Abbas Khider - The Village Indian

Then the big-bellied cafe owner came up to me. ‘Heard you’re looking for work?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve something for you.’

‘What?’

‘Not hard work. More like no work. You just have to marry a woman I know. You’ll get a residence permit then. It’ll be a sham marriage but you’d work with her.’

‘What do you mean? Work as what?’

‘You’d deal with the money and protect her. She’ll be visited in the evenings by men who want some fun.’

‘I’d be a pimp?’

‘No, a lust facilitator!’

‘What’s the difference? Thanks, but no!’

I looked up into the bright sky. ‘God, where on earth are you? Missing already?’ I paid for my tea and left. Returned to Istanbul and again tried to flee to Greece.

Each time I was in the forests and mountains at the Turkey — Greece border, I felt the urge to write but didn’t dare succumb to it for fear that the police might catch me. In Istanbul, it wasn’t possible either for it is always full of people. And to write I need to be alone.

The last, and finally successful, attempt to reach Greece took almost a whole month. In the end, though, I got to Athens after all.

Greece was a cut above the countries I’d been in until then. In Athens, and on the western borders of the country, there was no need to be afraid of being deported back to Turkey. This no-fear made life a bit more bearable, though I had to fight against other difficulties. Here, too, I felt that unceasing emptiness. I didn’t know what best to do. Moreover, an army of refugees from Iraq, Iran, Kurdistan, Pakistan, Afghanistan and Albania could be found all over the streets of Athens. Especially in the centre, at Omonia Square.

In the first few weeks, a child kept me busy — an Iraqi Kurd who’d lost his parents on the run. I spent two hours every day with him. He lived at Caritas in Athens and a few other refugees helped look after him. Sherzad was about a year old. He had been on the road with his parents and fifteen other refugees. He was already rather heavy for his age and his parents were delighted to have found obliging young men in the group willing to share the load. And so, the boy went from one shoulder to the next and had great fun despite the arduous walk. The group, though, was discovered by the Greek police. Some, including Sherzad’s parents, were arrested. Sherzad himself escaped on the back of one of the young men and ended up with the rest of the group in Athens. His parents were taken back to Istanbul. Through the mysterious contacts of people-smugglers between Turkey and Greece, they got hold of the phone number of Caritas in Athens. The mother called almost every day and wept. Fortunately, about a month later, they managed to come to Athens. Their tears of joy burst all dams. The old Greek lady, who’d looked after Sherzad so lovingly for all that time, organized a reunion party. King for the day was Sherzad, of course.

Life in Athens wasn’t as easy for me as it was for Sherzad. The child had found people willing to help him. Adults have to look out for themselves. And so I went off, in search of work. The only thing I found was the business of phone cards. I met Mohammed, who’d also fled from Iraq. He was trying to get to London — his uncle had been living there since the seventies. Mohammed was a communist — not a theory man, though, but a hands-on one. He always sided with the weak. Always dreamt of a better world. True, he had yet to hold a book in his hand but he liked people who were fond of reading. He also liked the communist idea but couldn’t say why. What I liked in him was his love for people. He was willing to help anyone who needed help.

Mohammed got me the phone-card job. We teamed up, but it wasn’t easy work. It was very dangerous, in fact, and meant a huge loss for the Greek economy. Mohammed borrowed from a Pakistani a so-called joker card that worked in every public phone and, what’s more, recharged itself after every conversation. You could use up five hundred drachma on a call, then quickly remove and re-insert the card — and the five hundred drachma would be back on the card! The money earned in this way we had to split with the Pakistani. The Pakistanis in Greece were notorious for their technological tricks. Our customers were refugees for the most part and a few Greek down-and-outs who knew exactly where to find us. We used the phones round Omonia Square and in the Plaka, the area round the Acropolis. We sold five-hundred-drachma conversations for two hundred. The customers saved three hundred per call. The two hundred was our profit.

The only difficult thing was avoiding the asfalias —the security police in Athens. They were always out and about on their motorbikes and often came out of nowhere. That’s why, as a matter of principle, we worked in pairs. One accompanied the customer, the other kept watch. One night — it was my turn to keep a lookout — a gigantic asfali (as we called them) turned up without my hearing or seeing the slightest thing. Quick as a flash, Mohammed dropped the joker card. The asfali arrested us and searched the ground carefully. When he found the joker card, though, he just tossed it away.

‘Where are your drugs?’

He searched us but couldn’t find anything. So he punched Mohammed in the face and gave me a mighty kick. ‘Go. .’ he said, in English.

Relieved, and almost a little happy, we ran as fast as we could. Later, we came back, found the card and then went back home. Whooping and laughing cockily, we even did a few wild dance steps among the old Greek houses. Mohammed was acting like a child and burst into an old Iraqi folk song:

Fisherman! Can you catch me a sardine!

How odd, you a city boy, me a Bedouin.

The next day, Mohammed returned the card to the Pakistani and looked for another job. I decided to go to Patras. There, I had to wait for a long time before I could board the ship to Italy.

My paths in Italy were simple. I landed in Bari. I’d heard that getting from there to another European country wasn’t a big problem. I didn’t stay long in Bari and its narrow streets. After just an hour, I was determined to continue to Rome. So I went to the railway station. At a street corner, I saw two Kurds I knew from Patras. I went up to them and asked if they wanted to go to Rome too. ‘Yes, but we’re afraid. We can’t speak English.’

‘I can.’

‘Will you buy our tickets for us?’

‘Gladly, but will you pay for mine? I don’t have much money on me — and I want to get to Rome too.’

They looked at each other. ‘Okay!’

‘Your trousers are dirty,’ one of them said. ‘That will draw attention. Don’t you have any others?’

‘No.’

‘I do. Put them on.’

And so I travelled by train from Bari to Rome. The two Kurds thanked me and went into a different compartment. It was night. I fell into a deep and very calm sleep. Arrived in Rome early in the morning. Saw my friends there — the refugees at every corner and against every wall. Camping there, as if the main station were a bazaar. Some were selling bread-with-egg, tea or phone cards. Others were working as financial intermediaries. The Europe-based friends and acquaintances of a refugee transferred money to the intermediaries’ account. They then paid out cash to the refugee. Not without taking the appropriate commission, of course. The people-smugglers also had their patches, though the demand for their services wasn’t very great here. They worked, almost exclusively, for families that didn’t have a clue or that wanted to reach their destination as quickly as possible. Single men, who formed the largest part of the flow of refugees, organized their own onward journeys. Took a train to the border and continued from there alone.