“The one I came on looked like cardboard boxes and plywood stitched together. There were supposed to be only eight of us on that boat but these bastards . . . you know how they are. And the waves were horrible that night. In the daylight those waters look beautiful. But in the night, those waters eat people alive.”
Saleem felt a wave of gratitude.
Thank you, God, for the passports that spared us such a nightmare.
“How long have you been here?” Abdullah asked. “And this is Jamal, by the way, and his friend over here is Hassan. What is your name?”
“Saleem. I’ve been here only two days. A Bangladeshi man told me that the Afghans were in this area.”
“Oh, you’re new to town! Let’s welcome you to Greece, since no one else will.” His friends let out a chuckle.
“Yeah, you’re going to love it here as much as we do, right?” Hassan had a long, raised scar that snaked down his forearm. Saleem tried not to stare.
“How long have you been here?” he asked the trio.
“I’ve been here for two years,” Hassan answered first. “These boys came about six months after me. You’ve been here two days? Where are you sleeping?”
“By the port. We can’t stay here. I have an aunt and uncle in England and we’re trying to get there.”
“We? You’re not alone?” Jamal asked.
“Er, no,” Saleem hesitated. He reminded himself not to share everything. “I have my family with me.”
“Oh, you lucky boy! You made it through from Afghanistan with your family! How many are you?” Jamal’s eyes widened. He looked impressed.
“There are four of us,” he said simply. He didn’t want to attract the same unwanted attention his family had gotten in Turkey.
“Really lucky!” Abdullah agreed. “Most of the Afghans you will find here in Attiki Square are like us—here on their own. There are many boys your age here. Everyone is hoping to apply for asylum and be accepted, but this country does not accept any refugees. We’re all here but we aren’t supposed to be.”
“We’re harder to get rid of than the lice in Hassan’s hair!” Jamal jested. Hassan punched him in the arm playfully. Saleem was reminded of Kamal and the boys back in Intikal. But it felt good to understand every word that was spoken for a change. It was a conversation without the work. “But you say you want to see Afghans. We’ll show you where you can find the Afghans.” They led Saleem down the street a few blocks and then made a left behind a large graffiti-painted building. The area looked remarkably different from the neighborhoods Saleem had been exploring yesterday. There were no shops. There were no tourists.
In a large patch of weeds behind the building, the group of three Saleem had just met multiplied. There were men and boys everywhere, milling about outside makeshift tents or sitting on overturned pails. There were two small fires burning, with people sitting or lying around them, drinking palmfuls of water from five-gallon buckets.
The squalor rivaled that of Kabul’s worst-hit areas. This was the dark side of Athens, the secret world of people who did not exist. They were neither immigrant nor refugee. They were undocumented and untraceable, shadows that disappeared in the sun.
Hassan and Jamal went off in search of food. They would scrounge near restaurants for discarded food. Abdullah told them they were wasting time and took Saleem around to meet some people.
“Even here among your own people, you need to be careful who you talk to. Especially you, since you have a family and all. For instance, you see that guy in the corner with the yellow shirt?”
There was a man sitting on the ground, his back against a tree. Saleem realized that everywhere, people were clustered. This man was alone.
“Yes, I see him.”
“Well, that’s Saboor. Leave him alone.”
“Why should I leave him alone?”