The Displaced
The Displaced
Read this story in your homeFollow the instructions. Share your answers to the questions, or write them on a piece of paper if you'd like to keep them private.
For the best experience, view this story on a desktop browser. |
|
As the wedding party danced, so too did jets overhead. With the lights out, the pitch darkness cloaked their celebrations, and the whole community - perhaps a thousand people - kept their voices at a whisper, fearful of the threat overhead. Ahmad held his new bride, Haya. She was dazzling in her flowing white gown, even if she couldn’t get to Aleppo to buy the one she really wanted. At that moment, Ahmad had no idea how far he would go for this woman.
Just a few days later, the bombs landed only metres from Ahmad and Haya’s home, tearing apart a neighbouring family with a sudden, and final, blast. Whether it was the Government or the opposition was impossible to know.
When Ahmad came home from teaching in the town, the peaceful greenery and miles of farmland were trapped beneath rubble, and there was no-one in sight. But he knew where his wife would be, and headed straight to his family home.
“We need to move out,” people were saying.
Cracks of artillery fire, snipers, and screaming children drowned out their words.
“You’re wanted,” his mother said. They weren’t just scared of the bombs. Ahmad was of military age, and any moment he could be swept up into the violence, forced to fight a war, when he only wanted peace.
“If they get hold of you, you’re gone. Please, leave now,” his mother said, her hands tremoring as she held his. “Don’t worry about us. We can find our way.”
Stand in your bedroomIf you had to leave right now, what would you take?
|
|
Ahmad took Haya’s hand, and they left.
|
They headed for the Kurdish region of Iraq, leaving everything behind. They had no money. No documentation. Nothing. Kind families gave them shelter, as they made their journey by bus and by foot to Kurdistan.
|
Iraq did not make life easy for them. The couple sweltered in a box room, stale air weighing heavy, as Ahmad sent out more and more CVs, detailing his qualifications and all the languages he’d mastered. He sent hundreds, and heard nothing. But all the while they were in that hot room, they were far away from the bombs. Finally, they both found some work.
|
One hot, sticky day, Haya’s stomach started to turn. She didn’t think it was the heat, it was something else.
“I feel something strange,” she told Ahmad. They went to the doctor, and Haya was right, it wasn’t the heat. “Congratulations!” the doctor said, smiling enthusiastically at the couple. “Thank you very much,” Ahmad replied, completely stunned. Then he broke into a smile. That night, his mother screamed down the phone in sheer delight. Finally, a grandchild! |
As Haya’s stomach grew, her body became sluggish, and she reluctantly handed a resignation letter to her boss. She took the long journey back into Syria, back into the risk of bombs, to let her mother look after her. Ahmad stayed in Iraq, sending money to support everyone back home, where there were no jobs. But ISIS soon swept through Iraq, slaughtering people indiscriminately, and nowhere seemed safe anymore.
When Ahmad met his daughter for the first time, she was eleven months old, and blood was caked into her hair. He touched his daughter’s head, and ran a healing hand across the place where she had hit it, as she’d tripped in the mountains when she and her mother were sneaking into Iraq to visit him. They sat together in the detention facility, police officers keeping one eye on them.
Ahmad wrapped his arms around them both, his family. His eyes were drawn to the blood on his daughter’s head.
They were allowed to talk for a while. Perhaps it was now, or perhaps it was a little while later, when Haya and Ahmad talked about what to do next.
“Syria is not safe. Iraq is not safe. I’m going to make the journey,” Ahmad said, thinking of Europe.
When Ahmad met his daughter for the first time, she was eleven months old, and blood was caked into her hair. He touched his daughter’s head, and ran a healing hand across the place where she had hit it, as she’d tripped in the mountains when she and her mother were sneaking into Iraq to visit him. They sat together in the detention facility, police officers keeping one eye on them.
Ahmad wrapped his arms around them both, his family. His eyes were drawn to the blood on his daughter’s head.
They were allowed to talk for a while. Perhaps it was now, or perhaps it was a little while later, when Haya and Ahmad talked about what to do next.
“Syria is not safe. Iraq is not safe. I’m going to make the journey,” Ahmad said, thinking of Europe.
Imagine you're AhmadWould you stay in Syria, or risk the journey to Europe?
|
|
They planned it over a long time, and came to a discussion that no couple should have to have.
“What is your preferred way of dying?” Ahmad asked.
“I can’t drown,” Haya said, thinking of the rubber dinghies so many Syrians boarded to travel to Greece.
“And I can’t watch my wife and daughter drown in front of me.”
“I’d prefer to die from shrapnel, or an airstrike,” Haya said.
And so they decided. It was worth Ahmad risking his life to get to safety, and to have his family brought over through the right systems, through family reunification. One life risked, to save two more. The UK had the best system for this, and he could speak the language almost as well as a native. This is where Ahmad started his journey, to save his wife and daughter. As he left for Turkey, as he crossed rivers and mountains, he didn’t yet know that he was leaving behind a pregnant wife.
Ahmad held the flimsy lifejacket in his hands, not quite sure if it was real, but willing himself to believe it was. He couldn’t change his mind, even if he wanted to. Standing in his way was the menacing glint of knives and Kalashnikovs pointed towards them all.
“What is your preferred way of dying?” Ahmad asked.
“I can’t drown,” Haya said, thinking of the rubber dinghies so many Syrians boarded to travel to Greece.
“And I can’t watch my wife and daughter drown in front of me.”
“I’d prefer to die from shrapnel, or an airstrike,” Haya said.
And so they decided. It was worth Ahmad risking his life to get to safety, and to have his family brought over through the right systems, through family reunification. One life risked, to save two more. The UK had the best system for this, and he could speak the language almost as well as a native. This is where Ahmad started his journey, to save his wife and daughter. As he left for Turkey, as he crossed rivers and mountains, he didn’t yet know that he was leaving behind a pregnant wife.
Ahmad held the flimsy lifejacket in his hands, not quite sure if it was real, but willing himself to believe it was. He couldn’t change his mind, even if he wanted to. Standing in his way was the menacing glint of knives and Kalashnikovs pointed towards them all.
Turn out the lights, and listen to the next part of the story in darkness.
AUDIO TRANSCRIPT
The lucky ones could see the deep night sky reflected in the ocean, the unlucky ones were stacked like excess baggage in the bottom deck, gasping for air.
As Ahmad, together with his Syrian friend Abdullah, sat beneath miles of stars, the purity of the night was polluted with the rattling of the engine, and panicked shouts.
I’m a strong swimmer, Ahmad thought to himself, knowing he could make it if the boat capsized. But how many children could I save? One, maybe two?
In that moment, he was so relieved his family was not on the boat with him. If the boat went down, how could he make the decision of who to save? His wife or his child?
AUDIO TRANSCRIPT ENDS
The lucky ones could see the deep night sky reflected in the ocean, the unlucky ones were stacked like excess baggage in the bottom deck, gasping for air.
As Ahmad, together with his Syrian friend Abdullah, sat beneath miles of stars, the purity of the night was polluted with the rattling of the engine, and panicked shouts.
I’m a strong swimmer, Ahmad thought to himself, knowing he could make it if the boat capsized. But how many children could I save? One, maybe two?
In that moment, he was so relieved his family was not on the boat with him. If the boat went down, how could he make the decision of who to save? His wife or his child?
AUDIO TRANSCRIPT ENDS
Hours passed, and finally Ahmad stepped onto the sandy Kos shore, taking a deep breath of European air. Europe smelt different. It was fresh, like he had been reborn. Adrenaline surging through him, he followed the rest of the group, the silvery moon lighting the way. After walking for most of the night, the excitement started to melt away, and Ahmad dragged his feet behind him. At the end of it all, a grotty hotel awaited them, people crammed up against each other, with no more facilities than were on board the dinghy. This was Europe? He had risked drowning for this?
When ignorant people later called him a coward, asking how he could leave his wife and daughter behind, he would tell them it was anything but selfish. With each step he took, he risked his own life a little more, so that his family might all survive. He did it not because he was brave, but because he had no choice.
The next three weeks dragged, as he waited for the papers he needed for permission to board a ferry to Athens. Every day, he craned his neck over a crowd in the square, as a list of who would receive their papers that day was read aloud. Finally, he heard his name, and he pushed through the crowd to get what he needed. That glorious scrap of paper.
Ahmad and Abdullah boarded the ferry, for once not having to sneak out in the night. For once, an easy ferry ride. But their papers only got them as far as Athens. Another foot into Europe, and an inch closer to the UK, Ahmad searched for a smuggler for what felt like the hundredth time. He scrolled through social media, finding reviews and recommendations. How many stars would you like to leave this smuggler?
They met, as they always did, in secret.
“Ok, I can get you to the UK. You have to pay €10,000,” said the smuggler, who looked surprisingly ordinary. You could pass him in the street and never know he was smuggling humans for a living.
“That’s crazy expensive, I can’t afford that!”
“If you pay half price, I’ll get you to France.”
The man took out some paper, and drew a map. From there, it was just a short hop to England.
When ignorant people later called him a coward, asking how he could leave his wife and daughter behind, he would tell them it was anything but selfish. With each step he took, he risked his own life a little more, so that his family might all survive. He did it not because he was brave, but because he had no choice.
The next three weeks dragged, as he waited for the papers he needed for permission to board a ferry to Athens. Every day, he craned his neck over a crowd in the square, as a list of who would receive their papers that day was read aloud. Finally, he heard his name, and he pushed through the crowd to get what he needed. That glorious scrap of paper.
Ahmad and Abdullah boarded the ferry, for once not having to sneak out in the night. For once, an easy ferry ride. But their papers only got them as far as Athens. Another foot into Europe, and an inch closer to the UK, Ahmad searched for a smuggler for what felt like the hundredth time. He scrolled through social media, finding reviews and recommendations. How many stars would you like to leave this smuggler?
They met, as they always did, in secret.
“Ok, I can get you to the UK. You have to pay €10,000,” said the smuggler, who looked surprisingly ordinary. You could pass him in the street and never know he was smuggling humans for a living.
“That’s crazy expensive, I can’t afford that!”
“If you pay half price, I’ll get you to France.”
The man took out some paper, and drew a map. From there, it was just a short hop to England.
Imagine you're AhmadWould you pay the smuggler?
|
|
He left the meeting with a fake European passport in his pocket, and a plane ticket to Marseille.
At the airport, a heavy hand pressed down on Ahmad’s shoulder.
“Sir, can you show me your passport?” the police officer said.
Ahmad’s trembling hand took the little burgundy booklet from his pocket, as he tried to remember in his head the fake name that was written inside.
“Where are you going?”
Ahmad’s brain ran at a hundred miles an hour.
“I’ve got my girlfriend in Marseille, and we’re celebrating our anniversary there. Is there any problem sir?”
Where did that come from? He thought to himself.
The policeman studied the passport, and flicked his eyes over Ahmad.
“No. Good luck,” he said, handing back the passport.
As soon as he got on the plane, and the orange seatbelt sign had dimmed, Ahmad locked himself in the tiny cubicle bathroom and destroyed his passport. The smuggler had warned that if he landed in France with that passport, they would send him back to Greece. As he freely walked through the airport terminal, he could barely believe that there was no passport control, and he wished he still had that little book in his pocket, so that he could get on a plane to the UK. Instead, it was a train journey to Calais.
At the airport, a heavy hand pressed down on Ahmad’s shoulder.
“Sir, can you show me your passport?” the police officer said.
Ahmad’s trembling hand took the little burgundy booklet from his pocket, as he tried to remember in his head the fake name that was written inside.
“Where are you going?”
Ahmad’s brain ran at a hundred miles an hour.
“I’ve got my girlfriend in Marseille, and we’re celebrating our anniversary there. Is there any problem sir?”
Where did that come from? He thought to himself.
The policeman studied the passport, and flicked his eyes over Ahmad.
“No. Good luck,” he said, handing back the passport.
As soon as he got on the plane, and the orange seatbelt sign had dimmed, Ahmad locked himself in the tiny cubicle bathroom and destroyed his passport. The smuggler had warned that if he landed in France with that passport, they would send him back to Greece. As he freely walked through the airport terminal, he could barely believe that there was no passport control, and he wished he still had that little book in his pocket, so that he could get on a plane to the UK. Instead, it was a train journey to Calais.
In Calais, Ahmad chased lorries every day and night, hoping to find a space in amongst the piles of frozen chicken. Towering walls topped with razor wire were starting to define Calais, as vans filled with armed policemen appeared around every corner.
“Two hours, and you’ll be in London,” the latest smuggler told him, and after ten days of running alongside lorries bound for England, he was led to a ferocious looking tanker. A huge, cylindrical beast that would be his chariot, or his coffin.
Ahmad placed his foot on the first rung, and pushed himself up to the next, treading lightly to stop the metal ringing out an alarm call. Men in front of him, men behind him, and an Afghan child. Eleven of them in total, followed by a smuggler clutching onto a set of tools, ready to seal them in. Ahmad crawled over the top, the steel solid beneath his fingertips, and inched closer to the hole in the top of the tanker that was gaping open. The hellmouth. He looked into the dark pit, and lowered himself down. As he dropped off the edge, his feet landed, then continued to sink, down and further down. The more he moved, the more the ground shifted around him, and soft powder clogged his nostrils. Flour.
Ahmad placed his foot on the first rung, and pushed himself up to the next, treading lightly to stop the metal ringing out an alarm call. Men in front of him, men behind him, and an Afghan child. Eleven of them in total, followed by a smuggler clutching onto a set of tools, ready to seal them in. Ahmad crawled over the top, the steel solid beneath his fingertips, and inched closer to the hole in the top of the tanker that was gaping open. The hellmouth. He looked into the dark pit, and lowered himself down. As he dropped off the edge, his feet landed, then continued to sink, down and further down. The more he moved, the more the ground shifted around him, and soft powder clogged his nostrils. Flour.
Turn out the lights, and listen to the next part of the story in darkness.
AUDIO TRANSCRIPT
There was a thud, reverberating through the silence, as the smuggler locked them inside their tomb. Ahmad had never seen darkness like it.
As the tanker sat in excruciating stillness for hours, the air became shallower. The bread flour settled on their skin, caught in their throats, wrapped them up in a dusty shroud. Finally, the monster of a vehicle lurched forwards, and Ahmad gulped at little pockets of oxygen. His eyes fluttered, his mind sailed in and out of consciousness. One moment he was fighting for breath, and the next he was waking up, gasping. The moments of consciousness became shorter, and somehow the darkness in the tanker became even deeper. He saw death. He felt its lifeless fingers brush away the flour on his face, and he let out an animal scream. He wished hard, for just one minute to see his family before he died. Clouds of flour puffed into the tank, as the child next to him slipped, drowning in flour. Ahmad snatched at his final breaths, and hammered his fists against the tanker walls. Eleven of them pounded the metal, shouting for help, tears on their cheeks.
The monster stopped moving. A scraping sound came from above, and the door creaked open, moonlight flooding in.
AUDIO TRANSCRIPT ENDS
There was a thud, reverberating through the silence, as the smuggler locked them inside their tomb. Ahmad had never seen darkness like it.
As the tanker sat in excruciating stillness for hours, the air became shallower. The bread flour settled on their skin, caught in their throats, wrapped them up in a dusty shroud. Finally, the monster of a vehicle lurched forwards, and Ahmad gulped at little pockets of oxygen. His eyes fluttered, his mind sailed in and out of consciousness. One moment he was fighting for breath, and the next he was waking up, gasping. The moments of consciousness became shorter, and somehow the darkness in the tanker became even deeper. He saw death. He felt its lifeless fingers brush away the flour on his face, and he let out an animal scream. He wished hard, for just one minute to see his family before he died. Clouds of flour puffed into the tank, as the child next to him slipped, drowning in flour. Ahmad snatched at his final breaths, and hammered his fists against the tanker walls. Eleven of them pounded the metal, shouting for help, tears on their cheeks.
The monster stopped moving. A scraping sound came from above, and the door creaked open, moonlight flooding in.
AUDIO TRANSCRIPT ENDS
The driver peered in at the stowaways.
“If you want to come with me, you’re welcome to get in the cabin,” the driver said, as they all stood on the roadside, somewhere near the Italian border. “But I’m going to Italy.”
Rage blistered inside him. All this, for a lie.
There you go, he thought, If you trust a smuggler, this is what you get.
Perhaps he should give up on the UK, and go somewhere else. Was it really worth all this? Couldn’t he just settle somewhere else?
“If you want to come with me, you’re welcome to get in the cabin,” the driver said, as they all stood on the roadside, somewhere near the Italian border. “But I’m going to Italy.”
Rage blistered inside him. All this, for a lie.
There you go, he thought, If you trust a smuggler, this is what you get.
Perhaps he should give up on the UK, and go somewhere else. Was it really worth all this? Couldn’t he just settle somewhere else?
Where would you go next?Would you keep trying to get to the UK, find somewhere else in Europe, or turn back home?
|
|
His brother, who had made it to Germany, would not let Ahmed give up so easily.
“If you want your family out of Syria as soon as possible, Germany’s going to be very difficult,” he said. “Please try to make it to the UK. It’s going to be easier for you there. It might take years for you to get your family to Germany, and in Syria one minute is a life changer.”
Another country. Another lorry. Somewhere near the Netherlands, Ahmad, Abdullah, and an Egyptian man sat in the back of a lorry, hidden from view behind packets of crisps. They stowed themselves away there for three days, eating nothing but a few dates, which they placed gently under their tongues and let the soft fruit melt, releasing a little energy. They were shutting their bodies down, preventing themselves from needing to use the bathroom - which they wouldn’t find in the back of a lorry. Time ticked over slowly. But all the while, at least they were not in that damned tanker. The sharp razor in Ahmad’s pocket comforted him - he could slash the plastic walls any time, and break free.
Finally, the lorry awoke, and the rumble of the engine sent a burst of electric energy through Ahmad. They had no sense of which way they were moving, which country they were speeding through, whether they were on a motorway or under a tunnel. They only had the word of a smuggler.
The daylight filtering through the thin lorry walls suddenly darkened, and a little while later reappeared. Ahmad turned on his phone, to be met by the most glorious text he’d ever received, sent from a mobile service provider:
“If you want your family out of Syria as soon as possible, Germany’s going to be very difficult,” he said. “Please try to make it to the UK. It’s going to be easier for you there. It might take years for you to get your family to Germany, and in Syria one minute is a life changer.”
Another country. Another lorry. Somewhere near the Netherlands, Ahmad, Abdullah, and an Egyptian man sat in the back of a lorry, hidden from view behind packets of crisps. They stowed themselves away there for three days, eating nothing but a few dates, which they placed gently under their tongues and let the soft fruit melt, releasing a little energy. They were shutting their bodies down, preventing themselves from needing to use the bathroom - which they wouldn’t find in the back of a lorry. Time ticked over slowly. But all the while, at least they were not in that damned tanker. The sharp razor in Ahmad’s pocket comforted him - he could slash the plastic walls any time, and break free.
Finally, the lorry awoke, and the rumble of the engine sent a burst of electric energy through Ahmad. They had no sense of which way they were moving, which country they were speeding through, whether they were on a motorway or under a tunnel. They only had the word of a smuggler.
The daylight filtering through the thin lorry walls suddenly darkened, and a little while later reappeared. Ahmad turned on his phone, to be met by the most glorious text he’d ever received, sent from a mobile service provider:
The lorry stopped, and the engine went back to sleep. Rain pattered on the plastic roof. The men froze, and Ahmad gripped the razor in his pocket. But as they pulled on the door, daylight flooded in, and they silently slipped out into the English rain, onto the tarmac of the port in Grimsby.
In the arrivals terminal at Heathrow Airport, Ahmad shifts, loosening his collar with one hand and gripping a white teddy bear in the other. He cranes his neck around, barely daring to blink.
“Hey!” He calls out, a smile erupting across his face, his arms outstretched as he runs.
He crouches down towards the little girl in a powder pink jacket, and presses his face against her cheek, squeezing her tight in his arms. All the hugs he’s wanted to give his daughter before are bundled up into that one embrace, as he kneels there on the floor with her. He scoops her up, and pulls his wife close to him, so they are all locked together. And there is one more person to meet - his second daughter, who sits with her legs dangling from Haya’s hip, oblivious to her parents’ sacrifices, not understanding why they are crying.
In their new home - which in an act of pure kindness someone offered to them free of charge - Haya and the two girls sleep peacefully. England is home, for now, and in the months he’s been here he has already been given so much by complete strangers. For the first time, Ahmad doesn’t have to worry that his wife is going to die from a barrel bomb, or shelling. He sits, and simply watches his family, as their eyelids flicker with dreams. They will have to get to know each other properly now, his family that he barely knows. But there is plenty of time for that. For now, Ahmad smooths out the blanket covering them, and listens to the gentle sound of his wife and daughters breathing.
He crouches down towards the little girl in a powder pink jacket, and presses his face against her cheek, squeezing her tight in his arms. All the hugs he’s wanted to give his daughter before are bundled up into that one embrace, as he kneels there on the floor with her. He scoops her up, and pulls his wife close to him, so they are all locked together. And there is one more person to meet - his second daughter, who sits with her legs dangling from Haya’s hip, oblivious to her parents’ sacrifices, not understanding why they are crying.
In their new home - which in an act of pure kindness someone offered to them free of charge - Haya and the two girls sleep peacefully. England is home, for now, and in the months he’s been here he has already been given so much by complete strangers. For the first time, Ahmad doesn’t have to worry that his wife is going to die from a barrel bomb, or shelling. He sits, and simply watches his family, as their eyelids flicker with dreams. They will have to get to know each other properly now, his family that he barely knows. But there is plenty of time for that. For now, Ahmad smooths out the blanket covering them, and listens to the gentle sound of his wife and daughters breathing.
This is a true story, written by Katie Dancey-Downs.
Thanks to Lauren Marina for providing illustrations, and to Ahmad for sharing his story.
Thanks to Lauren Marina for providing illustrations, and to Ahmad for sharing his story.