10

I was eager to talk to Hannah and Mariam.  I wanted to hear Hannah’s voice. I needed to hear about what she did that day.  Did she go to the market with Mariam? I thought to myself all day. The December night wasn’t particularly cold, but I had the heater plugged in and was waiting for it to heat up. The thumps it made as it began to heat were rhythmic.

It was Mariam’s voice that made my stomach ache. After pressing her to tell me what made her voice so soft that I could barely hear her, she told me.

“We are being expelled”, she said. My eyes scanned the room, as if I was searching for what to say and think next.  I felt as if every single fiber in my body was sinking.

Mariam noticed that my silence was a signal to continue.

“The letter came today”, she said as her voice began to break.

“What does it say?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“It says that we have to leave Egypt, since we came here illegally”, she said before taking a long breath.  Somewhere, deep inside of me, I feared that the day would come, but not for at least two or three years.

“They found out”, Mariam said. I could tell that she was fighting the tears that were begging to swarm her face. She kept them at bay.

“When?” I asked.

“We have an appeal in a month”, she answered.

“I will do something”, I said, trying to comfort her.  There was nothing I could do. I had been to the ministry many times, signed countless forms, and talked to different people.  It was a hideous process.

I sat on the couch that night, dreading to even consider going into the bedroom. I couldn’t handle the dark. I thought about Hannah. What now? I asked myself.  Everything was quiet. I smoked one cigarette after another and listened to the concert of solitude and silence that had been playing in the apartment.

I couldn’t blame myself for smuggling us out. How could I? I thought. I tried going through all of the regular channels, but it got us nowhere, as was the case with countless others.

I couldn’t help but think of the damned boats, the rocking, and Hannah throwing up. We couldn’t stay in Egypt.  I thought to myself, but it wasn’t reassuring at the moment. Mariam was denied.

I began to sweat. The heater was enthusiastically warming up the apartment. I became angry.  I started to pace through the apartment.  The silence became to bother me. It was at that moment that I realized how different things have gotten, in such a short period of time. Even the memories became blurred.

When you leave war, and the shelling, and the screaming, silence becomes strange. It takes some getting used to. I needed more time.

 

11

The next night, I drove the boys to the mall. I couldn’t tell Mr. Ali anything. How could I?  Thirty days wasn’t enough time to even contemplate a proper solution. The ones that came to my head were far-fetched. There was only one thing I could do. I had to go back. I couldn’t let Mariam face this alone.

The Gold Mall was rightfully called so. Upon its grand entrance stood large, gold-colored pillars. As soon as we walked in, we were met by men handing out fliers for various sales, on various items. I took some of them. “SEVENTY PERCENT OFF LINEN SHEETS” one of them read. The mall smelled of perfume and cinnamon. Omar was excited. He had a plan. Abdullah on the other hand, seemed uninterested.

As I walked behind the boys, dodging the persistent perfume sprayers, I realized what the feeling that bothered me since my arrival in Kuwait was. It was guilt. I was constantly surrounded by things that in their sheer beauty, screamed of luxury. While Mariam was on the edge, waiting to hear from me to tell them to start packing, I was encompassed by things that were not important-things that had a price on them.

I dropped the boys off, and as Mr. Ali handed me the envelope with my salary in it, he noticed my lack of enthusiasm.  His look of concern was enough for me to tell him everything.

“We live in a sad time”, he began. “Men who we have never met decide our futures and our children’s futures. Even after you work hard, nothing seems to be good enough. We live in a time when principles can be bought.”

I agreed with him, shook his hand and left. There was nothing else to discuss.  The drive back to the apartment was not pleasant. I did not want to be alone. My mind was warning me.

How can I let my family go back to hell? I thought as I changed lanes. It wasn’t the pressure that was getting to me. It was anger now that was taking over. I had to go and look for plane tickets. I desperately tried to make plans, any kind of plans. It was useless. My mind warned me.

 

12

It was the three a.m. phone call that had woken me up from a dreamless sleep.   What could it be now? I thought as I fought the darkness, looking for the phone.

“There was an accident”, said Mr. Ali on the other line. He told me that Abdullah had gone somewhere after I had left his house, and was involved in a car crash. After Mr. Ali had given me the hospital information, I was on my way.

Upon arriving at the hospital, I was met with Mrs. Ali, who had a look of desperation crown her gracious face.

“Did you drive him?” she asked me quietly.  Mr. Ali tried to interrupt her, but it was evident he had no energy to come between me and his wife.

“No”, I answered quickly, looking at Mr. Ali, looking for a reason behind his wife’s question.

“Abdullah went with a friend, it seems, long after we had fallen asleep. They went to race cars”, said Mr. Ali in a defeated manner.  I was silent. I had no words of comfort for the man.  I didn’t even have questions.  I was useless.

After about a half an hour of talking to the police, I was informed that I was free to go. I didn’t want to go.  I wanted to help Mr. Ali and his family, but I just didn’t know how.  I left the hospital. The blur of white coats and sky-blue uniforms were all I saw as I went through the sliding doors.

I stood outside. I lit a cigarette and waited.  I didn’t want to leave.  I had the coming week off. The boys were on a school holiday. I couldn’t spend a week without seeing this young boy whose mistake couldn’t have cost him his life.

I got into the car, and drove to Mr. Ali’s house. After a bombardment of questions from Mai and John, I went up to Abdullah’s room.  I wanted to know this boy. I looked at his black school bag that was leaning on the edge of his bed. I looked inside and found what I was looking for. It was the least I could do.

 

13

It was in the evening that I decided to go see Abdullah. It was the best chance not to be seen.

“How are you?” I asked quietly as I pulled up a chair next to his bed. The boy was silent. He looked at me with tired eyes.

“Tell me what happened”, I said, breaking the silence. The bandages he had on his head were causing him an itch. He scratched it. It was the only movement he made.  This was a mistake. I thought as I got up to leave.

“Do they hate me?” Abdullah asked.

“Who?” I asked, pretending not to know the answer. The boy saw through my ploy and turned his head towards the window.

“Of course not”, I said as I sat back down.

I gave Abdullah what I had found in his school bag. It was a book of short stories he had been reading. It was evident by the dog ears he had left on certain pages.  He took the book, and for a mere moment, his eyes widened.

“I didn’t even want to go”, he said as he looked at the book.

“We all make mistakes”, I tried to reassure him.  He broke down in tears. He placed his face into his palms and let out a loud cry.  I got closer to him, and as I placed my hand on his shoulder, he pulled me in and hugged me. I felt his tears on my shoulders.

Three days later, I went with Omar to the hospital to pick up Abdullah. He was being released.

“Abdullah is an idiot”, Omar said as he fidgeted in the back seat, trying to conceal his excitement.  I smiled, realizing that my face had not made that expression in a while.  Mr. Ali’s troubles had masked my own.  I thought about Hannah.

 

(To be continued…)

 

Asmir Dzankovic was born in 1984, in Bosnia and Herzegovina. In 1995, he moved to Chicago with his family.  It was in Chicago that he found his love of writing. In 2012 he graduated from the University of Sarajevo, with a degree in English Language and Literature. Today, Asmir is teaching Creative Writing at a private school in the Middle East.

Photo: Philip Bitnar

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

13

 

It was in the evening that I decided to go see Abdullah. It was the best chance not to be seen.

“How are you?” I asked quietly as I pulled up a chair next to his bed. The boy was silent. He looked at me with tired eyes.

“Tell me what happened”, I said, breaking the silence. The bandages he had on his head were causing him an itch. He scratched it. It was the only movement he made.  This was a mistake. I thought as I got up to leave.

“Do they hate me?” Abdullah asked.

“Who?” I asked, pretending not to know the answer. The boy saw through my ploy and turned his head towards the window.

“Of course not”, I said as I sat back down.

I gave Abdullah what I had found in his school bag. It was a book of short stories he had been reading. It was evident by the dog ears he had left on certain pages.  He took the book, and for a mere moment, his eyes widened.

“I didn’t even want to go”, he said as he looked at the book.

“We all make mistakes”, I tried to reassure him.  He broke down in tears. He placed his face into his palms and let out a loud cry.  I got closer to him, and as I placed my hand on his shoulder, he pulled me in and hugged me. I felt his tears on my shoulders.

Three days later, I went with Omar to the hospital to pick up Abdullah. He was being released.

“Abdullah is an idiot”, Omar said as he fidgeted in the back seat, trying to conceal his excitement.  I smiled, realizing that my face had not made that expression in a while.  Mr. Ali’s troubles had masked my own.  I thought about Hannah.