHAPTER 18. Fereiba
WE LANDED IN THE SMALL TURKISH TOWN OF INTIKAL, A COZY village skirted by large plots of farmland. The air was clean, and the green landscape reminded me of my father’s orchard. On our first afternoon, we set out to secure shelter. Thankfully, Mahmood had taught Saleem enough English that he was able to communicate with at least some locals. My son’s English was undeniably better than mine.
“Come, Saleem. Let’s go and talk with the men there,” I said, pointing to a group of men coming out of a masjid. I fixed my head scarf. I’d put away the black Iranian burqa to better blend with the dress of this new country. It felt good to wear a simple head scarf. It was like slipping into my past.
“Madar-jan, why don’t you wait here with the little ones. It’s better if I talk to them alone. You don’t speak much English anyway.”
I wanted to disagree.
“I can do this, Madar,” Saleem said, looking straight at me.
I nodded.
I watched on as Saleem walked from one man to the next, each waving him off with a head shake, a scowl, a shrug. Saleem looked around. I saw him toy with the watch on his wrist, glance at it briefly, and survey a group standing near the mosque’s side entrance.
An older man emerged, dressed in a suit that showed the fades and frays of frequent use. Saleem’s eyes were drawn to him as were mine. His stature, his salt-and-pepper hair, and the gentle smile on his face — if my husband had lived another twenty years, he would have looked like this man. Whether Saleem had the same thought or if there was something else about the man that drew him in, I dared not ask. He approached cautiously. The man cocked his ear as Saleem spoke then looked over in our direction, squinting.
The man’s name was Hakan Yilmaz. He and his wife, Hayal, lived in a modest home just a few blocks from the main part of the village. He’d worked for years as a professor of politics while Hayal had been an elementary school teacher. They’d raised two boys, now grown men with families of their own. When the couple retired, they moved back to Intikal to be near Hakan’s sisters and brothers. They were warm and unassuming people — more worldly than their modest village home would indicate. They were the kind of people who saw an Afghan mother traveling with three children and could guess the story behind such a sight.
Saleem had explained to Hakan that we were looking for simple shelter and that we would gladly pay for a brief stay. Hakan put a hand on Saleem’s shoulder and led us to his home where we met his wife, Hayal. Hayal, a petite woman with soft eyes, was delighted to have a babbling baby in their home. Long retired, she still had the presence of a schoolteacher. Her brown hair was tied back into a neat bun and she wore a simple navy blue cotton dress with a small tan sash around her waist. Samira took to her immediately.