Chapter 28: The Citizens of Tarpaulin Hills - My Name Is Samim

Refugee camp, Greece, summer 2021

Zayn and I were dropped off in a widespread wasteland of white plastic tents, where thousands of asylum seekers like us lived. Garbage filled the spaces between the tents, and a brown sewage river flowed down the main road, splitting the camp in two. Small children in filthy clothes stood in it, staring at us bug-eyed as we walked by. The place reeked of human waste, and I pinched my nose.

As we wandered down the road, we saw men shout at each other, shaking their fists. Their eyes were bulging with rage in their thin dark faces. When they looked at us, my skin pricked with goosebumps and I turned away, pulling my jacket tighter.

“We must find Mustafa’s next handler, Zayn. Uncle Roshan said they always lurk around refugee camps.”

Zayn didn’t answer me. He hadn’t spoken a word since the day Darya died, and almost three weeks had passed since then.

We roamed around the foul-smelling camp for hours, not knowing where to go or what to do. The Aegean Sea had not only stolen our friend and our spirit but also the precious money we had stashed in our shoes. All that remained was Uncle Karim’s star map, which Zayn had put in a plastic bag and strapped to his body before we climbed into the boat. It still got soaked, and now the charcoal canvas was faded grey, crumpled and stiff like a leaf washed by the rain and dried by the wind.

Once the daylight dimmed, we found a place behind some tents, collapsing onto the hard ground. A young boy, his nose dripping and one foot bare, stumbled upon us. His eyes widened with surprise before he scurried away.

I lay beside Zayn, our trainers touching soles. My eyes became as heavy as my chest.

A tap on my shoulder woke me. It took me a few seconds to remember where I was, and when I did remember, I wished I hadn’t. The sky above me was bruised purple, with an apricot moon flashing between fast-moving clouds.

The boy in one shoe stood above me, his black eyes staring into mine. Beside him stood an old woman, her wrinkled face framed by a black burqa, her knobbly hand gripping a wooden stick.

“Is it just the two of you?” she asked in Dari, her voice deep and croaky.

I looked at Zayn, who was asleep, and bobbed my head.

“The night is approaching,” the woman warned. “It will be dangerous for you to stay out here alone. Come, you can shelter with us.” She gestured with her stick to follow her, moving slowly but steadily, her back arched like a bow.

I jumped up and shook Zayn by the arm. He got up instantly, as if he wasn’t sleeping, and followed me without question.

The woman stopped beside two tents; children’s voices came from both.

“These two are ours,” she explained. “The boys sleep in the left one and me and the girls in the right. You two will be among the older ones in the boys’ tent, so you will need this.” She pressed a pocket knife with a wooden handle into my hand.

My eyes widened. “What do I do with this?”

“If the need comes, you’ll know,” the woman said.

A distant scream pierced the dark, and I flinched. I looked around and quickly hid the knife in my pocket, my heart pounding.

“Time to light the fire,” the woman said, and the children swarmed around a shallow pit lined with bricks, a mound of charcoal nestled within.

The boys, clutching makeshift torches of twigs tied together, crouched low. Sparks flew as flames licked at the coal. The girls put a blackened pan full of water onto the crackling fire. There was a wooden crate beside the fire pit, and the woman slumped onto it with a sigh.

“Sit,” she ordered, and we obeyed.

The rest of the children joined us, forming a circle around the flame. There were ten altogether: four girls and six boys of different ages. The youngest was a snotty toddler wearing only one shoe.

“This is the highlight of our day,” the old woman said. “We must spare the wood, so we only start the fire in the evenings when it gets cold. We gather around it and warm our hands against the fire, our chests with smoky tea, and our souls with cheerful conversation. By the fire, we like to dream. Do you boys have dreams?”

I looked at Zayn, and his face warped in pain. I knew that, just like me, he was remembering Darya’s words now: “A dream is like a lighthouse. It shows you the way in the darkness.”

I shook my head in reply.

“You do. It’s there, strong as a seed pushing through the frozen earth,” the woman said. “You’ll see it sprouting soon.”

The smell of the burnt wood overpowered the smell of sewage, and soon my stiff body softened from the warmth of the crackling flames. The water in the pan bubbled, and the oldest-looking girl, who had fox-red hair, threw colourful tea leaves into it. A girl in a green dress brought plastic cups from the tent.

“What are you called?” the woman asked.

“I’m Samim, and this is Zayn.” I answered for Zayn, knowing he wouldn’t speak.

The woman noticed his silence, gazing at his hunched figure.

“Call me Auntie Amina. So, what’s your story, Samim and Zayn?”

She placed a steaming cup of amber tea wrapped in an old cloth next to me and then passed one for Zayn.

I cupped my hands around the warmth, my frozen fingers melting. Where do I start? I thought.

Three rounds of tea later, it was time to talk about Darya. Zayn left at the first mention of her name. I wanted to go after him, but Auntie Amina’s stick barred my way. “Let him be,” she said softly. Then, turning to the eldest boy, she instructed, “Stay close to Zayn, but out of sight. Make sure he doesn’t wander off or get into trouble.”

Once I finished my tale, silence hung heavy over us.

“Your story is not much different from ours,” Auntie said. “All of us here, the citizens of Tarpaulin Hills, are bound by loss, hardship and hope. All ten of my grandchildren are orphans.”

The woman pointed her crooked twig-like finger at everyone around the fire. Her grandchildren, wrapped in jackets and blankets, all skinny with curved backs and gritty faces, stared at the dancing flames, deep in thought.

I wondered whether they remembered their parents’ faces.

I took another sip of the tea, and my eyes watered from joy. My body was grateful for the warmth running through it.

“Excuse me, Auntie. Do you have paper and a pen?” I asked.

She tilted her head in surprise, then gestured with a flick of her chin to one of her grandsons, who scampered to the tent and brought me a piece of paper and a pen.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Masood.” He frowned.

I wrote his name down.

“What about yours?” I asked the boy sitting to my left.

And then his brother. Everyone by that fire told me their name, and I scribbled them all down.

“What are you doing?” Auntie Amina asked.

“Remembering,” I replied, writing ‘Darya’ at the top of the list.

The woman stared at me in confusion.

“Darya is gone, and her story is over. No one else will ever get to meet her, hear her laugh, see her smile. And I can’t do anything about it.” My eyes burned, fighting tears, and I rubbed them. “I can’t bring her back, but what I can do is remember. Darya, and those kids on the boat – Abas and Sharbat – and you, and Masood here, I will remember you all. And If I get to the end of my journey, I’ll speak of you all. I’ll tell people your stories; I promise I will.”

The old woman’s gaze held mine for a few seconds. She stretched her arm towards me, and I approached her. Her rough palm touched my cheek, sending shivers down my body. I had forgotten what a motherly touch felt like.

“Thank you, Samim,” Auntie Amina said. “We would very much like to be remembered.”

* * *

Night fell on the Tarpaulin Hills, and everyone hid inside their tents. I stayed by the fire, waiting for Zayn to return, and Auntie Amina stayed with me. Tired, I lay down on the ground, and the heat of the flames lulled me to sleep.

“I know you’re hurting.” Auntie’s croaky voice woke me.

I opened my eyes and saw Zayn sitting by the fire, his arms stretched towards the dying flames. I half closed my eyes again, pretending to be asleep.

“But you can’t give up,” Auntie Amina continued, poking the coals with her stick, making flames jump.

“I’m tired. I don’t know how to go on,” Zayn whispered, resting his head on his bent knees.

My skin tensed under my clothes at the sound of his voice. These were his first words in weeks! I squeezed my eyes to stop the tears.

“I thought I couldn’t go on after my last child, my only daughter, was killed in a bomb attack. I went to bed after the funeral, and the next day I couldn’t get up.”

Zayn lifted his head and glanced at the woman. I watched him through my squinted eyes.

“I spent months bedbound, until one day, out of the window I saw a mighty eagle soaring across the sky. Four black crows chased after it, their loud cackles filling the air. The eagle, a creature of sunlight and freedom, was being harassed by scavengers who resented its presence in their territory. It circled for a time, trying to outmanoeuvre them, but four crows turned to five, and then six. That’s when the eagle stopped circling and simply rose higher, soaring towards the heavens. The crows screeched and followed it, but they can’t fly as high as eagles. A few seconds later, they descended and left that majestic bird alone.”

Auntie Amina paused and turned to Zayn. He was staring at her, his red eyes thirsty for some comfort.

“Sometimes, to survive, we must not just run but rise. Rise above our loss, pain and grief. Watching that eagle, I realised that to keep my grandchildren safe, I had to rise, too.”

“How did you rise?” Zayn’s voice grew stronger.

A toothless grin stretched across the old woman’s face. “Well, first, I rose from my bed. Then I sold everything we owned, and we hit the road. Now, five months later, my legs are as strong as the trunks of old trees, and so is my faith that these children will be safe and happy one day.”

The woman stood up with a groan, leaning over her stick, and hobbled to Zayn. She lifted his chin with her hand and looked him in the eye.

“My grandchildren will be safe and happy one day. And so will you, Zayn. Just rise.”

Zayn’s sunken eyes filled with tears as his chest rose with a deep sigh.