EXILE

Jane Weary

We are inside a metal container in the compound.

Last night, after leaving the truck, they came and sprayed hoses on us, a hard shower washing away our filth. We stood under the water, still clothed, in batches of five or maybe six. I held on to Marie. I need the child as much as she needs me. Marie, of course, held tightly on to Dara. It was good to see that dirty toy washed. We stood beside our older sister, Jaz; our brother, Sami, had been taken away with a group of men. 

We let the water fall upon us and rejoiced. Strange how a person can rejoice in such a time of terrifying unknown. But the feel of the water cleaning from our bodies all that was before, brought with it some release, lightening our hearts. I saw Jaz throw back her head to allow the water to soak through her matted hair and wash clean her eyes, opening her lips to let the wetness fall upon her dry mouth. At first, Marie, in my arms, held tight around my neck, her face buried into my chest, but then she seemed to relax into the liquid dancing off her skin and loosened her grip letting her body fall back, away from me. 

We were given some bread and then the women and the young were brought inside this container to lie where we could to sleep. At least the door stayed open allowing in the damp night air, and a welcome streak of soft moonlight. It also brought the night’s insects, buzzing and whirring around our heads. If we had not been so exhausted, none of us would have slept at all because of them.  We did not speak. I believe we were too tired to talk, and too afraid of what we might say.  

But now I am awake. I have rested, a broken, fitful sleep, true, but I feel ready now.  Somehow we must get out from here, away from these people, our fellow passengers so empty and so broken and our captors, so impatient and severe. We must find Uncle’s friend.  I have moved to sit beside the door where I can watch and listen for our brother to find us.

It is almost dawn before I hear it, the sky just beginning to lighten. The sound of sharp staccato notes from a reed frog, here where there are no reeds. I know immediately it is Sami. It is the song of the river that runs through our village back from where we have come. My brother makes his animal noises well. I crawl over the sleeping bodies to Jaz. She has heard it too and is ready. She looks at me with brown, clear eyes. I shake little Marie, who is still holding tightly to Dara. She moans and I quickly cover her mouth, softly pulling her up to stand beside me.

We move stealthily, making only a slight rustle as we gather the plastic bags holding the belongings we have managed to keep. There is little left. Our feet are bare, our shoes in the bags. Silently, we creep away from the container. 

One man sits near the fence by the road. Sami gives him American dollars. He seems satisfied with this. No one will know we have left because no one knew we were ever there. We avoid eye contact with him, slipping past on silent feet moving us into the coming day.

By the time the sun has come up we are not the only ones upon the road. In fact it is busy, busier than any road I have ever seen.  People and animals share space with bicycles and cars and many, many trucks. We do not stand out in any way;  we are just another group of ragged people walking with plastic bags. My braided hair has long come undone, as has Jaz’s.  We all wear the same clothing we had dressed in the morning we left the Refugee Camp, having kissed baby Nadia a thousand times, having wept and held tightly to our Mother. I had been the last to follow the others into the truck, my heart heavy, and my head light. 

Now here we are in this city with only the name of Uncle’s friend and an address on a piece of paper. As we walk, Sami takes it out to check the information. The paper is wet from last night’s watering and falls apart in his hands. We stand by the side of the busy, dusty road while he and Jaz try to decipher what can be seen. It is impossible, the paper is illegible. 

‘It’s ok,’ he says, his voice shaking. ‘I think I remember that his name was the same as my teacher.’ He sounds out the name slowly, but his eyes look confused, uncertain. ‘Or something close to it.’ And then he quickly adds, ‘It’s only the address we have lost.’ 

‘Only his address?’ I sound incredulous. I am. His teacher’s name is so common, there must be many, many with the same name here. Too many. Where to begin?

Jaz shakes her head. ‘That is not enough, Sami. Especially if you are unsure.’ She looks at him. I watch and see he cannot meet her eyes.

‘I am unsure,’ he admits.

I cannot believe he has allowed this to happen. I cannot believe we are here in a loud foreign city where people pass us everywhere, but do not see us. We are like dust in the air to them. And now, we have nowhere to turn, no one to call. I stare at my brother and my sisters, all hope sinking in my belly. No one speaks. 

As we stand there in despair, the morning sun burns down. It seeps through my thin clothing and I begin to feel faint. It is already so hot upon my head and the plastic bag I hold in my hand cuts against my grip. Suddenly I need to pee badly. Overnight I felt the cramps inside me and know that my blood is running. Jaz took some ragged cloth from out of her bag and I placed it inside my pants when we squatted to the side of that container in the indigo air of the early morning. It feels now as if it has loosened and I fear it may fall out and betray me.  We have not eaten anything. We have not drunk since the water from the hose the night before. I need to sit, I need to eat, I need to sleep… I need I need I need. I need my mother.

And then I am screaming, running down the road, my sandals sharply slapping against the hard surface of the street, my hair flapping against my back, the plastic bag bouncing in my scrunched up fist. I am become a crazy girl, a thin, bleeding crazy girl with unbraided hair and plastic sandals and all I know is to scream. Scream and scream. And all I see is the glare of the sun and all I hear is the slap slap slap of my feet, like gunshots fired beneath me.  

Sometime passes before I realise I am crouched in the shade of a dirty vehicle parked under a skinny tree whose empty branches reach over me. For a wild moment I think these are the arms of my mother, but then I see the brittleness and know there is no comfort here,. The heat and the dust and rubbish summersault about me in the shallow breaths of air that come and go. Gradually I hear again the dull noise of the city and see again the sunlight so harsh I am blinded. I  am weeping. Without noise, tears fall down my face and I cannot stop them. I relieve myself squatting there in a parking lot outside big concrete buildings. 

I have lost my family. I am without place. I am alone and I am shamed.

****************

It is Marie who finds me there, huddled alone beside the car. She has loosened from Jaz’s grip and has run searching for me. She too is crying, “Kali? Kali? Kaaaaali. Pleeeeeease. Where are you? Kali. Please” I hear her shrill sad voice and for a small moment it makes me weep harder.

“I am here, Marie.’ It is a whisper, my voice hoarse, my throat dry. “Just here behind the car.” And I stand so she can see me. I am happy she has found me,  relieved I have not lost my family and they are here and they are with me.  I feel that I am trembling and so I wipe my eyes, hoping to clear the tears, to hide my weakness, to find myself again.

Sami comes striding toward me. I see the anger in his eyes. He grabs hold of my hair throwing me back to the ground. He ignores the thud of my shoulder smacking into the side of the car as I fall beneath him.  He ignores, too, my sharp intake of breath and my wince. He places his hands around my neck and shouts, spitting the words into my face,

“Never leave the family. Never.” His eyes are red-streaked and his hair, like mine, is wild and uncombed. He looks like a mad man. “Next time we will leave you. We will take your shoes and take your money and leave you in the dirt… alone.” He squishes my face sideways into the street. Hard. He means this. And I know that he too is shamed; he has not saved the paper with the address we need.

Marie comes forward to him. She pulls at him. “No Sami,” she tells him, “no.” 

Then Jaz comes too.  “Sami, you are hurting her.”  Her voice seems surprisingly steady, more tired than concerned.  His hold loses energy and his fingers leave my throat. I turn my head spitting out the dirt in my mouth and the blood, happy that I can breathe. My eyes look up, squinting, into the sun. Jaz is looking at Sami – with some admiration I think, although I am not certain because the sun blinds my sight. Perhaps her look is one of gratitude. Jaz is older than me, but she knows that I am braver.  

Sami stands up from where he was, moments before, kneeling over me. I stand up too. We are both shaking. No one says a word. We turn to follow Jaz as she begins to move down the road. In the loud silence drumming in my ears, I feel Marie slipping her little hand into mine. 

An hour later, we are all tired. Bone-tired. But we walk on. We have no choice but to walk on, following Sami who has taken the lead again despite our knowing, without words, that he will never remember the name of Uncle’s friend; he simply leads us forward. 

And no one wants to carry Marie. She is hot and, although, like the rest of us, she has not eaten well in months, she feels heavy, too heavy to carry. I can see how her shoes hurt her feet. She was barefoot for those months in the Camp and now her toes are rubbed raw and red from the chaffing of the plastic. She cries, big soft sobs, hiccupping pitifully, as if aware that no one is listening. As if she knows that it is useless, but she must cry anyway. I am sad for her, but not so sad I can find the strength to carry her.

The city is a nightmare.

We speak to no one; we are too tired and we trust no one. 

Somehow, by good fortune alone, I think, we find the bus station. Our brother buys us tickets to the furthest town we can get to on a one-way bus. We do not recognize the name of the destination. The neon writing over the front of the bus is blue, a strange blue, like nothing I have ever seen. Metallic and sharp, it shimmers in the sunlight as if there is something wrong.

It is going north, that it all we know. North to the west and freedom. We follow the crowds, fighting to enter the bus. We are like sheep, only knowing to follow the one in front.

We buy water bottles, spending more of our precious money but Jaz tells us it is important to have water. We all remember the truck and not one of us argues. Sami also buys bread and tomatoes that are a deep red and filled with rich juices when we bite into them. The taste stings our mouths, so unused to fresh foods. My cheek hurts badly, but whether this is from Sami’s cruel push or from the tomatoes, I cannot say.

‘Come.’ Jaz is straight backed, her mouth a harsh line. She is holding out her arms to take Marie from me as I hesitate to board. ‘Hurry,’ she orders, ‘I will find a seat.’  My mouth hurts so much I cannot speak and so I simply nod, wordless, and hand the baby up to where Jaz stands inside the bus. I fear that, like Marie, I have been made mute by all that we have lost. It is everything.

The bus is full. It is alive with people talking and arguing, laughing and singing to music which the driver blares from the radio. The notes are loud; the songs strange and haunting. It is not music that we know. It doesn’t matter. 

I turn my face to the window holding tightly to Marie who is holding tightly on to Dara.