Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

Saleem was pounding the wall with two hands now, enraged and crying. He didn’t notice the door open behind him.

“Hey! Hey!” Saleem felt a hand pull his shoulder. It was Officer G, a cigarette dangling precariously from his bottom lip. “You crazy?”

Saleem turned around and slumped to the floor, weakened by his outburst. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Almost as if the officer and Saleem realized this at the same time, he left the room and returned with a plate. There were a few pieces of chicken kebab and pita bread. He put the plate on the table unceremoniously.

“Eat something.”

Saleem’s breathing slowed. His palms stung, pulsing. He returned to the table in defeat. He took the food and chewed bite after bite, tasting nothing. He stared at the plate, letting his eyes gloss over and his muscles relax. The officer watched Saleem, a specimen in a jar. Captivating to his captors.

Saleem ate without looking up or saying a word. Maybe if his belly stopped growling, he could come up with a way to get out of this mess. Maybe he could figure a way to get back to his mother.

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.

Hours passed. A latrine in the corner collected their waste. The air burned with the sharp smell of ammonia. Two men sobbed, not bothering to hide their faces. Dignity had been lost long ago.

Saleem closed his eyes. One or two at a time, the refugees were taken out of the holding room and led into an interview room. Some people came back and others did not. Saleem was not sure which to hope for. When a guard pointed at Saleem, he stood and followed him down the hall. He was instructed to take a seat at a small table. The police officer in front of him looked from Saleem to the document on the table.

Keep your answers the same. Remember what you told them in Greece.

The questions started. Saleem was now familiar with the process.

Where did you come from? Why did you leave Turkey? What were you doing in Greece? Who was traveling with you? How old are you? The truth — what is your age?

I am from Afghanistan. I do not want to be refugee in Turkey or Greece. I am alone. I am fifteen.

For the most part he was able to respond to their questions in Turkish, the rest he filled in with English. This seemed to entertain the officer.

Fifteen? Hmph. The same suspicious sneer. Why did you leave your country?

Saleem decided to be forthright with them, selectively.

I want to go to England. My country, there are Taliban. They are dangerous. We had no money, no school, no work. They are killing people.

Were they thinking of sending him back? He could not go back. He would not survive there on his own.

Are you a soldier?

Soldier? No! I was a student. My father was engineer. They took my father and. . they kill him.

Saleem’s heart broke to say the words. They looked dubious. He’d been herded and poked at like livestock and still they wanted more.

You do not want to be in Turkey?

Saleem shook his head.

But you speak some Turkish.

Saleem nodded, unsure if this would help or hurt him.

Do you know anyone here in Turkey? Did you live here?

These questions were trickier. Saleem told the officer he had met some boys, but he did not know where they were. He had lived in a small town and worked on a farm but he did not remember where that town was. He did not want to go back there, he assured the police.

The officer left and then returned with another man. They stood outside the door to the room and spoke quietly. Saleem could not hear what they were saying nor could he read the enigmatic expressions on their faces. Had he made a mistake in his answers? Did they think he was lying? What were they deliberating?

His head ached. The combination of human odors, hunger, and cigarette smoke had brought on a throbbing headache. He was tired and felt the chair pushing against his bones.