Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

“Did you see Wahid’s leg?” Ali asked. “They stitched him up like a rice sack! He’s been limping around telling everyone it didn’t hurt, but I heard he cried like a baby when they did it.”

“Yes, I saw it.”

Wahid had been chased away from one of the trucks headed into Italy, and the metal fence he had scaled had torn into his shin. He’d been cared for by a paramedic from a humanitarian organization that had set up post near the camp. Wahid’s injury was not unique.

“Do you not know what today is?” Ali asked. “It is Da-Muharram . I’ve been keeping this sugar and rice for today. I’ll make sheerbrinj tonight and we’ll pray.”

Da-Muharram was the anniversary of the day that the Prophet Mohammad’s grandson was martyred in battle. Ali’s family followed Afghan tradition and marked the day with sheerbrinj, or rice pudding, distributing food to the poor, and prayers.

“Today? Really?” More interesting than the holiday was the promise of sheerbrinj . Saleem’s mouth watered, recalling how the creamy sweetness of Madar- jan ’s rice pudding, topped with ground pistachios, would melt in his mouth. “You know how to make it?”

Indeed, Ali knew very well how to make rice pudding. They shared the sheerbrinj that night with three other young men who lived in the adjacent shelter. Huddled inside, they laughed and teased one another, taking a few moments to bow their heads in prayer. No one got more than a few spoonfuls but it was enough to sweeten their mouths.

“You know what they say,” Ali joked. “Even the oldest sandals are a blessing in the desert.”

Other than that holiday, Saleem kept to himself. He had little interest in making friends here. He kept quiet and listened. Everyone in the camp had a story, but Saleem was in no mood to share his. Nomads had no business forging relationships, he told himself.

Patras reminded Saleem of Izmir. It was on the shores of Greece, an exit point, and offered the same treacherous passages to the next body of land. Saleem had made a few attempts at sneaking onto trucks but failed miserably and only narrowly escaped getting caught. He watched the other stragglers and tried to learn from their failures.

All the while, he kept his two safeguards on his body — his money and his dagger. He was careful not to let anyone see a shadow of either and kept them within reach even while he bathed in the makeshift shower area. He eyed everyone with suspicion. He needed the shelter that this camp provided, and unassuming Ali was the best roommate for him under the circumstances. Ali liked to talk and seldom asked questions. It was a fitting arrangement.

Saleem was eager to leave before anything happened. Even the Greek medical staff had been targeted in the growing conflict for being vocal in their criticisms of the government. The refugees were on edge. Police were increasingly present and stopped them more often to ask for documentation.

Each day was a repeat of the one before. Saleem woke and felt for his money and knife. He would scout the transit points and try to find an opening to get to Italy.

IT WAS MORNING AGAIN. SALEEM HEARD ALI WALK OUTSIDE AND relieve himself behind their room. He came back in grinning.

“You’re awake! Good morning to you. I had such a good dream last night. We were walking, me and you, in these streets with big buildings, like the ones in the movies. There were people all around dressed in such fancy clothes and driving such fancy cars. We asked someone what country it was and guess what they said — America! Can you imagine that? I guess if you walk far enough, you will eventually hit America, eh?” Ali chuckled.

“Forget about America,” Saleem grumbled, his eyes still heavy with sleep. “We’re having a hard enough time getting to Italy.”

“That is true,” Ali laughed. “Today does not look like a good day for a long walk anyway. It looks like it is going to rain today.” He opened the door again, stuck his head out, and looked at a brilliant, blue sky.

Saleem had no interest in being contrary this early in the morning. He hurriedly washed up with the water that had chilled in the brisk night air. The camp was a dilapidated neighborhood of single-room homes, one up against another. Clotheslines were strung from home to home like cobwebs. There was no real supply of water or electricity, but a few refugees had snaked a pipeline from the nearby apartment buildings. One water pump served the entire settlement with an inconsistency the refugees cheerfully accepted.

Saleem returned to the port and the familiar dance of trucks, ships, and passengers. He watched a few men make a run for it, scaling black metal fences and nearing the trucks cautiously. They inspected undercarriages and looked for footholds, jostling handles to see if they could climb into trailers.

Saleem looked around, watching the activity from a few meters away. There were three trucks lined up and not a driver in sight. His feet itched to give it a try.

He scanned the area again while the potential of the moment made his heart quicken and his tongue dry. He darted across the street and climbed onto the fence, swinging his leg over and jumping to the ground on the other side. He jogged to the unattended trucks. A few of the guys from the camp were there, pondering the best way to get on a truck.

One boy tried to pry at the lock on one trailer. Two others had already slipped under to check out the chassis. Saleem watched their feet dangle on the ground as they readied themselves for the short drive onto the cargo ship.

He ducked his head down to see what they were grabbing. He saw a boy close to his own age, judging by his facial hair. The boy’s face was red as he strained to keep his entire body off the ground. He caught Saleem peering.

“Go, brother! There is only room for one person here!”

Saleem nodded in understanding. He looked around for another truck, another mousehole to crawl through, but saw none. Disappointed, he and four others jogged back to the fence to regroup.

“Police! Police! Run, boys!” a panicked voice yelled out.

Saleem turned around. A police car was coming down the road. They picked up their pace and climbed over the fence as quickly as they could. The car pulled up a few yards away and the doors swung open. Two officers sauntered out.

Saleem jumped over with the others, his ankle stinging from the impact. He scrambled to his feet and ran, breaking off in a different direction from the others. Everyone scattered. The police picked two of the boys to halfheartedly chase for a few meters, enough to make a point. Saleem cut a sharp turn to duck behind some trash bins alongside an apartment building. He panted, his chest burning.

When ten minutes had passed, he walked back to the camp. Ali was sitting outside the room with four other men. They had overturned buckets and plywood crates for chairs.

“Where’ve you been, Saleem?” Ali called out.

“Went to the port,” Saleem replied, taking a seat with the others. They were not surprised. There was nowhere else for them to go in Patras, especially with the rising hostilities.

“No luck, eh?” Saleem had met these guys before but he could not remember their names. Was this Fareed? Or Faizal?

“No. The police came and chased us away.”

Haris shook his head. He was in his thirties, a veritable elder in this community of juveniles. His perspective was a little different from that of the others.

“Can you blame them? Have you looked at this camp? People don’t want to look out their windows and see this.”

There was silence. Haris was right, but it felt better to be angry. Resentment was a unifying sentiment among the refugees. It felt good to sit around and agree, to have a common enemy and a shared struggle. It felt good to be understood. Haris’s rationality would not give them the charge they needed to keep going.