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  When the time came to board the plane, I stood in line like everyone else, dragging my heavy bags behind me. But when the other passengers started moving forwards, I found myself nailed to the spot. A mysterious force, some hidden obstacle, brought me to a standstill. The queue shuffled forwards, yet I remained perfectly still. More people moved forwards, but my feet refused to move. The people behind me urged me forward, but I couldn’t put one foot in front of the other. They tut-tutted; I paid no notice. They raised their voices; I didn’t care. The queue diverted around my solemn stationary form. A member of staff came and spoke to me, but I didn’t hear what he said. He took me by the arm and moved me to the side, out of the way. I was blinded by fear. I felt a sharp pain in my stomach and a fever spreading through my limbs. My strength gave out and I fell to the ground. I didn’t pass out, but I was oblivious to what was happening around me.

  Everyone boarded the plane whilst I lay there, on the ground, alone and detached.

  I look at my face in the mirror again. I have grown older, and somehow outgrown that desire I once felt.

  Translated from the Arabic by Ruth Ahmedzai Kemp

  THE BEGINNER’S GUIDE TO SMUGGLING

  Zaher Omareen

  Syria

  IT’S 5:30AM. HOW I hate early mornings. Paris hasn’t woken up yet; the streets are empty and depressing. The only people you see at this time are men and old women dragging their feet down the narrow pavements. Where is the Eiffel Tower? I stop and turn 360 degrees but I can’t see it anywhere on the horizon. I can’t possibly leave this city without seeing its most iconic landmark! It’s OK, I’m sure Sweden has plenty to offer. The bitter taste of the sea lingers on my tongue. Why did all of that family insist on getting into the boat with us? Smuggling doesn’t work for ‘larger’ people. Everybody should go on a mandatory diet before getting into those death boats.

  The smell of the morning bread is mouth-watering, but distant. I’ll be late if I follow my nose.

  The cobblestone streets of Paris remind me of those of the Old Tawafra neighbourhood in Hama. There, all the narrow alleys where lovers meet are monitored by nosy neighbours, whilst here, no-one would flinch if they saw two people having sex in the street. What luxury they live in!

  I keep walking and the sound of a muffled call to prayer walks with me, I can feel it echoing in my head.

  ‘Gare du Nord. Gare du Nord …’ I repeat the name of the station so I don’t forget it. Where on Earth do they get these pronunciations from? It takes a hundred letters to spell a two syllable-word like ‘Monsieur’, what linguistic waste is this? While I was in prison, I was known to the other inmates as ‘The Monsieur’, I had no idea how it was spelt in French, and it ruined the nickname for me when I found out. But at the time, I preferred it to what the jailers called me: ‘The Donkey’s Doctor’.

  As I wait at a red light, I look up at the balconies, carved with the precision of a clockmaker, balustrades gleaming as if they had just been painted.

  A woman in her late seventies stands next to me. At least that’s how old I think she is. I’m no expert when it comes to guessing distances and ages. She carries the weight of her body on a wooden cane that she seems to support as much as it supports her. She gives me an uneasy look. I smile at her. She doesn’t smile back. The light turns green, we cross the quiet road together slowly. I can still hear the muffled call to prayer, intermittent, weak, out of tune.

  Oh! It’s coming from my phone! It’s the morning call to prayer in Syria. ‘It’s better to pray than to sleep,’ the Muezzin repeats.

  ‘Never! Sleep is a thousand times better. At least!’ I reply. How do you close this stupid app?

  Back when I was in Greece, I had to trade in my smartphone for a cheap, temporary one to pay for a plane ticket to smuggle me this far. There were many Syrians in Greece, we all looked the same: broken and humiliated faces with no names. We were all individuals until we reached Europe, then we became ‘Ferenja’, as we say in Arabic. Abu Kalimera laughed as he said the word a thousand times a day, over pronouncing the ‘J’ in his thick Aleppo accent. He gave me his stupid phone and took mine as he handed me 300 US Dollars.

  When in Rome, do as the Romans do. When in Greece, do as the Syrians do.

  I dried my clothes on the sunny beaches of Kos, away from the prying eyes of the islanders, angry at the zombies emerging daily from the sea. I wouldn’t have needed to dry them if it wasn’t for that XL sized family, who got overly excited when they saw the land of dreams getting closer. The boat had tipped over with everyone in it. I’m a good swimmer, but a fool when it comes to everything else. I let my suitcase sink with all its contents as I started swimming frantically, fearing the coastguards who could send us back to Turkey if they caught us. All I had left was my expired Syrian passport from inside my underwear—I’d stashed it there.

  ‘Kalimera, you son of a bitch, what happened to the passport?’

  Abu Kalimera was in his forties or fifties. He forever had an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, as if it had grown there in place of a Western accent. There were ten mobile phones in front of him, all ringing and falling silent in chorus. He handed me a blue passport with a bizarre logo on the cover. It looked like a cross between a crown and a mortar shell. ‘Diplomatic Passport’ was written across the front.

  ‘Son of a bitch, you want me to be sent back home?’

  ‘Take it easy. This passport belongs to the Hungarian ambassador to Turkey’s husband. You’re educated. Clever. Not like these sheep. Just memorise a few Hungarian words and you’ll get through the airport. Go on, get yourself out of here.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t work?’

  ‘Come back and I’ll make you a new one; you won’t have to pay a cent. I’ve added a Greek ID in there, free of charge. Just don’t try and use it to get out of Greece.’

  ‘A nevem Kaszuba Szabolcs, Koszonom. Dolgozom orvos, felesegem nagykovet, akarok utazni a hazamba.’

  God damn this language. The only thing I could memorise was my new name, Kaszuba Szabolcs. I have no idea what a ‘Kaszuba’ would even look like. It says on the passport that he’s forty-five. I know I look older than my age but not by fifteen years! I call a friend already living in Sweden—that land of honey, cinnamon, and warm evening tea.

  ‘What do Hungarians look like?’

  ‘They look like all Europeans. Blond, white, tall, sort of muscular. Speak with a funny lisp.’

  I stood in front of the mirror for two hours every day, pronouncing my new name. I tried putting the stress on the ‘B’ first, and then the ‘Z’, experimenting with different accents in case I was asked questions at the airport. I tried flexing to look more ripped, but it was useless.

  In an Athens market as empty as an expired almond shell, I bought a ‘Hungarian outfit’ to make up for the lousiness of my new passport. A white shirt and a pair of jeans. Then I changed my mind about the jeans. An ambassador’s husband wouldn’t wear jeans! I bought a pair of dark grey trousers, and added a black briefcase like the ones security officials in Syria carry.

  The day of the trip, I prayed two rak’as1 for good luck and made my way to the airport. This was the only kind of relationship I’d had with God since I was a child: a strictly beneficial one. If I passed an exam, I gave a bit of money to the mosque. If I failed, they didn’t get a penny. This time I decided to pay upfront.

  It was a Sunday. The ticket to Paris was chosen carefully. Eight o’clock is what’s known in the smuggler’s code as ‘the end of the end of the week.’ I put myself in the ambassador’s husband’s clothes and headed to the airport three hours early.

  I didn’t think I looked that Hungarian! My friends had always made fun of my fair hair. A ‘foreign seed’ they joked, referring to my grandmother’s first marriage to a Turkish man, a remnant of the Ottoman occupation. Nobody forgets anything in that city.

  My grandmother’s Turkish husband got me through security and past the gates. But at the door of the damned airplane, a security
guard stopped me, asking in broken English, ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Vagyok Magyarorszagrol … I’m from Hungary,’ I replied in a terrible Hungarian accent.

  He laughed heartily. The son of a bitch was on to me. He inspected my passport with painful slowness. A flock of pigeons flapped in my stomach.

  Fuck you for this, Kalimera.

  I hope he just sends me back to where I came from without detaining me for possession of a fake passport.

  Where are those two rak’as I prayed? Now would be a good time for their effects to kick in.

  ‘How many children?’

  ‘Two.’

  He flipped the passport over again.

  ‘Excellent job.’

  He gave it back to me. No detention then! I took my empty suitcase and went back the same way I came.

  ‘This way!’ he shouted.

  More pigeons flapped in my stomach. I did it. Those prayers weren’t in vain after all! I was too afraid to thank him.

  It was my first time on a plane. The air hostess guided me to my seat; she looked like the type of women I’d seen in films. Two British tourists sat next to me. They calmly buckled their seatbelts, I copied them, but I couldn’t get the clip to work, so had to hold the belts together the entire trip.

  The air hostess checked all the passengers; she smiled, which scared me. I’d heard that air hostesses were nothing but undercover agents, and that one look from them could get you thrown off the flight.

  The scent of freshly baked baguettes fills the air in Paris. The call to prayer coming from my phone has finally stopped. I removed the battery completely. It was the only way.

  The eighty-something woman disappeared into a house. Such strange balconies overlooking the street here, barely wide enough to stand on. How do they live like this! A car speeds past without splashing me as it goes through a puddle. I’m pleasantly surprised. The French are nice but miserable.

  •

  ‘How are you? I’m fine and you? Good, good. I’m a student, I’m a Doctor.’

  I repeated this in my head over and over. Stepping off the plane, I prepared my fake Greek ID, and hid my Hungarian one. No one speaks Greek here; my terrible English will save me.

  There were no security checks at Charles de Gaulle Airport for passengers travelling within Europe. A family friend helped me find a hostel in Paris; I forget the name of the place. I shared the room with seven other people and heard every possible sound a human body could produce. And don’t get me started on the smell.

  But it didn’t matter. Sweden was one step closer! Even if I can still taste the sea salt. Next stop: Gare du Nord.

  I had found someone who was driving to Copenhagen that morning through a carpooling website; the guy’s English was as bad as mine, which was a relief! I booked my seat immediately for 80 Euros.

  It will take 17 hours to get to Denmark, and then I’ll take the train 7854 metres over the Öresund Bridge to Sweden. The train will stop at the border city of Malmo before heading to Gothenburg, the second biggest city, where about 550,000 Sami and Viking descendants live. There’s also the headquarters of Volvo and IKEA, and the city’s famous for its cinnamon buns, etc … I’ve read more about the history of Sweden these past weeks than I ever read about my own country.

  Paris is so beautiful this morning. The quiet, grey streets are still wet from last night’s rain.

  ‘My name is Nicodemus Vasilios, I’m from Athena, and I’m going to Stockholm. I have scholarship in the university. Doctor. I’m doctor.’

  I rehearsed this lie to perfection last night whilst staring at my Greek ID, just before I fell asleep.

  I’d also prepared a list of topics to talk about en route. The first hour would be about the Greek culture, and how it differs from French culture. Second hour we’d cover ecology and botany. Third hour, toilet break. Fourth hour, nap time, as I’ll no doubt be tired from the night before. Fifth hour, Greek food, and by then we should have reached our destination.

  The car will head from Paris to Luxembourg, a country I’d never heard of before. Then it’s Germany, Denmark and finally Sweden, where I will press the RESTART button.

  The driver is called Daniel; I know nothing else about him, except his address, which is where we plan to meet. I arrive at 6:30am on the dot.

  I try his mobile. No answer. Maybe he’s still asleep.

  I wait five minutes then call again, then wait again, call, then wait again. Nothing.

  Fuck you, Kalimera.

  ‘Go to France,’ he said, ‘it will be easier to get to Sweden from there.’

  ‘But I want to go to Italy; that’s a more guaranteed smuggling route!’

  ‘Look, if France doesn’t work, the next one is on me. How many times have you done this, now?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘No worries! Sixth time’s the charm!’

  Oh Daniel … God of the roads and the roaring sea. Master of the city of lights, caster of long shadows. Man of dusty evenings and cold mornings. Answer, you son of a bitch!

  All my prayers and invocations did nothing.

  I sat by the side of the road and watched a van deliver papers to the kiosks. In Hama, we used to sell old newspapers by the kilo to the newspaper vendors. Five notes per kilo. Two kilos of newspapers—featuring the same photograph of our ‘immortal leader’ on the front each day—was enough to buy a box of Marlborough Red tobacco.

  If I could get a cigarette right now, I’d have no doubt got myself out of this mess.

  The phone rings.

  Oh god of mobile phones, master of the luminous dawn, carrier of fertility to our barren lands, patron saint of the tired and hungry.

  ‘Hello, yes, downstairs, near Gare du Nord, yes. No problem, take your time.’

  I stand up quickly, brush down my Hungarian trousers and fix my Greek appearance.

  I stand in military fashion in front of the address, pumped full of adrenaline. I feel like I can take out an entire Samurai squad with the blink of an eye.

  The heavy Parisian door opens slowly, creaking a cheerful gothic tune to itself. As it opens it exposes a giant doberman with a frown on its light brown face. I shudder, squeezing my phone in my hand almost crushing it: an unresolved phobia since childhood.

  The dog’s appearance is followed a moment later by Daniel’s—a tall, thin man in his late fifties. He is wearing a classic French coat, khaki-coloured. For a second, the two of them look like they’re wearing matching outfits. Daniel waves blankly and walks towards me, the dog ambling lazily at his side. My heart thumps in my chest.

  ‘You are Nicodema.’

  ‘Yes, Nicodemus.’

  ‘This is Winston.’

  ‘Is he travelling with us?’

  ‘Yes, he is super friendly.’

  ‘Beautiful, very beautiful.’

  I smile through gritted teeth, keeping a safe distance between myself and Winston. We head towards the car. Daniel opens the back door, and the dog, out of habit, jumps in behind the passenger seat.

  All that stands between me and my new life in Sweden is a terrifying, slathering dog. What happened to those prayers you owe me, God?

  ‘Fuck you, Kalimera, for such a trip.’

  I sit down next to Daniel, and pretend to be calm, nonchalant. My heart leaps the first time Winston barks. I try to keep it together and ignore him, but it doesn’t last.

  Daniel isn’t very talkative, which is for the best. He remains silent for most of the journey. He asks only two questions to which I give two answers; that seems to be enough. I stay perfectly still in my seat like a statue, frozen by the feeling of Winston’s breath on the back of my neck.

  Night falls and Winston starts barking. I remember prison. His barks are like the guards’ voices during an interrogation session. No words. Only a series of rough, intermingled voices. No faces either. Detainees were always blindfolded. Dog-like sounds overlaid with intermittent screams of pain coming from all sides.

  Winston’s bark wakes me a
s the car comes to a stop. I open my sleep-heavy eyes. It’s two in the morning. I must have slept for more than five hours! There is a police car by the side of the road. Four officers get out, one of them is a woman.

  ‘Where we are?’ I asked in my broken English.

  ‘On the German–Danish border. Routine check.’

  The pretty policewoman approaches my window, followed by another officer.

  She smiles at me, I smile back.

  ‘Documents, please.’

  I reach for my wallet; I can’t find my fake Greek ID. I must have left it under my pillow last night in the dorm. I look at the policewoman in defeat.

  ‘I forgot my documents.’

  I guess Denmark is as good a place as any to seek asylum. It’s not quite Sweden—a bit smaller and not as cold—but I’m sure I’ll get used to it. It’s the world’s number one exporter of fish, after all, and it borders Germany, Sweden and possibly Norway. Good standard of living, good education, easy language. I should have chosen it to begin with. It’s better than Sweden on so many levels.

  I calmly step out of the car as I’m instructed to.

  Winston barks angrily.

  I’m going to Denmark, you son of a bitch. Bark as much as you want.

  Daniel silences him with a single look.

  The policewoman takes my phone. She inspects it calmly; it’s so old she can’t actually operate it. She shines her torch in my face; I glimpse hers—so young, almost childlike.

  ‘So you are Greek?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘How you can confirm that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m a student going to Stockholm to study program. I’m Doctor.’

  As she makes her calls, I survey the darkness: a vast, empty landscape. Endless, open fields, ready to be used. I am shitting myself. I look around and choose a spot to run to. But the policewoman’s childlike voice brings me back to the present.

  ‘OK, how do you say good morning in Greek?’