Somewhere in the Unknown World Read online

  Every Saturday, the family gathers around their mother’s phone. They use the phone cards to call home. First they call Buuhoodle. Then they call Laascaanood. Every Saturday, in those conversations, they become a full family: a mother, a father, and their children, voices celebrating their gratitude for each other’s safety and small successes. Each is reminded of the immense love in their lives, a love that survives unimaginable distance.

  * * *

  Five years after the family got to Minnesota, Awo’s mother and father, over their Saturday conversations, completed the required paperwork to bring the little girls, Ayan and Saredo, to America. Awo’s father said very softly, “Now, Maryam, I will be alone but you will have all the children with you in America. This brings me joy.”

  Of all the moments in their lives, it was this one that Awo thought would make her mother cry, but she was wrong. Her mother answered her father, equally soft, “You are a good man and we are doing something good for our family.”

  On the day the girls arrived, Awo wept. Her mother did not. Waiting before the glass doors to the escalators that led travelers to baggage claim, Awo’s mother smiled at every passerby. When the two girls came down the escalator, holding hands, in matching outfits and hijabs, Awo’s mother exhaled deeply. She knelt down and simply opened her arms. The girls were shy, unsure of how to respond, particularly Saredo, the baby, the one who had to part with her mother’s breasts at such an early age, a baby who grew up having trouble with food, a thin slip of a girl—she waited for their mother to engulf her first in the hug. Awo saw the thin girl’s arms hanging like twigs around their mother’s neck. Once the hugs were through, Awo’s mother looked at the girls with grave eyes and said to them, “I knew this day would come.”

  * * *

  Awo sees her mother aging. Her mother is no longer so slender. Her body has softened. Her unshed tears have caused the skin beneath her eyes to grow puffy. Awo knows that her mother’s fortitude has helped her children and even their father survive; he lives for the day of their return. From her work at the clinic and her conversations with Somali children and other refugees, Awo knows that people who go through trauma sometimes talk about it. This isn’t the case with her mother. Awo’s mother never shows her children that there’s anything wrong. She never wants her children to worry. She wants to take care of them, to turn a bad situation into a good one, and to do her best to protect them. Now Awo knows that it is her mother’s will that has kept their family whole despite the brokenness of the world. Sitting opposite the older woman at the table, her brothers and sisters around her, Awo knows that in the absence of everything, there was always her mother, first and last. She feels the familiar heaviness in her throat and knows tears are close; she cannot bear to imagine a world where her mother won’t be, a world where she will have to learn how to navigate not only the road of memory between Buuhoodle and Laascaanood, but the world in between her family.

  —AWO AHMED

  3

  Adjustments to the Plan

  IN SYRIA, FATHER had been the coach of the national judo team, a handsome man with eyes the color of green seas. He was not the tallest man, but he had been among the healthiest. He had also been a wealthy man, never having to worry about money. In Damascus, he had a good life, a life he shared with his beautiful wife and lovely children.

  I am the third of those children. I look like my father, from the color of my eyes to the shape of my face, to my size. While judo was his work, not mine, it has shaped much of our life together and apart.

  * * *

  Father arranged the three of us younger ones in a straight line. I was the oldest at home, and the tallest, so I stood first. I stood as straight and relaxed as I could. We were home, so my long hair was uncovered, hanging down my back in a loose ponytail. My sister was beside me. Our brother, the youngest, was last.

  Father stood before us. It felt like we were facing a fortress. I told myself, Do not blink; do not overthink this, Yara. This wall is only a man. He is only your father.

  My mother sat on the sofa. She smiled at me. She was happy her family was home and together. Her legs were crossed elegantly in front of her. Her slender hands rested neatly on her lap. Her scarf was pale white and it framed her soft face. Her long dress was also white, a fine fabric with delicate designs along its edges. My mother looked like a flower against the dark cloth of the sofa.

  The windows were open and the wind carried the scent of fresh jasmine into the room. It had rained in the early morning. The whole city was filled with the scent of the flowering vines and their white blooms.

  Father spoke softly, calmly, “Attention.”

  My brother, sister, and I pulled ourselves together and stood taller to show him we were ready. He shifted, changing from a general into a martial artist. My brother, sister, and I mirrored Father’s form: his straight shoulders, his chest pushed out, his loosely bent arms, hands in soft fists held away from his body, his feet planted firmly on the ground.

  The right corner of Father’s mouth lifted, just a hint of a smile, enough to let us know he was proud.

  * * *

  In our comfortable life on the outskirts of Damascus, in our perfumed apartment, our worries were little. We had a network of extended family and close friends who lived in the surrounding buildings. We walked to school in the early morning and back home again in the afternoon light. At dusk, we sat around our dining table, filled with the simple, good-tasting food Mother prepared with love. After the meal, we took easy strolls in the side streets to greet neighbors and friends as we breathed in the evening air. In our sweet, jasmine-filled city, our family lived like the flowers we loved, healthy and happy in our season of beauty.

  We believed we lived in the city with the best weather. It snowed once or twice a year, but the snow never stayed long or caused disruption. Most of our lives were lived in warmth, without humidity or great heat. The first fifteen years of my life were in that city. They were both the best and the worst years of my life.

  In judo, resisting a more powerful opponent will result in sure defeat. You must be able to adjust to their moves, leave enough flexibility in your plan of action to respond accordingly at different times. To beat a stronger opponent, the weaker one must learn to adapt, evade, and unbalance to diminish the other’s power. This is what we tried to do when the war came to our family.

  The war came to us in two days’ time. One day we had electricity and running water. The next day these modern conveniences were gone and the schools were closed. We, who had been only partially paying attention to the news, were suddenly the subjects of it.

  Restaurants barred their doors. Families shut their windows and drew their curtains. The scent of smoke grew pungent in the place where once jasmine had filled the air.

  At first, Mother and Father told us that life would soon return to normal. It was not until the debris of shattered buildings struck our windows that Father moved us to his family’s house in a better part of the city, believing that their greater wealth could keep the destruction away. It did not.

  In my grandparents’ house, we lived with other family members who had also relocated there for safety. In a way, it felt like a giant sleepover. The young children continued their games. We older ones kept watch over them, listened to the conversation of the adults around us, and then practiced the same talk among each other. We all knew we were caught in a city and a war and needed to attend first to the basic essentials of caring for ourselves and each other to the best of our ability.

  One day, I went on an errand. We all knew it wasn’t safe, but there was no safety anymore. There was a teenage boy walking beside me on the street. We were not even looking at each other, but we both walked at a similar speed. Two soldiers stopped us. They asked for our identification papers. I took out my bag and found my identification card. The boy beside me did the same. We handed the cards to the plump guard at the same time. Neither of us said a thing. The man looked at our cards, then ran his gaze o
ver us, then focused on our cards again. He handed both cards to the thin guard beside him with great deliberation, his gaze trained on the road before us. The thin one was older. He had a full mustache and eyes that looked concerned. After a few minutes of studying the cards, he handed my card back to me and said, “Go home.” I accepted the card with sweaty fingers. I nodded several times to show my gratitude. I walked away on legs that felt as if they were made of melting wax; each step I took, my body loosened. I hoped and prayed to Allah that my body would hold its form and I wouldn’t become a squishy mess of a human being. I didn’t dare look back. I listened but heard nothing, only silence as I walked farther and farther away. I never found out what became of the teenage boy. I can’t know, if I want to be safe.

  At home, my heart hammered in my chest, but I didn’t speak of the incident. I didn’t want to endanger anyone. My grandparents’ house was full of people talking about the everyday details of life, nothing political, nothing dangerous. Instead, Grandmother, Mother, and the aunts prayed every day to Allah. Father and the uncles went in and out of the house all day looking for information and making connections. Like me, none of them came back with anything to say about where they had been or what they had found out. After the incident with the guards, it became clear to me that a return to the life we had known was impossible. Between Mother and Father, there were whispers of a plan to leave.

  * * *

  Practicing judo with us, Father devoted parts of each session to ukemi, learning to fall to minimize the risk of injury.

  On our living-room floor, in the life before the war, we learned how to fall and slap the floor with our open palms to ease the blow to our backs. I fell over and over, each time responding to Father’s observations. Turn a bit to the left or the right. Don’t spread your legs or bend them too much. Focus on that slap of your hand to the floor, channel your body’s energy there, let it absorb the impact, prepare the earth for your body, prepare your body for the earth. In all the falls, I learned how to trust gravity to do its work. I did not learn how to prepare my body for the impact of the unforgiving ground.

  Our family was whisked away from Syria in the dark. The night wind blew in our faces as we huddled close together on a small boat. Rocked by the big waves, we held on to each other for support, a small mass of moving bodies at the mercy of an angry ocean. When we were brave enough, we opened our eyes and shifted our hijabs to see a night sky lit up with stars and a half-moon. Their light swam above us, out of focus and in motion.

  On shore in Egypt, our family slept beneath a stranger’s roof. Father had arranged everything. The family that welcomed us spoke with Mother and Father of people we’d never met and of those we would never meet again. My sister and brother slept deeply beside me in the room we shared. I kept my eyes open until Mother and Father entered and found their places close to the door. Exhaustion sealed my lids.

  Father left us in Egypt. It was part of the plan. None of us knew the particulars of the plan, but we believed, as both Mother and Father did, that this was for our own safety. Mother wept but Father did not.

  Father spoke much as he did during our judo sessions, voice even and calm. “I’m leaving for America. I’ve gotten a visa. From there, I will work and send money back. Once things are in place, I will arrange to bring you all over.”

  To our questions, he answered in the same manner he administered instructions during the training sessions of our childhood—with firm certainty.

  “There’s no way we can leave as a family. There are rules about immigration and refugees.”

  “We can’t return to Syria. The family there will wait.”

  “In six months, no more than a year, we will be reunited in America.”

  Father left us with a laptop. It was our most precious possession, our lifeline to him and the world. He told us to keep the laptop safe.

  On the morning of Father’s departure, he embodied the professional persona of his judo training. His hair was combed; his clothes were in order. His mouth was a line across his face. His eyes were clear and dry. He stood straight and showed us the honor and grace that remained even when the fighting was done and the match lost.

  In judo, Father does not practice shido, stalling techniques. It is a violation of the rules. He does not believe that a person should prolong a period of nonaggression.

  At the stranger’s door, Father stood before Mother. He bowed his head low. His curls, thick and black, nearly touched her chin. She put a hand on his shoulder. He looked over her shoulder at us, standing behind them in our usual line. He nodded to acknowledge the parting. He stepped back, then turned. Mother kept the door open for a long moment before she squared her own shoulders and closed the door.

  The strangers we lived with in Egypt became our friends throughout the year we were with them. We hadn’t expected to be with them for so long but, according to Mother, adjustments had to be made to the plan. In their house, we slept together in the room we had shared that very first night of our arrival. Outside the house, there was talk of revolution brewing and erupting. We heard the media outlets but did not talk among ourselves about the state of the country or the world. It was not safe.

  Our hosts were calm and kind, inviting us to take second helpings at mealtimes, offering us clothes and other amenities to make us comfortable. Despite this, in hushed phone conversations, Mother and Father talked of growing risks. One night, after a lengthy phone conversation, Mother informed us that it was time for the family to leave for Turkey. Our friends asked no questions. They said they would miss us, but that they understood that there were more Syrian refugees there and that the Turkish government was more stable. Yes, yes, this wasn’t part of the plan, but adjustments had to be made.

  Our departure to Turkey, like our departure to Egypt, was done under the cover of night, with people whose names and faces we can no longer remember if we want to keep them safe.

  In Turkey, Father arranged for more friends to receive us, take us into their home, and help us find an apartment of our own.

  Refugees like us filled the streets of Ankara. All around, men and women spoke Arabic. They said, gratefully, that unlike many other nations, Turkey had taken a humanitarian approach to the Syrian refugees, letting us settle in its urban centers. For the first five months in Turkey, we lived with Father’s friend’s family and it was like we were visiting neighbors everywhere we went in the bustling city.

  Like Damascus, the city of Ankara was an ancient place, an architectural tapestry of past and present, cobbled stone walls beside smooth concrete, spirals rising high beside modern buildings shaped like rectangles and squares. It was more familiar than Egypt had been. It took us away from the monotony of those long days and into more unpredictable, new ones.

  With the help of Father’s friend, Mother enrolled us in a refugee school. In school, I learned that Istanbul was the only city in the world located on two continents, Asia and Europe, separated by the Bosphorus, the narrowest strait used for international navigation. I found it amazing that the strait could connect the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara, the Aegean and the Mediterranean, all these bodies of water, that it was a fact. I was starving for facts. In our first six months in Ankara, I learned many facts.

  Among these was the fact that in Turkey, without Turkish citizenship and a working man of the house, few landlords were willing to rent out apartments. My brother was barely a teenager. He did not qualify as a man. The landlords refused to rent to Mother, a woman with children who had no source of apparent income. The weight of where we were and where we would go grew heavy in Ankara.

  While Father’s friend was kind, he could not house us with his family forever. With us, there were eleven people in the small apartment. Mother and Father talked on the telephone for long stretches of time about housing. At the end of each conversation, Mother told him, “Do not worry about us. Allah will find a way.”

  Mother is a devout Muslim. She believes in her god. She prayed to him. We all fo
llowed suit, my brother, sister, and me. We prayed for her prayers to be heard.

  They were. We heard news that another friend of Father’s had an apartment in Konya, a city south of Ankara in central Turkey. When Mother contacted him, he offered us a room above his family’s apartment for a reasonable fee. It was a single bedroom with a bathroom and a landing that we used as a kitchen. We eagerly accepted his offer. We packed our belongings and made the day trip to the big city in the wide valley, with copses of deep green pine trees and low buildings stretching far.

  The room was small for the four of us. We stacked our clothes and belongings along one wall. We slept with our heads to the other wall, our feet touching our things. Beyond each other, our only friend was the laptop we shared. The Internet was spotty, but we lived for YouTube, gathered in front of it, counting down the days until we would all be reunited in the place Father had settled, a state called Minnesota.

  Father called us each day. His concern for us was growing. Whatever savings my parents had were gone as everything had stretched far longer than planned. We relied entirely on what Father could send. He said he would take whatever jobs were available to him. We pictured him working as he had in Damascus and we were happy.

  Our family became closer in our time apart. While we did not talk about the forces at work in our life, we talked often of how much we missed each other and the safe things we could share. We told Father about the weather in Turkey, how hot it was or how cold, but rarely that it was perfect. In turn, Father told us about Minnesota.