Escape from Saddam (17 page)

I stood absolutely still. We both did. In the few seconds of silence before the policeman spoke, a panic of thoughts went through my head. Not once in all the months I had been in Jordan had I been stopped by the police. I had been too careful for that. What would he do? We hadn’t done anything wrong exactly, so maybe he would just tell us to be on our way with a harsh word. But it was also within his power to question us, to ask for our papers, and to check that we were who we said we were. What would happen next was entirely up to him. I did my very best not to look as though I had any reason to be scared, but no doubt my face was a picture of the concern I was feeling. I had turned from jubilation to desperation in an instant.

He looked us up and down, his face impassive. “What are you two doing?” he asked. His voice gave nothing away.

I was aware of Muafaq quietly making his way to the front of our little group. He was Jordanian, so I suppose he thought that if he spoke for us, the officer might not think he had encountered a couple of Iraqi tearaways. “We’re just on our way home, officer,” he told him soberly.

The policeman eyed him up and down. “Your ID card.” It was an order, not a request.

Muafaq smiled as he pulled his ID card from his jacket and handed it over. “And this is a very good friend of mine…” he started to say in an attempt to defuse the situation, but he was instantly interrupted by the officer.

“I’ll come to him in a minute,” he snapped.

He scrutinized Muafaq’s ID card, and as he did so I considered running. The main road was crowded enough for me to be able to lose myself among all the people, but the officer would still have Muafaq. I couldn’t put him in the position of having to hide my identity from the Jordanian police. Besides, I had noticed the weapon the officer had swinging from his belt. I would just have to try to talk my way out of this seemingly impossible situation and pray that he didn’t ask me for the one thing I couldn’t supply: proof of residence. The officer handed Muafaq’s ID back to him, then turned his attention to me. “Can we go now?” I asked, affecting a Jordanian accent as best I could. It didn’t fool the officer for a moment.

“Where are you from?” he asked with thinly veiled contempt.

“I live here,” I told him, avoiding his question.

“I didn’t ask you where you live. I asked you where you’re from.”

“Iraq.”

The officer nodded as though I had confirmed his worst suspicion. “In that case, I’ll need to see your proof of residence. Where’s your passport?”

“I don’t have it with me,” I stammered. “Maybe I could bring it to you later.”

He shook his head. “Where is it?”

I had to think fast. The passport was safely locked away in my tiny apartment, but I couldn’t tell him that. I feared I would have to take him there, and I certainly didn’t want the authorities to know where I lived. More important, however, my Jordanian entry stamps had expired. Even if the fact that it was a false passport escaped him, the fact that I was illegal was clearly stated there in black and white. I didn’t know what to say. The officer looked at me, one eyebrow raised as the uncomfortable silence between us spoke louder than any excuses I could make up.

“It’s at work,” I blurted finally, for no reason other than that I thought it might buy me some time.

The officer narrowed his eyes. “And where do you work?”

“I have a job at a company,” I said without mentioning the name of the place, then told him the rough area where my office was situated, before adding that I was a secretary to the Jordanian owner. Perhaps that would give me a little leverage.

The officer thought about that for a moment. “Very well,” he said finally. “Take me there.”

As though in the control of an awful dream that I couldn’t stop, Muafaq and I were escorted to a patrol car in which another officer was sitting, and they started driving through the traffic of central Amman toward my office. We stayed silent. We didn’t even look at each other, not wanting to betray our nervousness. As we drove, I felt the hotness of genuine fear creeping down the back of my neck. What were my employers likely to do? Sack me on the spot, most likely; leave me to the mercy of this aggressive policeman who clearly had the bit between his teeth as far as I was concerned. There was certainly no reason for them to stick their necks out for me; indeed there were many reasons for them not to. I was popular at work, but they had a successful and profitable business—why on earth would they risk a run-in with the authorities on my account?

As the patrol car edged slowly toward the district where the company had its offices, I became increasingly certain that I was heading into the lion’s den, and without really thinking it through properly, I blurted out a change of plan. “Actually,” I broke the silence in the car, “my passport isn’t there.”

The officer who had arrested me looked over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“I have another job,” I told him. “At a local gym. I had to give them my passport.”

“Why didn’t you say so before?”

“I forgot,” I said rather unconvincingly. “It was a while ago.”

I felt scant relief when the policemen directed the car toward the gym. The owner was still a Jordanian, still ran a business, and still didn’t want any kind of trouble with the authorities. I just felt slightly more comfortable with the officers confronting him rather than Bakir.

The patrol car crawled toward the gym, but it seemed to my nervous mind as if we arrived there practically instantaneously.

It was about two o’clock when we arrived, and the gym was pretty much empty—the regulars would not turn up for at least another hour, maybe two. Nevertheless, loud Western pop music was blaring through the stereo speakers as I led the way across the gym mats toward the owner’s office, closely followed by the officer who had arrested me. Muafaq stayed in the car with the other policeman, which was an extra worry for me: he was not really known for his discretion, and I didn’t feel at all confident that he wouldn’t say something incriminating. But all that was out of my control; I had to concentrate on the predicament at hand.

I will never forget the look of shock on the owner’s face as he watched me through the open door to his little office being marched across the gym toward him. He had been so kind to me over the time I had spent at the gym, helping me out with work and friendly advice—now it must have seemed to him that all was not as I had pretended it was. As we entered, he put down the pen with which he was filling in some paperwork, sat back in his chair, and gazed warily at us both. “Sarmed,” he muttered by way of greeting.

I nodded my head; then the officer stepped in front of me. As the gym owner was clearly Jordanian and much older than he, there was no way the officer would speak to him in the same dismissive tones he had used with me, but he was stern nevertheless.

“The boy says he works for you.”

The owner nodded.

“How long has he worked here?”

“A few months, nothing more.” His eyes flickered toward me as he spoke.

“He’s from Iraq.” The officer stated what the owner clearly already knew. “We’re clamping down on illegal immigrants at the moment, especially young males, so I need to see his residency permissions.”

“You think Sarmed might be illegal?” His face gave nothing away.

“Yes,” replied the officer. “I do. He’s been acting very suspiciously. He tells me you have his passport. Is this true?”

The question hung in the air. Once more I saw the owner’s eyes flicker toward me, and from behind the officer’s back I slowly made a signal to the owner, visibly imploring him not to give the game away. It was a futile hope, I knew—what could he say when put on the spot like this? Still, my future depended on the answer this burly Jordanian—a former bodybuilding champion—who had no reason to help me gave.

Finally he spoke. “Yes, I have his passport.”

“Then perhaps you could show it to me,” the officer asked almost politely.

I held my breath.

“I’m very sorry, officer, but I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“What do you mean?”

The owner stood up from his desk and pointed to a large safe in the corner of the room. “I keep his passport in that safe. You have to be careful with so many people around, and I wouldn’t want to lose it. Anyway, my wife has the key. She’s not here today, but I’d be happy to bring Sarmed’s passport to you tomorrow whenever it’s convenient for you.” He smiled, his face lighting up with such honesty that surely nobody would suspect he wasn’t telling the truth.

The officer shifted from one foot to the other, glancing from me to the gym owner and back. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “I’ll be back this time tomorrow. Then we’ll have a look at these documents of yours.”

I inclined my head but didn’t say anything. The officer lowered his voice. “Consider yourself lucky I don’t take you with me. The cells at the police station are very uncomfortable. Just make sure you’re here tomorrow,” he told me before turning and walking away.

The owner and I remained silent as we watched the officer walk back across the gym toward the exit, the clomping of his heavy shoes echoing against the mirrored walls. Even after he had closed the door behind him, the owner refrained from speaking. It was as if we were both holding our breath, waiting for the officer suddenly to walk back in and catch us discussing what we shouldn’t have been.

Eventually the owner spoke. His voice was quiet, threatening almost. “Can you bring me your passport to show this guy?”

I bowed my head and gently shook it. “No,” I whispered. “I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”

Another pause. Then the owner banged his formidable fist against the table. “Do you have any idea what sort of situation you’ve just put me in?” he hissed.

What could I say? After all he had done for me I knew he had every reason to be angry, so I wasn’t surprised when he pushed past me and stormed into the main area of the gym, striding around furiously for a couple of minutes while I was left there to stew. Now more than ever I was at this man’s mercy. He had lied to protect me, but there was nothing stopping him from going back on his subterfuge should he realize that he was in too deep.

Finally he returned to his office where I stood waiting for him. “You’re a good boy, Sarmed,” he said gruffly. “I don’t know why you lied to that policeman, and I don’t want to know. But he’s going to come back, so you can’t be seen around here again.”

“What will you tell him?” I asked meekly.

“I don’t know.” He seemed irritated by the question. “I’ll deal with that. You just need to leave this place and keep your head down.”

I nodded in agreement.

“I don’t blame you for not wanting to go back to Iraq, but you can’t live like this forever, Sarmed,” he told me, a bit more calmly now. “It’s madness. If you’re illegal here, they’re going to catch up with you eventually. I don’t want to know what your plan is, but if you’re going to stay safe, you’d better have one.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m hoping to…” But he held up his hand to stop me giving him any information he didn’t want to have. Then I watched as he removed from around his neck a string from which a key was hanging. He walked over to the safe and used the key to open it. I couldn’t stop a flicker of a smile from playing over my lips as I remembered the earnestness with which he had assured the policeman that his wife held the key. He took out a small pile of notes and started counting them out. “These are the wages I owe you,” he said as he did so, then counted out a few more. “And here is a little extra, to help you on your way.” He handed them to me, then wrapped his enormous arms around me in a bearlike embrace. “I’m sorry it’s not more,” he said. “Stay well, Sarmed, and be safe. I never want to see you here again.”

I took a tremblingly deep breath as I struggled not to cry in front of this man who quite possibly had saved my life. Then I muttered a few inadequate words of thanks before turning and leaving the gym, knowing that I could never return.

CHAPTER
10

THE SMUGGLER

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.