Book 1/Part 1
It was one of the self-evident truths of his life that everything has its place. Or consider the proposition conversely, that life’s worst eventuality is for things to end up in places they are not supposed to be. The fundamental purpose of his life had been to guard unceasingly against this eventuality. So, when at last he was arrested, the Arab was surprised to feel a relief as satisfying as any he had ever known. The act of being gathered up and placed in a room brought with it a pleasantness unexpectedly reminiscent of boyhood, evening, and his mother.
‘So tired,’ he muttered as he pressed a thumb and a thick index finger deep into the sockets of his eyes as if he bore them a grudge. The others in the tight lockup, mostly Persians sporting chins untouched by razors or water, would have been surprised, had they known that a man such as he shared their space. They, the leftover youth of Iran’s cities in search of an alternate route to Europe; a route unhindered by passport checks, boarding passes or hefty airline fares. He, Abdul Rahman al Fazul. Senior Inspector Abdul Rahman. Or used to be. Now just another cat in the sack. Waiting for someone to tell him if he would be allowed to continue his journey, or if he would be sent back across the border he had crossed just the night before. Illegally. Without papers and cash. And with a half-cocked idea that he’d find a United Nations refugee office in some town called Quetta.
The small, shared space was stuffy. A tiny hole near the ceiling allowed the sharp light of the desert afternoon sun, and all of its heat, to barrel into the room; but it was too insignificant an opening to stir up a breeze. A wooden door painted bright Islamic green and locked from the outside was guarded by men balancing loosely wrapped
turbans on their heads and old double-barrelled carbines on their shoulders. The Arab counted thirteen men, fourteen including himself, standing or sitting on their haunches, as one of the turbans pushed him into the room. The men (there were no women) were like brooms in a closet. Someone asked him something, but the question was in Persian. Being Iraqi he spoke only Arabic. And, of course, a few words of English collected over the years like knickknacks from the television and radio. Hello. Good evening. OK. What is your name? Welcome. Cigarette. Please take a seat. I love you. Thanks God. His arrival in the lockup had the effect of a pebble landing in a pond. Ripples of whispers moved around the room growing dimmer and dimmer until within a few minutes the heat, hanging like a stage curtain, heavy and patient, was all there was.
*
Two months in Iran, always with an eye over his shoulder or fifty metres out in front, on the lookout for Revolutionary Guards or basijis. Forever aware of his accent and afraid that his dark skin would do him in. Speaking nothing more than simple phrases and commands. Moving in the shadows always takes its toll. Zahedan, the border town, wasn’t a problem. Every sort of criminal and smuggler huddled at the bus stand openly discussing the price of hashish and hawking fake Afghan passports. Fu’ad, of course, had been a help. Yet crossing into Pakistan had been the easiest part of the journey.
Fu’ad, a Khartoumi, black and smelly like a backstreet sewer, spotted his accent immediately. ‘From which part of Baghdad are you, my friend?’ he hacked as he slid in beside the Arab at a teashop next to the railway station where Abdul Rahman had come in dubious hope of catching a train to Pakistan. The line had been closed since the days of the Shah. Rusted steel track running crazily toward the desert horizon was all that survived of the railway. He’d have to find another way; three hundred american for an Afghan passport was more than he could afford. I’ll walk across if need be. He ordered another cup of tea. When will I enjoy a small sweet glass of coffee again? He didn’t say a thing to Fu’ad, but the black man went on as if the Iraqi had called him over to share a secret.
‘Student in Kirkuk I was. Geological engineering. Visited Baghdad many times. Are the girls still so expensive in al Mansour?’ He inhaled with a hiss and slapped two bony fingers against each other by way of exclamation. ‘On a government scholarship I was but when the war began fell victim to the expulsion of all foreigners. Abandoned the academic life. Fish are fatter in these ponds.’ Fu’ad indicated, by rolling his eyes, the pond he meant: this dried-up, gritty corner of the world where the smugglers’ routes mocked the paper borders separating Persia from the Indian sub-continent and both from the madness of Afghanistan. Civilisation from chaos. The past from the dissolution yet to come.
The Arab glanced obliquely at the African, whose uneven false teeth flashed like signals from a ship that everything about the man was crooked and unreliable. He wanted the Iraqi to pick up the conversation, but the Arab remained silent. Not about to start chatting to Africans within walking distance of the borderline. He
sipped at his tea, then made an effort to get up, but Fu’ad didn’t give an inch.
‘Returned to Khartoum I did, but after living in a foreign country for so many years my own seemed somewhat less wonderful.’ The Arab was trapped. Fu’ad must be working for the Revolutionary Guards. Any moment his sidekicks will jump out and grab me. The teashop reeked of goat piss. Tribals in white and yellow turbans, wearing long-barrelled rifles, brassy knives, and leather ammunition straps across their chests, spoke in shouts. They stroked their moustaches with the backs of their huge coppered hands. Fu’ad raved on about living in Saudi Arabia before joining the Afghan jihad. A few years ago he had set up here in Zahedan, the last Iranian town before the border. He had no particular reason to be here except that it was the frontier and should the situation unwind too badly he could disappear across an international border in less time then it took to grease a shipment of Johnny Walker through Iran’s Revolutionary customs.
‘Going to Pakistan?’ he asked. ‘Be of assistance I can. Only because you are a Baghdadi like me.’ His laugh broke down into the watery hack of a heavy smoker.
You’re no Baghdadi. There were plenty of Sudanese and Somalis in Iraq; all part of the fraternal policies of the Ba’ath Party designed to attract cheap labour from the Muslim world. They did the shit work. Pumping petrol. Standing by doors all day waiting to open them for more important people. Cleaning up oil spills. They sent home pay packets heavy with oil money, but no proper Baghdadi would allow a black African to eat in his home. Not Lt Colonel Abdul Rahman. It was Fu’ad’s over-friendly manner, his insistence that they shared something, ev
to be done with him. But the black man pushed a shoulder into Abdul Rahman — foul breath undermining his flashy smile — and whispered. ‘A contact. In the army. Pakistani that is; Iranians only do business with themselves.’ Another short cough and a quick look over his shoulder. ‘Arrange things for him. Logistically I do. Time to time. Friday he’s running a convoy from here to Chaman on the Afghan border. For a very reasonable price,’ he took a moment to look his prey up and down, ‘only two hundred and fifty american, I can have you dropped in Quetta.’
‘What is Quetta?’
‘Quetta is nothing. Like a camel’s fart, it is has no substance. But for you it is heaven.’ The sweating black face floated closer to Abdul Rahman’s. ‘In Quetta you will find a UN office and there you will receive your ticket to breathe freely. The UN will give you a card that certifies that you are a refugee, and then no one will bother you. You will be protected by the world. If you are lucky you may even go to America or Germany with that card.’
None of this impressed Abdul Rahman. He was not in the habit of believing the words of strangers, especially when they spoke of freedom or heaven. His life had been dedicated to doubting and challenging the statements of others, and besides, visiting a UN office was the same as registering with the Revolutionary Guards; a place to avoid, not seek out.
And what if he did not stop in this Quetta? If he paid more would Fu’ad’s contact arrange to take him to Peshawar? One of Abdul Rahman’s ironclad rules had always been never to trust anyone’s plans except his own. In Tehran a few weeks ago he’d met a Pakistani
doctor who had sold him some strong pills for the pain that never seemed to leave his head these days. ‘If pain persists, your only hope is a visit to the tomb of Zinda Pir near Peshawar,’ the doctor had confided, as if he knew his medicines were useless. ‘Visit the tomb, sir. Its powers are appropriate for all disorders. Physical, mental, and those of the spirit. And of course, your sexual desire will dare not slacken after the saint accepts your prayer.’ Dead saints held no interest for Abdul Rahman and he had put the conversation out of his mind. But he distrusted Fu’ad, and suddenly the doctor’s advice came back to him from nowhere.
‘Of course. Drop you anywhere he will. Peshawar. Lahore. Even Karachi. But why?’ The African smiled again. Then burped. ‘What is your number one problem? Money? Papers? Money and papers. Without these you will not leave even this place.’ He rolled his eyes around the teashop and the bright white heat beyond. ‘But visit the office in Quetta. Not only will you receive papers you will not need money. All refugee cardholders receive a monthly salary from the UN until they are resettled in America or Europe. Both problems solved. You see, Mr…Mr… ’ Fu’ad wanted his new friend to fill in the blank but Abdul Rahman ignored him. ‘See, the UN office in Quetta will give you a card. Will make you a refugee. And when you become a refugee the world feels it owes you for the suffering you have endured. And I can judge myself that you have endured more than enough. Now. What do you say?’
Abdul Rahman was no longer wary of Fu’ad. If he had come to grab me he would have made his move long ago. In the end it was agreed. Abdul Rahman paid only one hundred and twenty five dollars: more than he wanted, but far below the bazaar price. They met the following day at the same teashop; Fu’ad introduced him to Bashir
who would drive him across the border in his lorry. Bashir spoke no Arabic and Abdul Rahman was glad. He didn’t want talk of any kind. Sleep more than anything was what he craved. He handed the money over to Fu’ad who instructed him to be at the terminal at nine thirty on Friday night.
The next night Bashir showed surprise (or was it disappointment?) that his Arab passenger had no bags. Abdul Rahman held out two small bundles. ‘Only this.’ He tried the words out in Persian but didn’t like their sound, which struck him as effeminate and pompous. The lorry driver sniffed and pulled his passenger into the cabin. From behind the wheel a boy, no more than sixteen, scanned Abdul Rahman through red eyes. They were barely open but they penetrated with the viciousness of a mistreated dog. The truck lurched into motion even before Abdul Rahman had time to shut the door.
It was only when they had left Zahedan city behind and were crawling into the desert — the fifth lorry in a convoy of seventeen trucks, like a trail of ants — that he realised how easy the border crossing had been. His companions were absolutely unperturbed by him sharing their lorry and made no attempt to hide him. They passed through Iranian checkpoints unchecked. At the first one Abdul Rahman caught a glimpse of a Persian officer — big plate hat, brown uniform, ugly as a turd — counting a tabletop full of notes. Bashir saw him too and grinned insanely, then sniffed; he rubbed his thumb and finger together as if he were counting the notes. He laughed out loud, but the angry boy kept his bloodshot eyes unblinkingly on the red dots of the taillights in front.
After passing into Pakistan, Bashir gave Abdul Rahman a plate of meat and bread, which he ate in the cabin. The Iraqi stayed awake until three in the morning. Then, at last, he fell asleep.
Bashir shook him awake and offered a drag from his cigarette. Abdul Rahman declined. I would rather share tea with smelly Fu’ad than smoke with a dirty simpleton like you. The red-eyed boy was sleeping; his head tapped an irregular beat against the steel window with every bump, but he didn’t wake. Bashir had taken the wheel. The sun was shining brightly and already hot; the sleeping boy’s sweating body cooked in the heat and made Abdul Rahman’s stomach queasy.
08.00 a.m.
A milestone flashed by. Someplace. 28 kilometres.
An hour and a half later the trail of ants stopped. Or rather, the fifth of the seventeen teeny mechanised bugs crawling across the sand pulled to one side of the narrow tarmac strip. Lorries rumbled by like monsoon thunder and when the last one was nothing more than a shimmering bit of sound on the horizon Bashir turned toward Abdul Rahman with a knife. He sniffed and smiled but didn’t bother to explain. What would an Arab know of the language of the deserts of Baluchistan? Abdul Rahman didn’t move except to notice that the boy had woken up. A kalashnikov peered at Abdul Rahman’s freshly cropped head. As if he were reaching for the flesh of a young girl’s breasts, Bashir patted Abdul Rahman’s chest and delicately twiddled his fingers in the pockets of his shirt. Nothing there except three twenties; they went under Bashir’s purple and orange skullcap, whose
small cracked mirrors sparkled in the early sun. It seemed that anyone who didn’t have a turban wore one of these sparkly hats. Abdul Rahman observed himself being thieved in silence, as if the sound on the television was turned off. The boy pulled him from the cabin giving him no time to reach for the small plastic bag with an airline’s faded imprint on both sides, containing the only clothes he had except those on his back. All night he had held his other bundle in his lap, and now that he was on the ground and the truck was shifting prematurely into third gear he was thankful that at least they had not taken that.
Fu’ad was right. There was nothing here of substance. The sun blinded his eyes, but Abdul Rahman thought he could make out a few buildings right about the place on the horizon where the lorries had faded from view. He moved towards them like a camel that smells water. Within twenty minutes a village had grown out of the desert sand. A handkerchief around his neck to protect him from the sting of the sun came off and he wiped his face. Adjusted his eyes. Nothing suggested coolness or rest. But a desert animal doesn’t lie down to die. It keeps moving until it finds the water it needs.
Flies rose to his lips and eyes as he stepped over the swollen, stiff corpses of three dead goats. Exactly what I expected of Pakistan. His money, thanks to Bashir and the slit-eyed boy, was finished, but it didn’t register with him yet to consider how he was to continue his journey. The sun chewed into the back of his neck. Sweat drew out his strength and left it to evaporate.
A man with a loose white turban and long shirt hanging below his knees watched the Arab from inside a thatch hut. He called out, ‘Mohajir. Repyugee’, motioning to the stranger with his hand. When
Abdul Rahman didn’t move he strode out of the hut and demanded, ‘Irani?’
Abdul Rahman stood motionless.
‘Iraqi? Kurdi?’ he yelled Unable to communicate, he kept on trying neverthless; rattling on for several minutes and flapping his arms. At last he stopped shouting and laughed. He grabbed the Arab’s hand. Abdul Rahman pulled away but the grip was like rock. He was pushed on to a sting bed and a cup of sweet milky tea appeared in his lap. ‘Chai. Chai,’ the turban laughed. The slurping sound he made reminded Abdul Rahman of a donkey. Out of the horizon a white jeep, with its horn sounding, skidded to a stop outside a walled compound. Gates opened from within and the jeep entered.
Nothing stirred.
The tea man nodded his turban at the compound where the jeep had just entered. The Arab approached the gate and knocked, then began kicking, but there was no response. The heat against his back made him weak. Still no response. On the far side of the road some donkey drivers stopped to stare. A head wrapped in a red pressed turban with a gold medallion on the side emerged unexpectedly from a small door in the gate. More abuse. Another push. The onlookers across the road laughed. One or two even clapped as if Abdul Rahman were a dancing bear. He continued to bang on the tin door, but not for long. The gate swung open and the jeep that had just gone in came out. It stopped in front of Abdul Rahman. A fat man in bedclothes rolled down the window and rattled something off at the sweating Iraqi.
Abdul Rahman shouted. ‘I am refugee. Refugee.’
‘No refugee office. Go to Quetta.’ The fat man spoke a mix of Persian and Arabic, just like everyone in the borderlands. The glass rolled slowly up again sealing off the fat man from the heat. And Abdul Rahman. The obese man motioned his driver to proceed but Abdul Rahman jumped in front of the jeep and yelled again, ‘I AM REFUGEE.’
The fat man, probably some sort of local big shot, spoke quickly, but Abdul Rahman understood nothing. Again the driver was instructed to move but Abdul Rahman stepped in front of the jeep and shouted, ‘Refugee. I am refugee.’
Armed men jumped from the back of the jeep as if they had been shot from a rocket, and pinned Abdul Rahman to the ground. The onlookers across the road had stopped clapping. The fat man harrumphed out of the air-conditioned jeep and squeezed Abdul Rahman’s face with strong, fleshy hands. His foot rested on the Arab’s groin. Whatever he said sounded like stones rattling in a tin cup, but his armed soldiers took hold of Abdul Rahman and dragged him into the lockup.
Missionaries, Mercenaries and Misfits 