Abbas Khider - The Village Indian

We waited. It was a very long half hour. Imad thought every person round the station was a policeman. I tried to calm him, though I had the same feeling. He, however, swore — on all his prophets — that they all looked like policemen. We moved slowly in the direction of the station concourse. Just before we got there, a bus stopped at the entrance and a group of Africans accompanied by two blond Greeks got out. In no time at all, the station was reverberating with the sounds of a Turkish bazaar. Happy ‘Hello Africa’-s were being shouted everywhere. I quickly grabbed Imad by the arm and, as casually as possible, we got in among the Africans and boarded the train — without being stopped. Imad thought it better if, on the train, we separated. ‘If one of us is arrested, they might not look for the other one.’

So he turned right and I turned left. I sat down opposite an old lady. About seventy and very like my grandmother, who had died while I was in jail in Baghdad. I even thought I could see my grandmother’s smile on her face. I leant back on the headrest and closed my eyes.

Suddenly, I felt a soft hand on mine. Startled, I opened my eyes. The old lady was leaning over me, looking at me, worried and a little apprehensive. She was examining my wound, which had become inflamed during the day and was now pretty bad. She spoke to me in Greek. I answered, simply, ‘I am from Iraq.’

She knew only a few words of English. She said, ‘Ticket?’

I held it out and she took it from me. She whispered a soothing ‘Okay!’ and tried to gesture to me what she wanted to say. ‘Have a good sleep. I’ll deal with everything else.’

I think the word ‘Iraq’ was enough for her to understand my situation. She was my guardian angel for the rest of the journey. When the tickets were inspected, she showed ours together, and I’m almost certain she told the ticket inspector that I was with her. She bought me cheese, bread and a Coke. I slept like a baby. I woke up, briefly, a few times, but went straight back to sleep and slept until the next day when we arrived in Athens. She then took me to the Red Cross, where — with a friendly ‘Bye-bye!’—she left me in the care of a nurse.

Whether this old lady was a Greek goddess in my delirium or a reality, I don’t quite know. I only remember how, in the train, I suddenly felt severe pain, pain I had barely been aware of with all the stress of the escape. That’s probably why I didn’t register everything clearly, but the tender face of the old lady has remained with me. I don’t have any idea where Imad ended up. The doctor at the Red Cross told me, ‘It’s a miracle you’re alive.’

I swear on the old Greek goddess — I can hate the world and, at the same time, love it. And with people, it’s just the same. Always, there were murderers and rescuers, haters and lovers. I decided early on, though, to take the world as it is. I know a miracle always occurs at some point in my life. And that’s some comfort, in this world of ours. The next small miracle happened soon. A few days before New Year’s Eve. In Patras. This small, unassuming town had a beautiful, big harbour from which many ships set sail for Italy. There were refugees all over Patras, in old houses, in old factories, in the park. I camped with them for weeks. Word had it that the police wouldn’t be operating strict checks between Christmas and New Year. Entire groups of refugees were disappearing, on a daily basis. I’d had only bad luck, been arrested four times by the heavy-duty harbour police. Each time I’d been kicked out of the area. Each time by a policeman with an even harder kick.

On 29 December, I was gloomily strolling along the harbour wall and wistfully watching the departing lorries, ships and foot passengers. Dusk had already fallen. Suddenly, a storm broke. There was rain. Suddenly, the harbour was empty. A lorry without a tarpaulin was parked right beside a big ship that was ready to sail. Instinctively, I climbed the wall, dropped down on the other side, ran straight to the lorry and hid at the back of the hold. I found a large, black plastic sheet, threw it over me and lay beneath it, absolutely still. About ten minutes later, the rain stopped. I heard the driver climb in. He started the engine and drove straight onto the ship. Another twenty minutes later, the ship began to move.

A good while passed before I could hear no voices any more. I looked round the cargo deck. There were so many lorries, I was spoilt for choice. I decided, for reasons of safety, to look for a different one. Found a white one, with ‘Italy’ on the door. Why not? I unpacked my refugee kit — a small razor blade, a roll of Sellotape and a plastic bag. I made a cut with the blade down the tarpaulin and climbed through it, into the lorry. Inside, cardboard boxes were piled up to the roof. I managed to find a good place to lie down. Now, the Sellotape was called into action — to close the slit again, from the inside. I used the plastic bag to pee in.

For the entire journey, I heard nothing but the whistle of the wind, the roar of the waves and the lorries creaking as they rocked with the ship. The crossing was very long. I had to lie where I was, the whole time, and not move. Finally, the ship docked. The lorry set off. More than twenty minutes later, it stopped again. The driver got out and slammed the door. I waited another five minutes, peeled off the Sellotape, cautiously put my head out and looked round. The sky was dark. I looked down. I was in a harbour. Some harbour, somewhere. It was definitely European though, I realized right away. Everything written on the lorries and posters was in Roman script. Hardly anyone was round.

I jumped down and walked towards the fence. It was very high. Beyond it was a brightly lit street, with lots of people. I’d always heard from smugglers that, in Italy, refugees could do whatever they liked, except get arrested within a harbour area. If you were arrested in the harbour area, you were deported immediately. To Turkey, or some other place. If you were arrested outside the harbour area, you were allowed to stay, Italy being a country of asylum.

And so I ran the last bit like a horse straight up to the fence and, like an Olympian athlete, hurled myself — don’t ask me how — with a great leap over to the other side. I looked back but didn’t see anything unusual. I tried to keep walking, as casually as possible. How I managed that daring leap is beyond me. But, as is well known, fear can give you incredible strength, if not a pair of wings.

Once on the well-lit street, I asked my way to the station and trains to Rome. I was now sure I was in Italy. You could hardly miss the pizza shops. Which town it was exactly didn’t interest me. My one concern was the next train to Rome. In the large station, I bought a ticket and travelled to the capital that same night. There were no police or annoying ticket inspectors. A long time later, I found out that I’d landed in Bari harbour. Early in the morning, I reached Rome, where I’d barely left the main station when I happened upon my friends for ever — refugees. They’d made themselves at home in every corner of the huge Termini station.

At about nine in the evening, I joined a crowd of people who led me straight to a big building on a huge square. A man was delivering a speech and, judging by the applause, was a prominent figure. The pope? Several years and just as many New Year’s Eves later, I learnt where I’d actually celebrated my first New Year’s Eve on European soil. It was the Victor Emmanuel Monument, or the ‘typewriter’, as it’s ironically known by the inhabitants of that impressive metropolis.

I swear on rain, and on New Year’s Eve — I didn’t want any more miracles. I’d had enough, I just wanted some peace. Despite that, another tiny miracle came my way. I’d ended up in Germany by now — Bayreuth, to be precise — in a home for asylum seekers. The judges and my interpreter had listened to my whole story. They said they could only grant me asylum if I could prove I’d been a political prisoner in Iraq. Evidence, yet again! How the hell was I going to do that? Which Iraqi torturer was going to be so kind as to confirm in writing that he’d beaten me to death, nearly, or done who knows what to me? Then, luckily, I recalled a day in jail when we’d been visited by the members of a European organization. After the Second Gulf War, the United Nations had demanded that the Iraqi government allow a few international organizations to inspect Iraqi authorities and jails and write a report. These organizations had drawn up lists of prisoners’ names, a measure I’d dismissed back then as stupid and pointless. I did, however, think it appropriate to tell the female judge about it. She promised to make inquiries at Amnesty International. A few weeks later, I was visited by my interpreter. He grinned triumphantly and looked at me as if I was a hero. ‘Hell! They found your name.’