“My father left us with nothing. It was useless to stay there. Most of our family had already left. My aunt and uncle have been living in London. A normal life. Not like . . . not like this. My cousins never saw things get bad in Kabul. That could have been our story too.”
Saleem hadn’t meant to sound as resentful as he did. It was a sentiment he tried to keep buried, but it resurfaced from time to time, especially when he felt exhausted by their journey.
“It is possible that if your father had led his family out of Kabul earlier, maybe your story would be different. Perhaps you would be living somewhere in Europe, accepted as asylum seekers. But only if that was the destiny that Allah had in store for you. And there’s something else you should realize. You think that it was futile for your father to stay in Kabul, to continue his work, but there are hundreds of people who would disagree with you.”
“What do you mean? Which people?”
“Which people? Why, the hundreds of people who had water because of him. The hundreds of people were able to survive because of him. He was the only person insisting on these projects, demanding them. Other people looked for their own interests, money and guns fattening their bellies instead of helping to feed the people of Kabul. That is the difference that your father made. He changed people’s lives. He never knew their names. He never saw their faces. But he saved their lives.”
“I didn’t know,” Saleem said, his voice muffled with guilt.
“You would not have known,” the old man gently replied.
Saleem stared at his shoes and blinked back tears.
It takes a lifetime to learn your parents. For children, parents are larger than life. They are strong arms that carry little ones, warm laps for sleepy heads, sources of food and wisdom. It’s as if parents were born on the same day as their children, having not existed a moment before.
As children inch their way into adolescence, the parent changes. He is an authority, a source of answers, and a chastising voice. Depending on the day, he may be resented, emulated, questioned, or defied.
Only as an adult can a child imagine his parent as a whole person, as a husband, a brother, or a son. Only then can a child see how his parent fits into the world beyond four walls. Saleem had only bits and pieces of his father, mostly the memories of a young boy. He would spend the rest of his life, he knew, trying to reconstruct his father with the scraps he could recall or gather from his mother.
But first, he had to admit the last year’s worth of memories were tainted by a discreet anger he harbored for Padar-jan for keeping them in Kabul when they should have escaped. Now Saleem had learned his father had done so because he knew the importance of his work. When he’d realized his family was in danger, he’d made plans to escape but by then it was too late.
Reap a noble harvest, my son.
Saleem stuttered. “I . . . I loved my father very much.”
“Of course you did. You are asking questions. You want answers. That is natural. That is exactly as your father would have done.”
The old man had said something else earlier.
“You knew my mother as well?” Saleem asked, steeling his voice back to its normal cadence.
“Your mother, her name is . . . oh, my failing memory . . . what is it again?”
“Fereiba.”
“Ah, yes, Fereiba-jan,” he said. But to Saleem it sounded like he knew her name all along. “A delightful woman. As I said, I remember when she was a teacher. She made each student and each lesson important. You know, when she was young, the world treated her callously. But she did not let an unjust beginning spoil her. If you ever meet a former student of hers, you will be honored to hear what kind of teacher she was.”
“How did you know her?”
“I guess you could say I was a friend of her grandfather’s. He had a beautiful, bountiful orchard that was the envy of all in Kabul. But as she became a young woman, I saw her less and less. I was pleased to hear of her happy marriage to your father. Their success made me proud. You know, my son, you’re fortunate. I see both your parents in you.”
“Fortunate” was not the word Saleem would have chosen if asked to describe himself. He had felt anything but fortunate in the last year.
“So, my boy, I can see in your face that you’ve traveled a rough road. But how will you get to England?”
“I don’t know exactly, but this tunnel is probably the best route. I’ve been to the port and the fences are too thick. I just don’t see how it’s possible. Nearly everyone’s been caught trying to get across there.”
The old man stood up and stared off into the channel. From here it was easy to see the currents, linear streams of water a shade different from the rest of the ocean, like secret passages within the depths.
“However tall the mountain, my son,” the old man said. “There is a way to the other side.”
CHAPTER 54
Saleem
FOR TWO WEEKS, THE JUNGLE BOYS LINGERED IN THE UNKNOWN, a more tightly wound time than the years they’d passed in covert transit. In those two weeks, the old man seemed to have vanished. Saleem asked Ajmal about him, but his roommate only shrugged his shoulders and said he did not know every one of the hundreds of Afghans in their settlement.
Every day, men in wind jackets and neatly pressed slacks came to the camp. From a distance, they pointed, made notes on clipboards, and snapped photos before they would shake hands with one another and head off in different directions. Something was in the works.
One group of boys had hatched a plan. A holiday was coming up in a few days. Two men had amassed quite a following of about two hundred refugees. The idea was to take advantage of the day. The skeleton crew on duty would be distracted, with conciliatory festive meals and a few libations on the job. No one in the camp knew exactly what the holiday signified, and no one really cared. All that mattered was that while the French guards were observing the holiday, they would be observing little else.
They talked about it every day, churning the theory into a hard plan.
“If we all go through at once, how many could they possibly catch? Maybe a few, but most of us will make it.”
“You see! Even you say a few will get caught.”
“Every day a few try to get through and how many actually succeed? Our chances will be much better. The Jungle is about to disappear. This may be our best chance.”
Saleem debated the idea himself. It was a decent plan, he decided. But to brave the tunnel with hundreds of refugees seemed counterintuitive. All his other passages had been done alone, attracting as little attention as possible.
Saleem listened from afar, wishing for an opinion from someone he could trust, but the voices he most wanted to hear were too distant to be audible.
Make up your mind. Time is running out. This money won’t last much longer.
WITH SUNSET, THE BUZZ BEGAN. PEOPLE FIDGETED, LEGS WERE restless. Saleem and Ajmal watched from a distance.
“They look like they’re going to mess themselves already,” Ajmal said. “They’re crazy to do this.”
Saleem chewed his lip as he paced. Though he’d not yet decided if he would follow the others, his legs were restless too.
“Maybe they are. But maybe they’re not,” Saleem said. In a snap decision, he ran into the shack he shared with Ajmal, got his backpack, and pulled the straps over his shoulders.
“Wish me luck, brother. Who knows? Maybe I’ll come back. But I need to at least try.”
At quarter past eleven, with a pale, orange moon hanging low in the sky, the boys, a straggling crowd of a hundred, began their walk to the tunnel. They fractured into small groups, speaking in whispers and occasional laughs to break the tense mood. Most were grim and silent.
Saleem rushed to catch up with the stragglers. The path was familiar to him. He’d sat on the hilltop and stared at the tunnel entrance several times but never worked up the nerve to approach it. The boys reached a line of metal fences. The links were broken in two or thr
ee spots, inviting further trespass. Like the others, Saleem scraped through, wincing as the fence clawed at his back.
The tunnel entrance, concrete bored through the base of a grassy plain, was a valley flanked by verdant hillsides. There were open-mouthed entries for trains moving in either direction, a network of tracks leading into the black holes. A narrow, graded median divided the train entry from that of the automobiles. The valley, as a whole, was a bed of metal, pavement, and concrete, set aglow by rows of sodium lamps.
There were few cars on the road tonight.
Saleem let the others lead the way. The walk here had been long. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. He was grateful for the parka he’d been given by one of the men in the camp. Dark shadows jogged toward the entrance, watching for guards, lights, or sirens. The night was still.
Go with them. They’ll be in England soon. This is that chance.
Two or three at a time, they filtered into the tunnel and disappeared from view. Saleem stood behind a tree and watched from the vantage point of a boy unnerved. Frustrated, he punched at the bark.
Enough of this. I am going to follow them.
And just as he resolved to push aside his fears and grab the low-lying fruit, the shouts rang out. White lights broke the soft orange haze. Three police cars peeled into view and screeched to a stop by the entrance. Flashlights led the way.
Saleem’s heart dropped. There were so many. For hours, it continued. Men were led out, their hands tied behind their backs, their feet dragging with disappointment. The boys had considered the possibility that a few would be caught, but it was much worse. They’d rounded up at least half by Saleem’s count. Everything those boys had done, all the money they’d paid and the risks they’d faced and the cold nights they’d endured—all of it had been in vain.
The others would likely be caught on the other side by the British authorities. What would become of them? Would they be given the chance to apply for asylum or would they be shuttled back to France?
Tonight had not been the right night to chase the moon. When all but one police car had finally left the scene, Saleem turned around and hiked back to the Jungle.
CHAPTER 55
Fereiba
NAJIBA-JAN HAS BEEN GOOD TO US. I CAN SEE THE LOOK ON HER husband’s face. Hameed would like nothing more than for us to be gone. Germany offers much better benefits to its refugees, he says, though he has no good explanation for why he does not want to move there himself.
I learned slowly, once I met them, that my sister had no idea he had discouraged us from coming to England. She’d even saved up some money and set it aside so that we would have something for food and clothing, until we were able to file the right papers and apply for asylum.
Her husband sees me as an intrusion. He wishes us to disappear. He cannot look me in the eye and fumbles for even simple conversation.
I want to tell him that he needn’t be so anxious. Those days, when his flirtations and romantic promises filled my sky, are part of a time I can barely recall. So much has happened between then and now. Though Mahmood, my hamsar, no longer stands by my side, my years with him are larger than girlish dreams. I am grateful for the time we had together, short as it was, and for the children we raised.
Hameed, the boy from the orchard, played a role in bringing me to Mahmood. The betrayal I felt at the time melted away once I got to know Mahmood. It was not the straightest road, but it led me home.
Hameed does not understand that. And I cannot explain it to him because he is my sister’s husband and I do not want to open doors that were rightly closed long ago. Najiba’s heart is welcoming and wide. I do not want to stir any ill will.
Even KokoGul. Even to her I must be thankful for it was she who nudged Najiba under Shireen-jan’s nose. It was she who thought her prettiest daughter, her true daughter, was more deserving of our esteemed neighbor. And I know that when his mother told him of Najiba’s beauty, he changed his choice readily and stopped visiting the orchard. He kept his choice a secret, too much of a coward to say anything himself.
I wept for days when I should not have. We are too shortsighted to rejoice in the moments that deserve it.
Khala Zeba, Mahmood’s beloved mother, saw what others did not. And my husband trusted his mother. How lucky I was to have both of them. Allah chose my naseeb wisely. In our wedding photograph I am solemn and unsure. Khala Zeba lifted my green veil and looked at me with warm, motherly eyes.
Mahmood’s hand joined with mine that day, my mother’s bangles delicately clinking against one another in their own private toast. My father had looked on somberly.
You look just like her, my daughter.
I remember the way my throat tightened, missing the mother I’d never met, the grandfather who had watched over me, and the old man in the orchard who promised to light the path before me. I was nervous about the man at my side, my new husband. But those people I missed so much, those faces I would only see in my dreams, whispered in my ear that all would be right.
Najiba’s children have inherited their mother’s delicate features and sweet disposition. From their father, only his restless nature. I watch them at the park, climbing ladders and laughing as they fall on their backsides or slip down a slide. Samira feels too old to play alongside her cousins. She’s nearly a young woman now and the only playgrounds of her youth were places of hiding on rainy nights. I wonder if that’s what she sees when she watches the children on the swings.
She speaks now. Just short sentences, but she is coming along slowly. She waits, as I do, for Saleem to join us. I know when she sees him, she will be complete again, a whole and perfect child.
Aziz is too nervous to wander far. He watches the other children play and imitates their actions from a distance. His legs have thickened and hold his weight comfortably. He is thin but he smiles with pink lips and eyes bright enough to make mine water. Thank you, God. Thank you.
Something tells me my son is close. I continue to wait for him, and it occurs to me that’s what being a mother is, isn’t it? Waiting for a rounded belly to tighten in readiness; listening for the sound of hunger in the moonlit hours; hearing an eager voice call even in the camouflage of traffic, loud music, and whirring machines. It’s looking at every door, every phone, and every approaching silhouette and feeling that slight lift, that tickle of opportunity to be again—mother.
I saw Saleem in my dream last night, swimming across a brilliant, blue ocean with ripples that sparkled under a warm sun. The breeze blew a salty mist onto my cheeks as I watched him. There was water all around him, and he glided through, swimming in smooth, strong strokes as if he’d been raised by the ocean. From afar, I could see his mischievous grin, the proud triumph of a boy who’d found his own way home.
It was a good dream for a mother to have and I woke with a buoyancy I’ve not felt in a long time. Thank God for the water, for water is roshanee, water is light.
CHAPTER 56
Saleem
“HOW MANY DID THEY CATCH? WERE THEY BEATEN?”
“I don’t know. Maybe fifty . . . sixty. I’ve no idea what happened on the other end of the tunnel either.”
It was morning and Saleem was telling Ajmal about what he had seen for the second time. Although he had recounted everything last night, Ajmal wanted to hear it again in the light of day.
“I knew it was a bad idea.” Ajmal shook his head. “I would have been caught. I have no luck when it comes to the police.”
“But we’re not in much better shape. Look at us. How long do you think we can live here? People are getting sick. The town wants the Jungle gone. Even the Red Cross workers say trouble is coming soon.”
“Where else can we go, Saleem? We have no documents. We have no money.” Ajmal sat on the floor, his knees to his chest. His forehead touched his folded arms. “If I’d known how things were here, I don’t know if I would have left Afghanistan. Maybe it would be better to die on our own soil than to be chased out of everywhere we go
like stray dogs.”
The same thought had crossed Saleem’s mind, but now he quickly dismissed it.
“You’re talking like the old and gray haired. We had to leave. If we don’t plan for tomorrow, there won’t be one.”
Ajmal looked up. His ears tingled at the conviction in Saleem’s voice.
THE COMMOTION BEGAN NOT AN HOUR LATER. AJMAL AND Saleem went outside to find out what was going on. A crowd of young French protesters had gathered in front of the camps. Some chanted. Some waved their fists in the air. Some carried signs.
BAN BORDERS
NO PRISON FOR IMMIGRANTS
HUMAN RIGHTS NOW
“Look at them all!” Ajmal exclaimed.
There had to be hundreds of people out there. Men and women. There were also at least thirty police officers with stern black uniforms and half-shell helmets, scrambling to surround the group and control the chaos. The situation was odd. The police were here because of the protesters. And the protesters were here for the Jungle.
“Their own people shouting for us!”
But Saleem saw more when he looked at the mass. They must know something. Maybe they had gotten word about that something. Saleem watched as more activists began to join the group, two or three at a time.
“Ajmal, this is not good. We should get out of here.”
“Now? When we’ve just found hundreds of friends? I bet things will get better. We just have to wait and see.”
“I don’t want to see. We’ll be caught in the middle of whatever this is. Just like in Afghanistan.”
Ajmal sighed.
“Maybe we should set up camp somewhere else in town, like the other boys did.”
“No,” Saleem said. “I think we should make a run for the tunnel.”
“The tunnel? Have you lost your mind?”
“I know . . . but look at where all the police are now. They are here! This might just be the perfect distraction.”