He hoped he would. But it was very possible he wouldn’t.
Just picturing himself in that utopian snapshot was painful, though. It was possible he would never be restored to the person he once was, the person who’d been able to laugh and dream and call a place home. It was possible that person, like his father, lay in an unmarked grave somewhere in Afghanistan.
ON THEIR SECOND ENCOUNTER, A DAY AFTER SALEEM’S FAMILY left their room in the Attica Dream, Roksana was more direct.
“Ela, you want to apply for asylum or no?” Roksana was in no mood to mince words today. They sat on the concrete steps leading to the park. He wanted to ask her if she knew of a place his family could stay. Tonight would be their first night on the streets.
“Roksana, you ask me this again? I do not want to stay in Greece. I want to take my family to England. And you tell me Greece does not give asylum. These papers are for what?” Saleem felt terribly clumsy speaking in English, but he was thankful he could have even this much of a conversation. There was much he would have said had he been able to speak in Dari. She would have looked at him differently, he thought.
“But they do grant asylum sometimes. It depends on the story of the person or the family. Everyone is different.” She looked off in the direction of the square pensively. “I think you have a story.”
“A story? What do you mean?”
“A story. The reason why you and your family left Afghanistan. Some people left because there was no work or because they were tired of war. But I think you have something a little different. Maybe you do not want to say it, but maybe it can help you to apply for asylum.”
“We left for many reasons.”
Roksana looked at him patiently. After a long pause, Saleem started talking, his voice subdued.
“It is true, there was no work and the war was terrible. People were waiting . . . for peace or to die.” Saleem looked off toward the street, the buildings. He had not talked to anyone about his life in Kabul, the things he saw. He hadn’t wanted to rehash those dark times any more than he already did. In his mind, they were like the sound of a dripping faucet, a relentless sound that amplified in the quiet. And yet, he continued.
“My sister could not go to school. My mother could not teach. My aunts, uncles, and cousins—everyone left. My family stayed. We listen to rockets in the sky and pray the rockets do not fall on our beds. There was no music. There was only life the Taliban way. Sometimes we think maybe the Taliban is better than fighting. Maybe the Taliban make the fighting stop but they bring more problems.
“My mother cannot go outside without a man. There was only me. I go to the market and find food but we have only little money. There was no job. We understand that soon there will be no food and no money and no life.”
Roksana listened intently. Her eyes stayed on the ground.
There was silence. Saleem wandered through his broken memories. He had been only thirteen or fourteen at the time. Looking back now, he appreciated much more just how desperate their situation had become—especially now that the burden of feeding his family fell on his shoulders.
“Saleem,” Roksana started, her voice barely above a whisper. “What about your father?”
Saleem twirled the watch around his wrist.
“My father . . .” he began slowly, feeling his chest tighten as he spoke. “My father was an engineer. He worked for the Ministry of Water and Electricity. His work was with water.”
What an injustice to his father’s work to not be able to relay it in more detail. Saleem felt inadequate.
“My father, he believed . . . he believed some things are important for the country but some people . . . One night, three men come to our house. I hear them talk with my father. I never see my father after that night.”
Saleem pressed his fingers against his eyes to plug the tears. He kept his head down.