Chapter 35: You Promised to Tell Our Stories - My Name Is Samim
By Fidan Meikle
Calais, France, autumn 2021
Zayn and I leapt to our feet in fright. People rushed out of their tents everywhere around us, grabbing their stuff and scattering like frightened birds.
“What’s going on?” I shouted, looking left and right.
Zayn gripped my arm and pulled me after him. We raced to our tent and scooped up our stuff, but when we came out, four police officers stood before us, batons in their hands.
I gulped.
“Hand me your bag,” one of them said to Zayn.
Zayn stood, frozen and mute.
“I said hand me your bag!”
Zayn shook his head, clutching his bag, glaring at the officer.
The officer’s baton swung, and Zayn fell in the mud, clutching his shoulder. I lunged to help to him, my knees shaking.
“Officers.” A strange, deep voice rose behind us, distracting the policemen.
It was the mountain man. Zayn and I looked at each other, our jaws hanging open. He could speak!
The officers exchanged wary looks as the mountain man approached. He was a real giant, and they knew no batons would save them if he fought back.
“Pack your garbage and get out of here,” the police officer said, his face twisted with hate, but also nervousness.
Why do they hate us so much?
“Yes, officer,” the mountain man said, staring him in the eye for a few seconds. Then he grabbed his stuff from the tent, whistled for his dog and walked away.
“Let’s go,” Zayn said, and we sprinted after him.
When we looked back, the policemen were ripping our tents with knives, stomping on them and destroying the fire.
Dread dropped into my gut, heavy as a sack of rocks.
Why would they do this to us?
We were cold, hungry and desperate as it was, and now we had no dry place to sleep either.
We settled on another patch of land near the motorway, out of the woods. Engines roared all around us, a constant rush of noise and blaring horns. Cars flew past, ignoring the desperate people huddled on both sides of the road. We sat on the wet ground, clasping our legs.
The mountain man found an abandoned tent and set it up for himself. He then started assembling a fire from the rocks and sticks, his dog circling him.
“We thought you couldn’t speak,” Zayn said out of nowhere.
“Keep thinking that way,” the man grumbled, lighting the fire. “Button your lips and make yourselves useful if you want to stay around.”
Zayn grimaced while the man wasn’t looking.
The man lifted his head at us and sighed, as if we were two stones stuck inside his shoes. “You two will be in charge of wood, water and washing up. Is that clear?”
We nodded, our lips buttoned, as ordered.
“And find yourselves a tent, unless you prefer sleeping in the rain.”
* * *
We moved every few days, the police never far behind, our tattered tents slung over our shoulders.
“They are paid to make this place hell for us, so fewer people come here,” the mountain man explained once. “Only they don’t understand that people who come here are running away from a hell that’s much worse than Calais, so it won’t stop them.”
Every day, Zayn and I wandered for hours, scanning the endless sea of faces for Uncle Roshan. But each night we returned to our tent empty-handed, and I prayed he had at least survived his injury.
The mountain man, like most men in Calais, spent his nights looking for ways out but never finding them. He’d return just before sunrise, sleep till midday, and try again the next night.
Watching him fail night after night left us hopeless. If he couldn’t get out of here, how could we?
* * *
As weeks passed, the weather in Calais turned bitter. Strong winds and rains made it almost impossible to light a fire. We were wet, shivery and starving all the time. Our bodies became bones wrapped in skin; our jeans flapped around our chicken legs.
Once a day we ate a tiny portion of whatever canned food we could find, fried over the fire if we managed to light it. Hot water and coffee gave a brief break to our shaking bones, but that was only possible on dry days. The autumn in Calais was merciless, meaning most days we lived without warmth.
In Calais, I learned that when your spirit weakens, your body wanes too. One morning, when Zayn poked me in the back to wake me, I didn’t move because I couldn’t. My body was convulsing with a fever and my mind was hazy. My head spun whenever I opened my eyes, and everything dipped into blackness. It was as if I had been thrown to the bottom of a well, with no idea how to climb out.
I was ill for two long weeks, drifting in and out of nightmares, wondering whether I was still alive or had died and gone to hell.
Zayn sat by my side day and night. He spoon-fed me and held my head while I sipped water. He also bought painkillers somewhere and gave me a pill every night to help me sleep.
Ten days later, I woke before Zayn for the first time in ages. I opened my gritty eyes and licked my chapped lips, desperate for a drink. Zayn was snoring beside me. My head seemed clear, but when I tried to get up, leaning on my elbows, my feeble arms wobbled under me and I fell back again. It took me a few minutes to gather my strength and crawl out of the tent.
Outside, I stood up. The icy breeze made my dry skin burn, but I welcomed it. Rare sunlight squeezed through the heavy clouds, making me squint.
“Samim!”
I turned around.
Zayn clambered out of the tent and stood up, grabbing my shoulders. “You’re standing! Are you okay?”
I nodded, and as our eyes met, tears flooded down my thin face.
“I’m so sorry, Zayn!”
Zayn gripped me in a hug. “I know.”
“I’m so sorry I made you leave Rome!” I sobbed over his shoulder.
“You didn’t make me do anything, you noodle-brains. I left with you because I didn’t want to stay without you. It was my choice.”
“I’m so sorry,” I kept repeating, and Zayn kept slapping my back.
He cupped my shoulders and looked me in the eye.
“I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have been so sour with you all this time. One night, when you were shaking from fever, I thought, what if you died thinking I was angry with you? What if you died thinking we weren’t brothers any longer? It was the scariest thought I’ve ever had. So don’t you die on me, Samim. Don’t you ever leave me, and I promise I’ll never leave you, too.”
I grasped Zayn again. “Never.”
Finally. Finally, I had my strength and my brother back.
* * *
One evening, I messaged Auntie Amina while hiding in our soggy tent from the howling winds. We only texted her once a week, because messaging abroad was very costly.
A few minutes later, Auntie’s message beeped on my phone:
My chest rose with a loud sigh, and Zayn asked, “What is it?”
I passed him the phone. Zayn sat up, read the message and looked at me with sudden urgency.
“We must make it, Samim. You can’t break your promise to Auntie.”
And somehow, being reminded of that promise was all I needed to find hope again.
We must make it. We will make it. And I will tell their stories.
* * *
“What happened next?” Mr Higgins’ voice wakes me from my daze, and I look around.
How long have I been in this room? What day is it today? Where is Zayn? My head is so fuzzy!
“You’ve been looking tired the past few days,” Miss Nadia says. “Are you all right, Samim?”
She leans forward to look me in the eye, but I turn away. I must hide how I feel. I must seem fine to them. They must be happy with me.
“I’m okay. I’m just tired.”
“How did you and Zayn get out of Calais, Samim?” Mr Higgins asks.
“We didn’t.”
My chin sinks to my chest.
“I did, but Zayn didn’t. He never made it out of Calais.”