Abbas Khider - The Village Indian

‘Nothing!’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Iraq.’

‘I see. Come, drink some water.’

He gave me a glass of water and a pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. This is not Iraq but Jordan.’

I swear on all fake documents — I didn’t plan these miracles. They always just happened, at the end of long cruel periods.

When I landed in Africa, I lived there for years without a single miracle. All my attempts to cross the Mediterranean failed. I took on all kinds of jobs, just to survive, until the day I met Miriam. I can still remember her scent. The smell of the sea in the evening. She was in her early twenties, perhaps, a round white face and red lips, as if it was chilli she’d used, not lipstick. We first met in the Grand Tourist Hotel on Omar al-Mukhtar Street in Tripoli. She worked as a chambermaid. Every morning, she’d come into my room, empty the bin, say ‘Hello’ and ‘Welcome to the Grand Tourist Hotel!’ Then smile and leave. Was she mad? This hotel had nothing to do with tourists. An old building, six or seven floors. Full of foreigners, gays, whores, alcoholics, dealers and criminals. And filth. And a toilet in the corridor, fit for everything but going to the toilet.

Miriam was both a chambermaid and a whore. I paid her for the first night. Told her I just wanted to talk, not fuck.

‘How come?’ she asked, surprised. ‘I’ve never paid for sex.’

We did sleep together, all the same, that night. The second night she gave me my money back. Suddenly, it was something like love — like many of those strange feelings you don’t expect and can’t understand. I was with her for a month. She even wanted to pay for my hotel as I didn’t have much money left. Though it cost only a dollar per night, I couldn’t afford it. ‘With the others, I’m doing my job,’ she explained. ‘But with you it’s because I want to.’

She never would tell me why she sold her body. All she told me was that she was from Morocco and had been working in the hotel for the last two years. The hotel belonged to a police commander, also well known in Tripoli as a pimp. ‘Policeman or pimp — there’s not much of a difference here,’ she said with a shrug.

She had to give her pimp a percentage of her earnings. ‘There’re some things you’re better off not knowing. They can be very dangerous. You can be sure, though, that behind every whore and every nun, there’s a sad story.’

I was trying to find work again but could only find odd jobs on building sites. My Iraqi passport was causing me concern too — it was valid for only another month. Having it extended at the Iraqi embassy wasn’t an option. I knew what to expect there. A few difficult and worrying weeks followed. The Libyan police could deport me to Egypt at any time. The Egyptians would then deport me to Jordan. And the Jordanians to Iraq.

But then came the night that changed everything.

I was walking along the beach one evening, watching the boats and ships before returning to Omar al-Mukhtar Street to get something to eat. I crossed Green Square and continued towards a falafel stand. Suddenly, five men blocked my path. I couldn’t see their faces. They beat me until I was lying on the ground, motionless. What was this all about? What was happening? I had no idea until one of them hissed, ‘Fucking Iraqi! You’re dead if we ever see you with Miriam again.’

I lay there, looked at the sky, the stars and couldn’t hold back my tears. I got up again, with difficulty, and tried to return to the hotel. My body ached. I dragged myself through the masses of rubbish left behind by the street sellers. Outside the hotel was a man with my bag. He threw it at my feet and vanished behind the door. I took the bag and went back to the beach, laid it on the ground like a pillow and fell asleep.

Nightmares — never-ending — tormented me. Suddenly I saw Miriam’s face. It wasn’t a dream. The sun was shining, and Miriam took my hand. We got into a car. The driver didn’t look like an Arab. She didn’t say a word to me, Miriam. Instead, she kissed me the whole time. The driver was Turkish, I learnt later. He dropped us outside a flat in the town centre. Miriam took my passport and gave it to him. He promised to come back as quickly as possible. Miriam fetched a damp cloth and began cleaning my wounds. When she was done, she took her L&M cigarettes from her bag and put the packet on the table in front of me. She then went into the kitchen to make some tea. Tea in hand, she told me that the Turkish driver was arranging a visa for Turkey for me.

‘How? It’s impossible! My passport expires soon, and the Turks won’t give an Iraqi a visa just like that!’

‘You don’t need to know the details. But you’re off to Turkey today.’

‘What about you? Won’t you come with me?’

‘I can’t. It’s my fate to stay here.’

‘But if you can arrange a visa for me, you must be able to get one for yourself too.’

‘You’re like a child. You don’t understand the world out there.’

I had some tea and smoked a cigarette, then we lay down and I fell asleep. When I woke up, I could hear Miriam. ‘So tell me—’

‘I have the visa and the ticket,’ the Turk said. ‘The ship sails at four this afternoon.’

Miriam looked at the clock on the wall. ‘We have two hours.’

I boarded the ship. Miriam stood on the harbour. Waved goodbye with one hand, wiped her tears with the other.

I’ve not heard from Miriam since. I sent her six letters in the space of a year. Posted to the hotel address. But there was no reply.

I swear on Miriam’s life — sometimes, I can hardly believe what I’m writing. The things that happened next don’t happen even in fairy tales. In Istanbul, for instance. I was sitting with twenty Kurds in a top-floor, two-room apartment. Thirty square metres, barely. With us was Ahmed, a Turk from Iraq. He was very handsome and dreamt of going to Germany and becoming a great painter there. The flat belonged to our people-smuggler, who was to get us to Greece soon. The smuggler had run into me on Taksim Square. He came straight up to me and asked, ‘Greece?’

‘What?’

‘Iraqi, Iranian, Pakistani or Afghan? — Greece?’

‘Iraqi.’

‘Me too but I’m a Kurd.’

‘Great!’

‘Car or foot?’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘Foot, twenty days and five hundred dollars. Car, two days and fifteen hundred dollars.’

‘On foot, please.’

‘Come.’

People-smugglers know their clientele very well. A refugee doesn’t behave like a normal person when he’s out and about. He thinks everyone is a policeman. He’s suspicious of everyone. He’s not interested in shop windows or posters or women. He watches only people’s faces, his eyes wander restlessly. Like a clock that has gone mad. He keeps looking over his shoulder, fear written on his face. In my case, the symptoms were probably very evident. I later learnt that many people-smugglers have this ability — it’s known as their seventh sense.

None of my flatmates had a passport. All of them had left Iraq and entered Turkey illegally. My passport had now also expired and was useless. That meant all of us always had to stay indoors to avoid getting caught by the Turkish police. There was a clear agreement — the door was only to be opened after three knocks. One afternoon, though, someone hammered it five or six times. We all stood there, paralysed. Fear had completely demoralized me. Being deported to Iraq and landing in the hands of the Iraqi police again — that’s all I could think of. Suddenly, the door was kicked in and three policemen rushed in. Shouting wildly, they forced us against the wall. A fat policeman with a mole on his nose kicked a Kurd in the stomach. The man fell to the floor and began to vomit. During which time I suddenly spotted the open window that led from our small room onto the terrace of the next building. The other two policemen were trying to get the Kurd back on his feet. The one with the mole was watching. Propelling myself off the wall, I raced to the window and jumped out. I could hear shouting behind me. Someone following. The buildings were high, about ten floors. I ran and ran. And heard women, down on the street and on the terraces across the way, shouting ‘ Hırsız, hırsız, hırsız! ’—Thief, thief, thief!