Chapter 17: A Dream Is Like a Lighthouse - My Name Is Samim

Istanbul, Turkey, spring 2021

It was noon on a cloudless day when our bus to Turkey stopped by the side of the road.

“Velcam to Istanbul,” the driver shouted in English, though it sounded more like Turkish.

The bus doors screeched open, and we all hurried out.

A tall, skinny man with yellow teeth, smoking a cigarette, spotted us among the crowd. “Roshan, Samim, Zayn?” he asked us.

“Samim and Zayn.” I pointed at the two of us. “Roshan, my uncle, is not here. He… he was shot in Iran,” I stammered.

This was the first time I had spoken English with anyone but my mother.

The handler took a deep drag of his cigarette, then chucked it on the ground, stepped on it, and gestured with his head for us to follow him. We trailed him to an old yellow taxi.

He drove us through the busy Istanbul streets, and Zayn and I sat in the back, looking left and right. The endless rows of shops, hotels, cafés and restaurants whizzed past our bulging eyes. We’d never seen a city like that before. Istanbul was amazing!

We parked near a tall apartment building outside the city centre. This was where Uncle Amir lived. He rented rooms in his apartment to asylum seekers like us. Tall, with muscular shoulders and a short beard, Uncle Amir wore jeans and a black T-shirt and looked like a wrestler. His face soured the moment he saw us. He grabbed his neck and shouted something in Turkish at the handler, but the handler just shrugged in response. I think Uncle Amir was angry because he didn’t want to look after two kids on their own. Zayn and I were worried that he would turn us away, but thankfully he didn’t.

When we stepped inside, the delicious aromas of pilaf rice from the kitchen made us dizzy. My stomach grumbled, and in my head I said a brief prayer for some food. Uncle Amir told us we would stay at his place for a few weeks while another handler organised our next move. He then handed us two towels and showed us the bathroom.

Weeks of grime and sweat melted away under the steaming shower, as the hot water softened our stiff bodies. It was the best feeling ever! After we washed and changed, we were shown to a room with three bunk beds, where three other Afghans were already staying: two middle-aged brothers and a fair-haired boy called Adel.

Adel was a year older than me and Zayn, and the only one who greeted us when we walked into the room. With a wide grin, he jumped off his top bunk and shook our hands. We liked him straight away. Adel had the most curious eyes I’ve ever seen: yellow around the pupils, then olive-green, melding into sky-blue. It was as if he had a ray of the sun, a drop of the ocean and a spot of the sky in his eyes. Adel looked extraordinary, and soon we learned that he was extraordinary in many ways.

After we settled in the room, Uncle Amir’s two sons, who looked around our age, brought us two trays of food. Zayn and I squealed when we saw them.

We were first to grab our plates, and the men scolded us. “Where are your manners? Don’t you know elders get their food first?” They grabbed the forks from our hands and helped themselves to big scoops of rice and chicken, leaving the trays empty. “Let this be a lesson in manners for you.”

Zayn and I were ready to burst into tears. We hadn’t eaten properly in days, and our spirits sank with every stomach rumble. That’s when Adel came to our rescue for the first time.

He winked at us and said, “Yesterday, Uncle Amir’s wife asked me about my family and got teary when I told her how much I missed them. Then she kindly gave me biscuits and an apple. So don’t worry, boys. I’m sure she will be kind enough to give us something to eat after I tell her that the respectful elders in our room forgot to share.”

The men exchanged glances.

“Nicely played,” they grumbled, and pushed some rice and chicken from their plates to ours.

Zayn and I gobbled up the food, licking the last rice grains off our plates.

After dinner, Adel, Zayn and I sat on Adel’s top bunk and talked in whispers for hours and hours.

“My father was an English translator,” Adel told us, with his chin held high. “He taught me how to speak English.”

“No way! My mother taught me English!” I said.

“And my mother taught me how to milk a goat!” Zayn exclaimed, and the three of us laughed.

Hours flew by as we exchanged stories that never seemed to end.

“Do you have a dream?” Adel asked us just before we went to sleep.

Zayn and I looked at each other, unsure.

“You must have a dream!” Adel said, seeing our puzzled faces. “A dream is like a lighthouse. It shows you the way in the darkness.”

He took a mobile phone from under his pillow and showed us a photo of Jam – a chocolate-brown puppy with long fuzzy ears. Adel’s aunt had adopted him in Frankfurt. That was where Adel was heading, to live with his aunt in Germany.

“My aunt said I could look after him when I get there. And when I grow up, I’m going to be a veterinarian,” he told us with his chest pushed out.

Zayn and I were so impressed with Adel. He was smart, brave, fun and knew exactly what he wanted to do in life. We had never met a boy our age who was as mature as him.

* * *

The following morning, Adel told us to wear our nicest clothes and follow him. “Uncle Amir lets me go out, as long as I return before sunset. I will ask him if you two can come along with me today.”

Zayn and I jumped in excitement.

When Uncle Amir saw our scrubbed faces split into innocent smiles, he rolled his eyes and waved us off. “Go! But no dinner if you’re not back before dark!”

“He’s just jealous of our dazzling good looks!” Zayn yelled behind us, as we bolted onto the sun-drenched street, and Adel and I shook with laughter.

The sun shone upon our faces, the sky was blue, and the world seemed great for a moment. We were so excited to have a little adventure and to be kids again. But first, Adel told us he had a job to do.

Zayn and I glanced at each other. “A job? What job can you possibly have in Istanbul?”

“You’ll see,” Adel said, leading us through the narrow, cobbled streets to a small café with blue arched doors and windows.

Adel walked inside, and we followed him into the kitchen, where a tall man wearing a white hat and with a face as smooth and shiny as glass greeted us with a grin.

“Mon chéri!” he shouted as five different-sized dogs jumped on Adel.

Adel kneeled to rub their backs and bellies, his face beaming. “Hello, little bears. Are you ready for a walk?”

The man was a French chef and the owner of the café. Adel walked his dogs every day, and in return, the chef fed him lunches and gave him some pocket money.

We helped Adel walk the dogs that day, and while we did, he practised English with us.

Zayn was determined to learn English, so he bombarded Adel with questions. “What is door in English? And a tree? And a leaf? A car? Table? What is a tree, again?”

Adel answered patiently, and soon Zayn started speaking crooked English with random strangers.

“I’m sorry, excuse me very well, madam!” he said to a woman after picking up a magazine she dropped. The woman took the magazine and stared at him, owl-eyed.

“Hello! I’m very welcome, sir!” he greeted a man in the street.

“Get lost,” the man mumbled back, and Zayn smiled proudly, thinking it was something nice.

Adel and I were in stitches.

After we walked the dogs, the chef gave Adel some money and hot pastries in a paper bag. Money is everything when you live on the road the way we did, and so, if it was me, I wouldn’t have shared that money with someone I’d just met. But Adel had a different idea. And thanks to him, that day became one of the best days of our lives.

* * *

“Wait, wait, wait!” Rita shakes her head. “So, Adel is great, and I really like him, but what about Darya? You still haven’t told me anything about her.”

“Actually, I have.”

Rita’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “What? When?”

I smile. “I’ve told you it’s a long story!”