CHAPTER 10
I ran all the way home, tears of frustration blinding my eyes. What had started off as a day of jubilation had suddenly turned into the worst day I had endured so far in Jordan. When I arrived back at my tiny apartment, I frantically rummaged through my clothes where I had hidden my passport, then pulled it out to look at it. I sat staring at that document for some time, as if by willing it to be so I could make it genuine, or at least extend the time left on my fake entry stamps by a few months. But of course it remained just as it had always been: a fake passport for an illegal alien. I felt a crushing sense of loneliness. I may have started to make a few friends here in Amman, but in that moment I realized that any sense of belonging I might have felt in the past few months was entirely misplaced. Nothing could change the fact that I was an outsider, on the run from the place that I considered home and not tolerated by the authorities in this halfway house. In the back of my mind I realized I had harbored a vague desire to stay in Jordan for a long time, to continue working at the company, to continue seeing Shireen; but it was suddenly clear to me what a futile hope that was. The gym owner’s parting words had sounded in my ears like a bell, a wake-up call: You can’t live like this forever, Sarmed. It’s madness.
I looked out of my window over the roofs of Amman, and not for the first time, my thoughts took me back to the house in Al-Mansour where my family was still living. It was around dinnertime. My mother would have hosed down the front yard to cool it after the fierce heat of the afternoon sun, and the air would be thick with the humidity and the aroma of the food my grandmother would be cooking in the kitchen. Ahmed and Marwa would be playing; perhaps Saad would have arrived, bringing my grandparents a gift of watermelon or peaches as he always did. Perhaps my mother would speak proudly of her son who was making a new life for himself: he is successful, she would say; he sends money home.
“He’s a good boy,” my grandfather would mutter. “Inshallah, all is well.”
And Saad would sit quietly, silently keeping his own counsel.
It made me feel even lonelier knowing that I could never travel back to the place that I missed so much, to that little house that seemed to me to be an oasis of peace and hospitality in the center of the city I had fled. Inside the walls of my home, I could just be myself—no lies, no pretenses, no need to be constantly on my guard.
Suddenly the irony seemed too horrible to consider. I had run away from home, never to return, yet I missed it with every bone in my body. I ached to be with the people I loved, the people who loved me. And somewhere deep down I felt guilt too. Saad had made it clear to me that I was being helped out of Iraq so that I might help my family out, yet I didn’t seem to be any closer to achieving that aim than I was the day I arrived in Jordan. Sure, I sent money home, but freedom was more expensive than that. I rummaged in one of my cupboards for something to eat, but gave up when I found nothing suitable. I wasn’t really hungry anyway.
As night fell, I took to my bed; but as had been the case so often in recent weeks, I barely slept. My eyes, wide open, stared at the blackness of the ceiling as I considered my options. My finances were scant: I had been putting aside a little money every month to fund my eventual escape from Jordan, but the rest had been spent on my accommodations and on sending something home to my family as often as they needed it. Even had the coffers been full, however, I wasn’t about to announce my desire to get out of the country to just anyone in Hashemite Square—the con men would have been on me like hyenas, and I would never have been able to tell the genuine offers from the bogus ones. Occasionally I sat up straight in bed, struck by an overwhelming sense of panic, and with these thoughts rushing through my mind, the night passed fitfully.
That morning I hoped more than ever to run in to Shireen on the way into work. I felt that more than anybody else she accepted me for who I was, not what it said on my documents, and I had always found that her presence calmed me, despite her refusal to meet me at any time other than on our morning walks; and if ever I needed soothing, it was now. But she was nowhere to be seen, so I shuffled my way to the office with a renewed nervousness that did nothing for my state of mind. All day I moped around, dark circles under my eyes and a constant frown on my forehead. Bakir noticed it, and he barked out instructions occasionally to keep me alert; but at other times I saw him looking at me thoughtfully, as if wondering what was going through my mind. It unnerved me even more. I was thankful that I had not mentioned the name of the company to the police officer, but that didn’t mean I felt safe at work. Suddenly I didn’t feel safe anywhere or with anyone.
Except one person.
I had maintained my friendship with Abu Firas, the Iraqi architect whom I had met through working at the company. He had legitimately made his home in Jordan and was always neatly dressed, quietly spoken, and modest. My very first opinion when I had met him some time previously was that he was a reputable and honest man, not at all a charlatan. He often came to Hashemite Square and drank lemonade in the evenings as the heat of the sun faded, and sometimes we talked. Gradually he learned the general nature of my situation—although as always I had refrained from telling him the whole story—and one day he had quietly said to me, “When the time comes, Sarmed, and if you need any help, I know a few people.” Nothing more—no brash claims or demands for money that instantly would have marked him out as a crook. It was no surprise to me that he knew about such things. Maybe he did make a little money arranging for people to smuggle themselves out of Jordan, but my impression was that he kept abreast of such matters because, although he had a good job in Amman, he knew that the Jordanian authorities could deport him on a whim, so he had to know the best ways of getting to the West. I had nodded gratefully and stashed his offer of help away in my mind for the moment when I needed it. Now that moment had arrived. I decided to hunt him out that evening.
Sure enough, he was there, sitting alone at his usual table on the pavement outside his usual café, an ice-cold drink and a small plate of tempting baklava placed neatly in front of him. He seemed perfectly content watching the usual daily hustle and bustle of Hashemite Square unfold before him, and he didn’t notice me until I was almost upon him. He smiled as I approached and gestured at me to sit down.
“I haven’t seen you in a long while, Sarmed,” he complained.
“I’ve been busy, Abu Firas,” I explained, glancing nervously around me. “Work.”
“And chasing pretty young Palestinian girls, from what I hear.” He winked at me as I felt a blush rising to my cheek.
We sat there in silence for a while. Abu Firas watched me as he took a sip from his drink, clearly waiting for me to say whatever it was I had come to tell him.
“I had some trouble with the police yesterday.”
He seemed unsurprised. “Is it all sorted out now?”
“Kind of. But I think the time has come for me to leave.”
“I’ll be sorry to see you go,” he replied as though willfully ignoring the subtext of what I was saying. I felt momentarily confused—perhaps I had misunderstood or misremembered the offer he had made.
“You said a while ago that you might be able to help me.”
“It’s possible.”
“How much will I have to pay you?” I thought I might as well get the question out in the open.
Abu Firas took another sip from his drink. “I am an architect, Sarmed, not a people-smuggler. If I help you, it won’t be because I want your money. It’s because I understand what you are running from.”
My eyes narrowed slightly. This was not quite what I had expected.
“You’re suspicious,” Abu Firas noticed. “Good. You need to be. The circles in which we move are full of corruption, Sarmed, and you need to be careful. If you are going to make it to England, you will have to take great risks. Plenty of people will give you advice, me included. But at the end of the day, every decision you make must be your own. Do you understand?”
I nodded mutely.
“Good. Do you have your passport with you?”
Fortunately I had thought to bring it, thinking he might ask me that. Abu Firas took it from me, held it surreptitiously between himself and the table, and spent some time flicking through it.
“This is a very good fake. In fact I would say that it was originally a genuine blank passport from Baghdad. The only people who will be able to spot that it is not official will be the Iraqis themselves. But your Jordanian entry stamps have expired.”
“I know.”
He shook his head regretfully. “That was foolish, Sarmed. It makes things much more difficult.”
“What am I going to do?”
Abu Firas thought for a moment. “You need to get to Malaysia.”
“Malaysia?” It seemed like a crazy route, halfway across the world and in the wrong direction. “Why?”
“Because you can, Sarmed. Look, the Iraqi passport is the most ignored passport in the world. There are very few places it will get you, but Malaysia is one. As soon as you can, you need to go to the Malaysian Embassy and apply for a single-entry visa. The Malaysians won’t care that your entry stamps into Jordan have expired. They should give the visa to you there and then.”
I stared at him as if he was mad. “But Abu Firas, this is a fake passport. What if they find out?”
“They won’t be looking out for it. Like I say, only the Iraqis will know that this isn’t genuine. And in any case, only an idiot would apply for a visa in person on a forged Iraqi passport. They’ll never suspect anyone would do such a thing.” He flashed me a smile that did nothing for my confidence. “Trust me, Sarmed, this is your only option.”
“What will I do when I get to Malaysia?”
“I have contacts in the West who can supply you with a fake United Arab Emirates passport. That, I’m afraid, will cost you money—not for me but for the counterfeiters. UAE passport-holders can travel directly between Malaysia and the UK without visas. It should be enough to get you out of Malaysia.”
“Can’t I just use the UAE passport to leave Jordan?”
“No,” Abu Firas replied sharply. “I can help you fake Jordanian entry and exit stamps on the UAE passport just in case you get questioned in Malaysia, but it would be best if the Jordanians do not see them. They would just need to tap the details into their system and they would soon establish that the UAE passport is fake. If they do that, you’ll be looking at a long prison sentence. It’s much more difficult for them to establish the authenticity of your Iraqi passport.”
“How will you fake the entry and exit stamps?” I asked him.
“I told you, Sarmed. I’m an architect. I draw things and make designs. Forging a little stamp like that won’t be a big problem for me.”
I sat there quietly for a moment as I tried to absorb everything I had been told. Abu Firas’s plan seemed to me to be fraught with risks. So many things could go wrong, but one concern worried me more than any other. “If I leave Jordan on my Iraqi passport, what will the border guards do when they see my entry stamps have expired?”
Abu Firas sighed. “I don’t know, Sarmed. The truth is it will probably be up to the mood of whoever interrogates you.”
“But they won’t deport me?”
“It’s possible.”
“Then I can’t do this.”
Abu Firas’s face became serious. “I don’t think you have a choice, Sarmed. The longer you leave it, the more difficult things will become for you. I know you haven’t told me everything about why you had to leave Iraq, but I sense that things would go very badly for you if you were forced to return. That’s why I wouldn’t suggest this if I didn’t think it was the only way. I know what I’m suggesting is risky, but if you sit around waiting for risk-free ways of leaving the country, you’ll be an old man before you get out.”
He winked at me, a curiously upbeat gesture given our worrying conversation.
“Or at the very least,” he said, “I will be.”
After my conversation with Abu Firas I was of two minds. I was glad I had him to advise me—he seemed to know what he was talking about, and that was encouraging. But at the same time, he had been eager to point out the risks I was going to have to take. What he had told me represented progress, but it did nothing to increase my peace of mind.
It all seemed so complicated, and I wondered if there might not be an easier way. I had heard that the British Embassy sometimes issued foreign nationals a study visa so that they could travel to the UK in order to attend university. I had shown my capacity for study—perhaps they would take me on. I arranged an immediate appointment for the visa application, and the fact that they agreed to see me so soon filled me with confidence.
As I was waiting at the Embassy, I fell into conversation with an Iraqi woman who was obviously several months pregnant. She told me that she was a British citizen, because her husband was from the UK, and that she was there to inform the Embassy that she was returning to Iraq to have her baby there.
I was astonished. “Why do you want to do that?” I asked her. “What if you don’t get back out again?”
“That’s why I’m informing the British Embassy,” she told me, her serious face full of concern.
“Aren’t you scared? You know what it’s like there now. It’s not a safe place.”
“Of course I’m scared,” she said plainly. “But despite everything it’s still my country, and I hope that someday I will be able to return for good. In the meantime I want my child to be born on Iraqi soil.” She smiled at me. “You’re very young. One day, perhaps, you’ll understand.”
But deep down, I think perhaps I already did.
I was ushered into a stark room in the Embassy by an official carrying a cup of coffee. I remember how strange that seemed, for officials in Iraq carried nothing but a stern face and a glower for whomever they had to deal with. “What can I do for you?” he asked as we both sat down.
I handed him an application form. “I’d like to apply for a study visa,” I told him.
“I see.” His face was inscrutable. “And how do you propose to pay for your course?”
“I have an uncle in England,” I told him. “I’m sure he will fund me for the first year.”
“And after that?”
“I’ll have to get a job,” I told him honestly.
The official shook his head. “No,” he told me. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. I need to see that you have the funds to pay for your entire course and your living expenses, before I issue you a visa.”
“But that could be sixty or seventy thousand pounds,” I protested.
“Yes,” he replied shortly. He looked down at my application again. “You’re from Iraq, I see. Why don’t you finish your education in Iraq?”
“It’s not as simple as that,” I told him.
“Have you completed your military service?”
I shook my head.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to serve a criminal.”
He looked at me with undisguised disapproval. “I suggest you return home and continue your military service,” he said as though ignoring my previous statement. “Then you can complete your studies there. We can do nothing for you here.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing—that a foreign official could be so naive. But it was clear from his demeanor that I could do nothing to change his mind, so I made my excuses and left.
Knocked back, I was still reluctant to follow Abu Firas’s advice, so I quietly let it be known among a few of my acquaintances that I was looking for someone who could help me leave. Suddenly I was inundated with offers, shady characters pretending to be my closest friend and offering me promises that they could get me anywhere in the world in return for more money than I could pay them—in advance. But without exception, when I probed a little deeper into their plans for me, I found that they were either nebulous or nonexistent; and when I suggested that I would pay them only after I was successfully in England, they melted away, never to be seen again.
So I contacted Abu Firas once more, to tell him that I intended to go ahead with his plan.
He agreed to make arrangements for the UAE passport, and I prepared myself for the first hurdle: a trip to the Malaysian Embassy, false Iraqi passport in hand, to apply for a visa. To my astonishment, and just as Abu Firas had predicted, it was issued without question. Suddenly I began to have a little more faith in my benefactor.
There were other problems, though. Along with my photograph, I had given Abu Firas half the money, the other half to be handed over on delivery of the passport, and this would all but wipe out my savings. Somehow I was going to have to raise the money to pay for my flights to Malaysia and to England, and there seemed to be no way of doing so. My friends couldn’t help me out, and asking Abu Firas for a loan seemed to me to be a favor too far. Still, until I had the UAE passport in my hands, it was all just a dream anyway. I had no idea how long getting it would take, so I kept my head down and continued my work at the company, squirreling away as much of my pay as I possibly could.
Days became weeks, and the passport did not arrive. Occasionally I saw Abu Firas and asked him if there was any progress. His response was always the same: “These things take time, Sarmed. It will come.”
But it didn’t come, and I started to wonder if Abu Firas had been stringing me along after all.
The stress of waiting started to become almost unbearable. My nights were increasingly wakeful, and I continued to suffer the mysterious stomach pains that had been plaguing me over the past few months. I did my best to distract myself by redoubling my efforts with Shireen. Our morning strolls were just as frequent and just as cherished. We had fallen into the easy companionship of good friends, but still she refused to meet me at any other time. In my eagerness to be with her, though, I started plotting a wild scheme in my mind.
“Do you ever think about leaving Amman?” I asked her one day as we were walking along together.
“Sometimes,” she replied mysteriously. “Why?”
“Oh, I just wondered,” I told her, doing my best to hide the smile I felt inside.
As the days passed I asked the same question in roundabout ways. Had she ever thought about living in England? What would she do if she went there? Would she miss her family? I began to persuade myself that her answers contained a happy subtext. She knew I would not stay in Jordan forever. Perhaps I could persuade her to follow her dream and come with me. I fantasized about the idea—about having someone by my side in the grueling times ahead whom I trusted, whom I felt close to. If I could persuade Shireen to come with me, it seemed to me that all my prayers would be answered. But I refrained from asking her because as yet I had nothing to offer.
Some weeks after my initial meeting with Abu Firas, I was quietly going about my business at work when I got a call from the receptionist. “Sarmed, courier for you.” I was perplexed. Who would be sending a package to me here? I went to collect it and suddenly found myself having to catch my breath. It was a small package. Passport size. I thanked the receptionist then swiftly went to find a deserted corner of the office where I could open it in private. With trembling hands I unsealed the packaging, slid the pristine new document out of its envelope, then spent several minutes nervously examining it. My photograph was there, above the false name Adel Mahmoud Ahmed—it was an odd juxtaposition, but I was going to have to get used to it.
In every way the passport was perfect.
Enclosed with the passport was a brief handwritten note: “May Allah guide your steps and may you be successful in all you set out to achieve, and inshallah you will arrive safely.” It was short, sentimental even, but this anonymous message from a faceless well-wisher in a far-off country meant a great deal to me. I stood there, passport and note in hand, and looked out through the window over the busy streets of Amman. I suddenly realized that whenever I had done this sort of thing before, I had felt somehow inferior to everybody else down there. They were okay. They were allowed to be here. In Amman, at least, they were better than me. But today all that changed. With the arrival of the small but powerful document in my hand, I was as good as anyone else because now, like them, I had a future.
My musings were interrupted by Bakir, shouting my name somewhere nearby. I tucked the passport safely into one of my pockets and went back to work.
That afternoon I went straight to the library at the British Council and applied for a membership card in my new name, using my new passport. The card was readily given and certainly not an official document, but I thought it might be helpful should I run into any difficulty. Then I hurried back to Hashemite Square, where I had arranged to meet Abu Firas. He took the passport from me.
“Now you need to buy your tickets,” he told me. “Remember you need two—one in your Iraqi name, one in your UAE name. You use the Iraqi one to leave Jordan, and the UAE one to enter Malaysia. When you have them, let me know the date you are leaving and I can forge your exit stamp for you.”
I nodded my head. How could I tell him after everything he had done that even now I didn’t have the money for the tickets? I had racked my brain trying to come up with a solution. None of my acquaintances were in any sort of financial state to help me, and I couldn’t very well go to my family. There was only one thing I could think of, one path open to me that would allow me to go through with my plan. It was a long shot, and it would have to wait until the following day.
I arrived at work early the next morning and made sure that Bakir’s tea was on his desk before he had the opportunity to ask for it. He took a sip without uttering a word of thanks, then pretended not to notice me as I stood by his desk, waiting expectantly for him to realize that I wanted to ask him something. “What is it, Sarmed?” he eventually asked wearily, relaxing his corpulent body back in his chair and flicking his thumb from under his armpit as was his habit.
I cleared my throat as I nervously prepared to ask the question I had been practicing all night. “Mr Bakir,” I began. “I’m thinking that I might like to do some traveling.”
Bakir’s face twitched as though he could sense I was about to ask him a question he wouldn’t much like.
“I was wondering if the company would advance me the money I need for my airfare.”
For a few moments Bakir did not answer. In fact he didn’t even look at me, choosing instead to gaze noncommittally across the room. Then he took another sip of his tea before turning to me and finally speaking. “Unless I am mistaken, Sarmed, you do not intend to return to Amman once you have left.”
I was too shocked by his insight to reply.
His voice became sharper. “Am I right?”
“No, Mr. Bakir…” I started to say, but he interrupted me immediately.
“I’m not stupid, Sarmed. I lose a secretary and my money. What’s in it for me?”
That wasn’t a question I could answer. I watched him carefully—his indecision was written plainly on his face. Somewhere deep inside he wanted to help me, I think, but in the end his fear of the consequences got the better of him. “I can’t authorize this,” he said with uncharacteristic quietness.
I nodded in mute acceptance, understanding that as a Jordanian he would not want to be seen giving money away to an Iraqi. I had no idea whom I could turn to now.
Then he continued. “I don’t blame you for wanting to go, Sarmed. I’ve had my eye on you for quite a while now. You’re a good lad, but it’s been clear from the outset that you wouldn’t stay here for long. Why don’t you speak to Zaidoon? Maybe he will help you.”
It was a good idea. Zaidoon was Mushtaq’s deputy and was that rare thing: an Iraqi with an American green card. We got on well. He was a very decent person who was happy to help hardworking, decent Iraqis working for the company, and he always seemed to have time for my incessant questions about life in the West. I went to find him immediately.
“How much do you need?” he asked me.
I plucked a figure out of thin air—more than I would require, probably, and a seemingly huge amount to me; but to Zaidoon it was no doubt a small sum.
He considered it for a few moments. “Very well,” he said finally. “The company sometimes makes loans to its employees. I’m sure we can arrange something. But remember, it’s a loan. If you ever find yourself in Amman again, you will be expected to pay it back.”
“And if I don’t?” I held my breath.
“Then you can send it to us when you settle in the UK.” His words spoke of doing things by the book, but his eyes flashed in a friendly way that made it clear that he, at least, would not expect the money back.
I smiled at him. “Thank you,” I said.
He nodded in acknowledgment. “Good luck, Sarmed. If I’m honest, it sounds to me like you’re going to need it. Now if I were you, I’d get back to Bakir and fetch him another cup of tea. He doesn’t pay you to stand around chatting with me.”
I bought two tickets to Kuala Lumpur, one in the name on my Iraqi passport, one in the name on my UAE passport. I gave the dates to Abu Firas, and two days later he returned my UAE passport, complete with perfectly forged Jordanian entry and exit stamps. I also bought an expensive suit to make me look like a well-to-do young UAE citizen, not a desperate Iraqi refugee. It was light gray in color, and I complemented it with a pink tie. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I was reminded of my father—it was the kind of suit he used to wear. What would he think if he saw me now? There would be a harsh word, no doubt. He would tell me that what I was doing was ridiculous, that I would never have the skill and the nerve to go through with this dangerous plan. Certainly there would be no hint of encouragement. I removed the suit and stashed it safely away for the day of my journey.
Two days before I was due to depart I went to try to find Shireen. She was walking along the road to work as usual, and I fell in beside her.
“I need to talk to you,” I said urgently.
She stopped, surprised I suppose by the tone of my voice. “What is it, Sarmed?”
“I’m leaving.”
“What do you mean?”
“Leaving Amman. For good.”
“When?” I was pleased to note that she seemed genuinely saddened by the news.
“In two days’ time. I have a flight booked to Malaysia, and from there to England. I want you to come with me.”
Shireen’s eyes widened. “Sarmed,” she said. “I don’t know what to say…”
Silently I urged her to say yes.
“…but there’s just no way I can come with you to England.”
Her words were like a knife in my heart. “Why not?” I whispered.
She looked at me with what I suppose was genuine sympathy. “You’re a sweet man, Sarmed,” she managed eventually, “and a good friend. But not that sort of a friend. Besides, my family would never forgive me if I simply left them.”
“But it would be for a better life…”
“A better life for you, Sarmed. Not for me. The people I love are here—it’s my home.”
“I thought you considered yourself a refugee.”
“I do, Sarmed. But I’ve lived here all my life, and home is where your family is. They wouldn’t want me to leave them.”
“Maybe I could talk to your family,” I persisted. “Persuade them…”
“No, Sarmed,” she said firmly, “because I don’t want to leave them either.” She lowered her eyelashes in a sorrowful way. “Sarmed, there’s something I have to tell you. I’ve been waiting for the right moment but it has never arrived. I’m engaged to be married.”
I was momentarily speechless, before feeling a hot flush of embarrassment creep up my neck. “I’m sorry, Shireen,” I said finally. “If I’d known I wouldn’t have asked you. Forgive me.”
Gently she kissed me on the side of the cheek—a particularly forward gesture for a young Arab girl. “Of course I forgive you, Sarmed.”
We stood there in awkward silence, which was finally broken by Shireen. “Is it safe, what you are doing?”
I shrugged, effecting more bravado than I felt. “I’ll be okay. I have good people helping me.”
“I hope so, Sarmed.” And then the words that I desperately didn’t want to hear. “I don’t suppose I’ll see you again, shall I?”
I shook my head.
“Good-bye then,” she said quietly but firmly. “Allah maa’k. God be with you. I will miss you.”
Shireen turned and continued down the street. I watched her until she disappeared from sight.
I returned to the flat, shut the door, and kicked the wall in frustration. My emotions for the rest of that day were more confused than they had ever been. There was sorrow, certainly, tinged with shame at the embarrassment my request had caused. But as time wore on and I was forced to come to terms with what had happened that morning, I realized how improbable it had always been that Shireen would come with me. Not everyone was as displaced as I was. Not everyone felt the need to cross over the fence to a greener field. In a strange way, I stoically told myself, it was a relief. Shireen was the only reason I had left for wanting to stay in Amman. Now she was beyond my reach forever, and as a result I felt a renewed sense of purpose, a desperate drive to continue with the rest of my journey.
When the day arrived, I rose early. My bags had been expectantly packed the night before, so I put on my suit, straightened my tie, and checked my two sets of documents for the umpteenth time. Then I placed my Iraqi passport in one inside pocket, my UAE passport in the other, picked up my bags, and went to catch the bus that would drive me on the thirty-minute journey to the Amman airport.
It had been more than seven years since I had been at an airport—not since my father had brought me back to Baghdad—and I had forgotten how busy airports could be. Businessmen—some in suits, others in more traditional Arab dress—marched purposefully across the concourse paying little or no attention to the young Iraqi standing alone in the middle with his luggage and wondering where to go. Eventually I located the desk I needed and checked in nervously but without any difficulty. I was in good time for my flight, but I decided nothing was to be gained from going through passport control too early. If they decided to question my documents, I did not want them to have too much time in which to do so, so I remained on the main concourse, pacing up and down, trying to keep out of sight of any officials as my anxiety increased with every minute that passed. At one point I killed some time at an airport café, where I ordered a Coca-Cola and sipped it slowly. If things didn’t go as I hoped, I thought to myself, this might be the last time I would taste it for a long while, if not forever.
I had been mentally preparing myself for this moment for weeks; but now that it was upon me, every instinct in my body screamed at me to leave the airport. It was too dangerous. So many things could go wrong, and if they did I would be on the first transport back to Baghdad. Every time that thought struck me, I shuddered, closed my eyes, and tried to put it to the back of my mind.
Eventually, I could put it off no longer. Taking deep breaths to calm my nerves, I approached passport control, where an unsmiling border guard took my Iraqi passport. He had a computer terminal in front of him and, glancing through my documents, typed something into the system. “What’s your father’s name?” he asked.
I told him, wondering what that had to do with anything.
He tapped at the keyboard again without looking at me. “Hmm…” I heard him grunt.
I tried to keep calm. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Wait here,” the guard said. He left his post and went to talk to another official. I watched them in huddled conversation as they examined my passport and looked back toward me. Eventually he returned to his post. “How did you enter?”
“My entry stamps are there,” I told him curtly.
The guard shrugged. “I think you entered illegally,” he told me. I remained silent, and as I think back on that awful moment I remember that everything around me seemed to fade into silence as every ounce of my concentration was directed toward what this man, on whose whim my future lay, was saying to me. “Even if you didn’t, you’ve overstayed. They’re cracking down on people like you. It looks like you’re in trouble. Come with me.” His words made my body feel suddenly crumpled, and it took every effort just to stand up straight.
He led me to a side room that contained nothing but a desk and two chairs. “Sit down,” he told me without ceremony. I did as I was told, watching him as he appeared to be wondering what to say next. “We’ve had our eye on you,” he said finally.
My heart stopped. How could that be the case? “What do you mean?” I breathed.
“We’ve had you under surveillance. You’re a smuggler. You’ve been coming in and out illegally. You’re not on the system.”
“That’s not my fault.”
He stared directly into my eyes, waiting for me to say something else, and instantly I understood. He was trying to intimidate me. What he wanted I don’t know—a bribe maybe, or perhaps he was genuinely suspicious of my documents and was trying to break me down. I resolved to make sure he would do neither. “You’re mistaken,” I told him.
“You should have left the country months ago.”
“So let me leave.”
He shook his head with a nasty smile. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, my friend. If you want to leave, you have to pay a fine. One dinar for every day you have overstayed.”
It amounted to a sizable sum. The only money I had I needed in Malaysia to buy my ticket to the UK. There was no way I could hand any of it over to this guy. “I don’t have the money,” I told him firmly.
The guard shrugged and looked at his watch. “Your flight leaves in fifteen minutes,” he said. “I’ll be back in ten to see what your decision is.” He left me alone in the room.
I sat there, sweating in my suit while I decided what to do—though in truth the decision was made for me. I couldn’t give him any money, so I had to stick to my story and pray that the business of dealing with me would be too much of an administrative headache. If he wanted me out of the country, the easiest way was to get me on that plane.
True to his word he returned exactly ten minutes later. “Have you decided?”
“I told you,” I said. “I don’t have the money. I can’t pay you.”
He looked me up and down, clearly taking in the fact that I was well dressed. “You realize I have the power to deport you? All I need to do is say the word and you are on a police van back to the Iraqi border.” He must have seen the fear flicker across my face when he said that, because he nodded in understanding. “Okay, my friend,” he said in a nasty tone of voice. “I’ll do you a deal. Pay me half the money and I’ll let you go.”
But even half the money he wanted would have ruined me, so I stood firm. “I’m sorry,” I said. “My papers are genuine, but I simply don’t have the money to pay you.”
He considered that for a minute before speaking abruptly once more: “Come with me.” He led me back to the passport control desk, and as I heard the final call for my flight, I felt the eyes of everyone in the waiting line on me. Another official joined him and started asking me the same questions I had already answered, perhaps trying to spot an inconsistency in my story, perhaps just trying to intimidate me more. Still I stood my ground.
Whether the official who was trying to haggle with me about my fine intended the money to go into his own pocket I can’t say, but eventually it became obvious to him that I was in no position to pay it. He started huffing and puffing like a spoiled schoolboy denied some treat, and finally he took a big black stamp, opened my passport, and brought the stamp firmly down onto one of the pages. I looked at it: NO RETURN WITHIN FIVE YEARS. “Get out of here,” he muttered under his breath before turning to his next passenger.
I looked at him, amazed, but he had already lost interest in me. So I turned away and sprinted to the gate, where my plane was ready to leave.