Boy, Everywhere, page 22
“Hello?” said Baba, although he sounded different, lighter, like he was the day we took Sara to the shops to buy treats.
“Baba …”
“Sami?”
“I’m calling on Ali’s phone … I just wanted to ask you—”
“Sami? What’s happened? You okay?”
“Yes, fine—it’s just break.” I looked at Aadam and Ali’s nosy faces close to mine.
“Oh, okay. I’m glad you called. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you before you left the bus. But you heard what happened, right?”
“Umm, I think so.”
“We got it! We got it today! God is so great! I can find work.… Your baba will work as a doctor again and get us a house. Our own house again!”
“Baba, I’m so sorry … for everything.”
He didn’t respond for a long second.
“Listen, Sami. What happened is not your fault. I was just tired and upset last night. I didn’t mean it. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you.”
“I’m really sorry. You were right—it is all my fault. I just don’t think.” I turned away from Ali and Aadam, so they couldn’t see my tears.
“No. No, Sami. Stop. What you did was exactly what I would’ve done. You helped your friend in need, and of course, you wouldn’t have known what was going to happen at the house. Whatever has happened to us is because it was written this way. It’s fate.”
Tears rolled down my cheeks, but my insides felt light, my shoulders less tense.
“Sami? You okay?”
“Yeah …”
“I love you. I’m really proud of who you’re becoming.” His voice cracked a little. “Listen, I must go—the boss is coming. I’ll talk to you properly tonight, okay?”
“Okay.”
I hung up and handed the phone back to Ali.
Aadam put his arm over my shoulder, and Ali copied on the other side. We pushed through the double doors and joined the travelers flowing through the busy airport. I noticed Aadam had a bounce in his step I hadn’t seen before.
As we headed toward one of the short stay car parks, the sun filtered through some clouds, and I lifted my face to it. A sense of calm floated over me, and I finally felt some hope.
I looked at Aadam and then at Ali and smiled as my stomach fluttered. I’d lost everything, but I’d also found something—and it was priceless. Two awesome friends who genuinely cared about me.
Maybe living in England wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Epilogue
My grin was so big, my face hurt. I pressed the mic button on Baba’s phone and started talking.
“Josephhhh! Man, I can’t tell you how good it was to hear your voice. Thanks for sending me a million WhatsApp voice messages! It just took me fifteen minutes to listen to them all.” I laughed into the phone.
“That kid in your new school sounds just like Hassan—what you said to him was hilarious though! I bet he won’t try it again. It’ll get better—I know it. Just hang in there. It took ages for things to improve for me, but they finally are. I can’t believe it’s been three months already since we got to officially stay here! And at least you’ve got Karim—he sounds like a good mate.
“I loved the pics of your new apartment! That view is awesome. Qatar looks like a cool place, man! Not like here—the weather’s awful. Wish I could come see you. It’s a shame you haven’t heard from Leila or anyone else. I wonder where George is at? Do you think he left too? Mama said to say hello to your mama and baba. She said she’ll set up a Skype chat soon. I can’t wait to see all your faces!
“Okay, so now to answer your loooooooong list of questions! I’m gonna be here all day!
“So the house is now FINALLY clean and decorated. Boy, was it disgusting. It’s a weird neighborhood—most of the men and women are dressed like they’re going for a run, but they never do. No one really goes to work. They sneer at Mama in her hijab, but she just ignores them.
“At least getting to school’s a lot easier than from the hostel, and we’ve finally got our own space to do what we want. But when we first got inside, it stank! Like someone had died in it. It was moldy and musty, and Mama ran around the house pinching her nose and opening all of the windows. We helped Baba rip up all of the old patterned carpets and chucked them outside. And after we washed down the floorboards the house suddenly smelled normal, but it took a few days for Mama to get the bathroom to look clean. All you could hear was her retching upstairs. Bleurgh. I know you don’t like it, but you don’t know how lucky you are to have moved to a nice apartment, trust me …
“Mama’s started baking cakes and, man, do I love that smell! Being together again in our own space is the best thing. I’m so glad you weren’t split from anyone, Joseph. It was awful in the detention center. You’re so lucky your uncle helped your dad get a new job straightaway too. I heard Baba telling Mama we only came to England ’cause he knew Uncle Muhammad here and couldn’t think of anywhere else where we’d have support. Can you imagine if we had family in Qatar? We’d still be at school together! Or even better, imagine if the war hadn’t come to Damascus. We’d still be there. And nothing would’ve changed. I miss you, man.”
I sighed and pressed Send before recording my next voice message.
“Aadam’s loosened up loads—like he’s always been part of the family. We share the second largest room in the house—it’s like having an older brother. Mama and Baba have put in an official refugee application so he can stay legally as one of their dependents. Baba sends Aadam on errands and he always gets things spot-on and I don’t even mind. I’m a bit like you now. I’m not the oldest. I can finally get away with lazing around. Ha!
“We’re still sleeping on the floor, in the sleeping bags that Ali’s mum gave us. But it’s better than that stinky hostel, so I don’t care. We’ve been to so many charity shops to buy a sofa, it’s unreal. I’m just grateful for having our own house, even if we’re surrounded by neighbors who hate us.
“Anyway, the good news is, Baba’s now a refugee member of the British Medical Association, and he’s applied to top up his qualifications. He can’t be a surgeon here straightaway like your dad in Qatar can, so he’s got a job working shifts in the emergency department. He doesn’t stop, when he’s not at the hospital, he’s working on the house and he’s always got a smile on his face—it’s like he’s a different person now he’s been given a chance to start life over again. And so even though I miss home so bad and want life to be as easy as it was back in Syria, it’s harder to look back when Mama and Baba are making the most of what we have here.
“Mama’s cut down on the number of houses she cleans and spends more time with Sara. And Sara’s starting school after the summer holidays—she’s doing so much better, and even though she’s still not speaking, she hums when she’s playing. She’s going to start seeing a therapist. Man, I hope she talks soon. I don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling bad about what happened.”
I stopped to take a breath.
“She’s still sleeping with Mama and Baba, but they’re trying to get her into her own room—the smallest one. We managed to get some red paint and mixed it with the white we had leftover after painting the floorboards so we could paint her bedroom pink—it’s a vomit-inducing milkshake-pink. Bleurgh.
“What else? … Um … winter’s finally over, and the spring’s brought some sunshine, at last. Ali, Aadam, Mark, and me play football in the park every evening, away from all the racists in my area. Aadam’s way better than the rest of us and he knows it. I’m gonna send you a video after this message—he’s the kind of player we needed on our team back home. You’ll love how fast he is with a ball. I miss you lots, akhi.”
“SAMI!” Baba called from downstairs. “Come down for dinner!”
Oh no. I have to answer Joseph’s questions before I forget them!
“Okay, so this is my last message. School’s getting a lot easier—I mainly hang out with Ali and Mark. I hardly ever see Hassan, and when I do we both look down and pretend we haven’t noticed each other. He’s still an idiot, though. Mama and Baba went back to their house with gifts to thank them for having us, but I didn’t go. Mama invited them over to ours for tea, but only Uncle Muhammad came.
“I don’t know if you guys heard—Tete’s gone. I still can’t believe it, man. We spoke to her every day after our wi-fi was set up. She’d said things were getting worse in Syria, that even more people we knew had been killed and it was good we left when we did. She sounded weak and ill, Joseph, but she refused to come here. She wouldn’t even let Baba try to ask the government to let him visit her—said she wouldn’t meet him because it was too dangerous. I was mad for weeks after she died, because I was supposed to go back. I wanted to be there for her, man. I only started feeling better after Mama said she was surrounded by her friends praying for her when she died—she wasn’t alone. And the last thing she said to Mama was she was glad we were safe and that she wouldn’t have to spend her time in heaven worrying about us getting bombed. I suppose that’s true, but I still can’t imagine Damascus without Tete in it.”
I took a breath.
“Tete gave our number to Uncle Bashir a while back and he called us from Germany. He and Aunty Noor are now settled and working in Nuremburg. Baba said they should join us here, but they don’t want to. Uncle Bashir said he’s tired and just wants to enjoy the peace and calm while he can. How’s your tete? Is she still in Damascus? I hope she’s okay, man.
“Nightmares—yeah, I’m still having them, but each time I wake, I try to distract myself by thinking about that time we took all those dumb selfies and then you accidentally sent them to the class group chat.” I snorted thinking about them. “Are you laughing too … ?
“It’s weird how life works out. If you’d asked me a year ago where we’d be living, I would’ve said Damascus. I never thought we’d leave! I know you didn’t either. I loved our life, our house—even our school! I never for a minute thought I’d lose it all. We just never thought it would affect us, right? But I’ve realized how sheltered we were. Our dads saw the worst of it in the hospitals and made sure we were safe. We were lucky to get away unhurt, man. So lucky. I finally appreciate everything Baba did for us, now more than ever. Can you believe I’m saying that?
“Listen, I’m gonna have to go. The phone battery’s low, and I have to go down for dinner. What are you doing? You got your new PlayStation yet?
“I’ll send you more voice messages later. Be ready for a list of my questions that will be waaaaaaaaay longer than yours! Can you hear me grinning?
“Message me soon, akhi! Love you, bro!”
Glossary
Akhi: my brother
Alhamdulillah: praise be to God (Allah)
Allah hu Akbar: God is (the) Greatest
As-salaamu alaikum: peace be upon you (a Muslim greeting)
Habibi: my love/my darling (male)
Habibti: my love/my darling (female)
Tete: Grandma (pronounced Tey-tey)
Jiddo: Grandad
Kibbeh: a deep fried croquette made of bulgur wheat and filled with minced meat
Maqluba: a traditional Syrian dish made of meat, rice, and fried vegetables, cooked in a pot, which is served upside down
Marhaba: hello/welcome
Sambousek: a triangle shaped savory pastry filled with meat, usually served as a starter
Shahada: the statement of belief in God and His prophet Muhammad, which makes you a Muslim and is preferably said before dying
Shisha: a pipe for burning tobacco, which passes through water before it is breathed in
Shukran: thank you
Ulad masooleen: children of government officials
Walaikum as-salaam: peace be upon you too (in response to the Muslim greeting As-salaamu alaikum)
Yalla: hurry up or come on
Author's Note
The civil war in Syria began in March 2011, when schoolboys in the southern city of Daraa wrote graffiti on a school wall asking for a change in the political regime. By 2015, when I first began writing Boy, Everywhere, millions of Syrians had been forced to leave their homes and seek refuge elsewhere in Syria or in other countries. Around the world, people watched countless news pieces describing the crisis, the influx of refugees, and the rising hatred toward them. Our constantly informed world shared their plight, but people soon became desensitized to their story.
Boy, Everywhere was inspired by a news interview that showed refugees in muddy camps wearing Nike trainers, holding smartphones, and talking about what they’d left behind. Looking around my comfortable living room, I realized that it could easily have been me. Due to media coverage at the time, many people assumed refugees were poor, uneducated, and wanted to come to Europe because they’d have a better life. But the more Syrian people I met and the more research I did, the more I realized that if it weren’t for the war, most Syrians would never have left. It became clear their lives were very similar to ours in the West, and a civil war could easily bring the same fate upon any of us.
For years we’ve only seen grey rubble and debris on the news, or refugees on boats –– it’s easy to forget that Syria is one of the oldest civilized countries in the world. It has embraced, harbored, and protected thousands of refugees from other countries—most recently those fleeing from the Iraq war. But when the time came for Syrians to seek refuge, the world struggled to help. And that pained me. Because of my own family’s story of cross-cultural relocation and immigration, I know what it’s like to leave everything behind and start again, and so I have long had an affinity toward Syrians. I had been supporting refugees by setting up various fundraising campaigns to provide food and aid for many years, but I knew this wasn’t enough. I wanted to do something long-lasting by sharing their incredible achievements, culture, and backgrounds. Through Boy, Everywhere I wanted to focus not only on the arduous journey a refugee takes to get to safety, but also what and who they leave behind and how difficult it is to start again. I wanted the focus to be on who they were and are, their identities as Syrians, not just the temporary political status attributed to them in their new country.
The Syrians I’ve met in the UK and in Damascus want the world to know what they have been through. They want people to know that they had good lives and were forced to leave. They want the world to know this wasn’t their choice. Yet this is where they have ended up. I have been honored to spend time with some of the most amazing people, who had been left with no choice but to leave Syria. Among them were English graduates, department-store buyers, teachers, doctors, and architects, and all of them had to start anew.
A lot of what I discovered in my research for this book made me cry. The most difficult: articles and footage about life inside Syria now and in refugee camps, interviews of children sharing their experiences of the bombings, the trauma, the bad dreams, and their hopes to live like other children. I spoke to many refugees, some who’d spent time in detention centers—often treated far worse than in this book. Although this book is set in 2015–2016, I chose to show the legal process in force during early 2015, before fast-track cases were ruled to be unfair, to show what it feels like to be detained for long periods. My research also revealed the everyday, happy lives of Syrians before they were so terribly affected by civil war. I watched videos online of Syrian teenagers chilling out in cafes, in schools, and on social media. I looked at photos shared by Damascenes on Instagram. I watched rap songs by Syrians on YouTube, in which they played basketball and dressed in chinos, blue oxfords, silk dresses. They were smiling, laughing, painting, swimming, fishing, horseback riding, cooking, studying at school, selling in shops, presenting on the radio, playing the violin, the drums, and, of course, football. These videos showed their normal, happy lives, which made me cry for what they’d lost. And then hearing it all in person from Syrian friends themselves made me even more passionate about challenging stereotypes and sharing another perspective to the well-known refugee “story.”
Boy, Everywhere was further motivated by the stories of three Damascene refugees. Nawar Nemeh was a sixteen-year-old boy from an English- and French-speaking private school in Damascus, who escaped the war and eventually settled in San Diego, California, where he became a rising star in his high school. Razan Alsous was a Syrian mother of three who fled Damascus in 2012 when her husband’s office block was blown up. Even though Razan had two degrees, she struggled to find work in the UK. But she didn’t give up and established the multi-award-winning Dama Cheese Company, which has provided jobs to people in the UK. And then there was Ahmed, who featured in a CBBC documentary about four Syrian boys who had settled in the UK. Ahmed had four bedrooms in his house in Syria, yet now lived in just one room. He never went out because his parents were anxious about their new surroundings. I felt compelled to amplify the voices of boys like Ahmed.
My main aim for this book was always to convey the true lives of Damascenes—to show the color and richness of their lives before the civil war, in contrast to the gray rubble and dust that dominates TV footage. I wanted to challenge the narrative that refugees are needy and desperate and instead show the reality of their lives, the choices they’re forced to make and also what and who they leave behind. I wanted this to be a universal story, in which my protagonist is a typical boy who loves cars, playing football, and his PlayStation. My hope is that this book helps to challenge stereotypes and break down barriers in our society. In a world where we are told to see refugees as the “other,” I hope you will agree that “they” are also “us.”
Acknowledgments
