Chapter 8: The Man Who Changed Our Lives - My Name Is Samim

The stone-cutting factory, Iran, 2019 to 2021

A few weeks after the devil cook fled the factory, chased away by the angry workers, a new cook arrived. His name was Karim, and he had been a university professor back in Kabul. Uncle Karim spoke out against the Taliban, which made him a target. One day, his wife and sons were killed in a Taliban ambush. He escaped, seeking refuge in Iran. We called him “Uncle” out of respect, because in my country that’s what we call older men even if they’re not family.

Uncle Karim was the most intelligent man I’d ever met. He knew everything about space – my favourite subject in the world! Back in Ghazni, my teacher had grumbled at me whenever I asked him about the universe: “Stars and planets won’t put food on your plate, Samim!” But Uncle Karim never brushed my questions away. He’d answer them patiently while stirring food inside giant boiling pans on the hob.

“Never stop asking questions, boys, for it is the only way to grow,” he’d say.

I also think he enjoyed talking about space just as much as I did.

Uncle Karim was kind to us, but he wasn’t well. He talked to himself a lot and sometimes disappeared at night. The workers would find him somewhere in the morning, cold and confused. My uncle told us that Uncle Karim became unwell after his family died.

Some nights, after tidying the kitchen, we climbed to the top of a nearby hill and lay on our backs, staring at the starlit sky. Uncle Karim would teach us about stars and galaxies. There was so much darkness inside my and Zayn’s heads and hearts at the time. Still, when we lay there on the dry soil of that hill, listening to Uncle Karim’s voice, croaky from smoking his pipe, that darkness lifted away. And for that little while, we were just three tiny dots in the vast universe.

Uncle Karim once told us, “Life can be tough, especially for people like us – homeless and voiceless. Our roads are twisted and rocky; we trip and fall more often than we walk. It makes us angry, and sometimes giving up seems like the easiest way out.” He paused as a puff of his smoke circled over us. “But if you ever feel that way, look up in the sky.” He raised his veiny hand and pointed his pipe at the silver moon. “Look at the sun or the moon and remember that the same God who created this sun, the moon and the whole universe is the same God who created both of you. Because you are just as important and just as needed in this world.”

Uncle Karim’s words sent shivers down my spine. Could that be true? Since leaving Ghazni, I had thought there was no place in the world for people like me. I thought that a lumpy mattress on the concrete floor of a stone-cutting factory was all that we deserved. But if God needed me just as much as the sun and the moon, then I must be here for a reason.

The hope lit up inside me like a candle.

* * *

We spent two years in that factory. Two years of Uncle’s shoulders slumping lower with each heavy rock he hauled, his hands rough and scarred from endless cuts, burns and blisters. Two years of Zayn and I trailing after Uncle Karim, soaking up his stories like thirsty desert travellers. He spoke of planets with rings like hula hoops, of stars exploding in a blaze of colours, of galaxies swirling like cosmic whirlpools. And even though we still slept on the dusty concrete floor, his stories were our escape; they were our true home.

But it seemed that every time we found a scrap of peace and happiness, it slipped through our fingers like sand.

One night, while the workers were finishing their dinners, someone jumped up, screaming, “I’ve just got a message! The police raided Majid’s factory! They’re arresting all Afghans!”

The room burst with gasps and curses. Majid’s factory was close to ours, so everyone knew we would be next. Spoons clattered against plates as men abandoned their half-eaten dinners and rushed out of the room.

Zayn and I watched them race past us, mobile phones pressed to their ears, calling their families.

In the chaos, one of them shoved Zayn aside, sending him tumbling to the floor. Before he could get up, a heavy boot stomped on his hand. Zayn yelped in pain. I kneeled to help him but was knocked down too. Thankfully, two strong hands gripped the collars of our shirts, lifting us back to our feet.

It was Uncle Roshan. “Go to the kitchen. Stay calm,” he told us.

My uncle was right. The panic and the rush didn’t help anyone, because once the workers had packed, most realised they had nowhere to go – not that day anyway. Everyone gathered in the dining room again to discuss a plan.

Someone said that the man who sold us our food was a smuggler. His name was Mustafa, and he was helping people like us, with no visas or passports, to get to Turkey and Europe to seek asylum. I saw Uncle Roshan’s face light up.

When Uncle Karim learned my uncle wanted to pay Mustafa to get us to Europe, he shook his head.

“When the tiger kills, the jackal profits,” his voice rasped as he lit his pipe, then took a deep drag. Milky-white smoke puffed out of his nostrils. “You will give all your money away for a journey through hell, Roshan. Only the lucky ones survive, and there aren’t many lucky ones among people like us.”

I shivered when I heard those words. It didn’t sound like a journey anyone would want to take.

My uncle looked at my and Zayn’s panicked faces and lowered his gaze. “I know, but what choice do we have? Run from one factory to another until we get caught and sent back to our deaths? The boys need to go to school. They deserve better than this. We have no other options.”

Uncle Karim looked at Zayn and me. His eyebrows pulled together, and his gaze filled with pity as if he could see there and then, in our eyes, every nightmare that awaited us on the journey ahead.

The following evening, my uncle met with Mustafa. When he returned, he told us the smuggler wanted $15,000 to get us to the UK, and we only had half of that.

My eyes bulged. “What are we going to do?”

But my uncle had no answer.

Uncle Karim’s face hardened when he learned about the smuggler’s demands, but his voice was full of determination. “I’ll give you the money, Roshan.”

My uncle refused it straight away. “There is no way, Karim. It’s generous of you but too much to ask from anyone.”

Uncle Karim walked up to Zayn and me and ruffled our hair with his hands, rough from all the washing-up. “You will be doing me a favour.”

My uncle spread his arms. “A favour? How?”

“You see, if I can somehow help these two find the life they deserve, then me staying alive when all my family passed will mean something in the end.”

My uncle stood frozen, staring Uncle Karim in the eye. His strong chin trembled as he spoke. “You have been looking after my boys for almost two years, Karim. I am already in your debt. But even if I work day and night, I won’t be able to pay you back. Not any time soon.”

Uncle Karim waved his hand. “No, no, no. This is not a loan. I don’t want this money back. I don’t need it.”

We all gaped at him, bug-eyed. How could a man who slept on a dirty mattress on the floor of a stone-cutting factory not need thousands of dollars?

Uncle Karim chuckled at our confused faces.

“You all know I’m not well. I can’t run any more. The workers here are kind to me; they help me when I get lost. So I’ll stay here and cook the best meals I can for them even if my shaky hands drop an egg or two and my foggy head forgets the salt.”

Uncle Roshan’s eyes grew heavy with sadness. “I don’t know what to say, Karim.”

Uncle Karim stretched out his arm to my uncle. “Say you’ll guide these two to safety.”

My uncle shook his hand with both hands. “I will, I promise. And for as long as I live, Karim, I’ll pray for you.”

They embraced, and Zayn and I stood aside, whimpering. We didn’t want to leave Uncle Karim behind.

Uncle Karim leaned over us and embraced our shaky shoulders. “Remember, boys, we are all made of stardust,” he said, and his chapped lips lifted with the kindest smile. “And just like stars, we shine the brightest in the darkness.”

I didn’t know what he meant then, but I understood it later. It is on our darkest days that we find our true strength.

After breakfast, Uncle Karim said he had a gift for us. He kneeled on the kitchen floor and unfolded a charcoal-grey canvas with 88 constellations dotted all over it like tiny pearls. Zayn and I gasped and dropped to our knees, fingers pointing at the stars we recognised from his hilltop lessons.

Uncle Karim’s wrinkly face beamed with delight. “It’s for those days when the stars above you hide behind clouds. Then you can find them all here instead. And remember what I’ve told you before?”

We remembered. “We are just as important and just as needed as the sun, the moon and the universe,” we said, and Uncle Karim hugged us tightly with his warm, bony arms.

“You, my dear boys, are every bit as important and needed,” were the last words he ever told us.