CHAPTER 34
Saleem
TWO TURKISH POLICE OFFICERS STARED DOWN AT SALEEM AND the other refugees. Herded onto a boat like cattle, Saleem and a dozen similarly thwarted migrants had been returned to Izmir. The Turkish officials were not pleased to have to reclaim these refugees but those were the rules. Refugees were to be returned to the first country they entered and the burden was on that country to deal with them. It was a cause of persistent resentment between the Turks and the Greeks. The handoff had been terse.
Saleem watched the Greek officers smirk as they handed over a stack of papers and unloaded their cargo onto Turkish soil. Few words were exchanged between the two sides but their sentiments were clear.
Not our problem anymore, the expressions on the Greek officers read.
Thanks for nothing, the sarcastic reply on the faces of their Turkish counterparts.
They took their frustration out on the refugees, grabbing people by the arm and shoving them into a van waiting at the port. Thighs overlapping, shoulders pressed together. One small window in the back did little to ventilate a van full of refugees who had been languishing in a Greek detainment cell for days, weeks, months.
Every step of the way, Saleem had promised that if released, he would leave Greece immediately. His pleas drowned in the sea of similar pleas authorities had heard before from so many others facing deportation.
Saleem wanted to be the one, the exception to the rule. He wanted to be able to look back at the moment and recall how close he had come to being deported, how close he had come to being separated completely from his family. But everything—the seat beneath him, the smells around him, the people standing over him—told him he was not in the least bit different from any other ragtag passenger in the van.
There were Africans, a few eastern Europeans (Saleem guessed by their appearance and their unfamiliar language), and even a few Turks. There were no other Afghans, which made Saleem feel both more alone and relieved at the same time. He was not in the mood to talk when he felt it would not help.
Where does Madar-jan think I am? Could she have found the pawnshop? Maybe they’ve gone to the train station to wait for me there. Maybe they even got on the train, thinking I would show up. They could be anywhere now. Madar-jan, how frantic you must be! How will I find you again? What can I do by myself?
Saleem’s mind was a thunderstorm, moments of peace interrupted by electrical flashes of dread and a flood of remorse.
So much for roshanee.
His fingers toyed with his watch. It had been two days since his arrest.
I wish you would leave the pawnshop for tomorrow. We can stop by on the way to the train station. We could all go together.
If we hide in a room every time we are nervous, we will never make it to England, Madar-jan.
Saleem’s head hung down. A thousand times the conversation had replayed itself in his mind.
Why did I have to snap at her? Please, God, do not let that be the last time I talk to her.
He thought of his last night with Padar-jan. Memories of the things he regretted saying collected like beads on a tasbeh.
The drive was long, jostling. It was a relief to be herded off the vehicles and into another grim-appearing building. Here they were led into a large room, and each immigrant tried to find a square of cement floor to claim as his own.
Saleem filed in with the others and slid up against a cinder-block wall. He touched his ankle, hoping no one was watching him. The wad of bills was still there, right where he had left it. He prayed he would not be searched. If they confiscated his money, he would have absolutely nothing.