1 Between Two Olive Trees

Sarimah knew Hassan just well enough to feel sorry for him. She was planning to do something to him on the soccer field he would hate.

In every game they had played since his arrival at the Syrian refugee camp, Hassan had tried a slide tackle. Sometimes he got the ball. Sometimes he blocked a shot. Sometimes he knocked someone — usually Sarimah — to the ground.

Now, Sarimah had a plan. She found herself on the right wing with plenty of space leading to the goal. Hassan was playing centre defence and turned to chase her.

“Here I come, Sarimah!” he shouted.

Sarimah smiled and took two long strides down the wing. She could see Hassan start to slide. She dug her toe into the soft sand under the ball. She flicked the ball high into the air with her foot. Hassan could only watch as it arched above his head.

Sarimah stopped suddenly and Hassan skidded past her. Whoosh. He slid through the sandy field, out of bounds.

Sarimah caught up to the ball down the empty wing. The goaltender, Aamir, was alone. Sarimah faked a shot with her right foot to put Aamir on the ground in a dive. She cut hard to the left with the ball and kicked home the winning goal with her left foot.

“Gooooaaalll!” shouted Hamza, who was on Sarimah’s team. “We win! We win!”

Sarimah and the other kids gathered near the net to celebrate or console each other.

Sarimah glanced back over her shoulder. Hassan was marching toward them.

“Where did you find that move?” he said. “You have never done anything like that before.”

He dusted himself off, shaking sand from his hair. Sarimah had learned it was better to let him cool down on his own. She found a water bottle and then plunked herself down in the shade.

“Hassan,” she said, finally. “It took you a long time to walk all the way down the field from where you were.”

“Oooh,” Hamza said, “that was funny!”

“I bet you couldn’t even see my goal from where you were,” Sarimah, now smiling widely, continued.

Hassan raised his finger to speak. But no sound came from his mouth.

There were more snickers.

“I mean, I don’t blame you,” she said, trying to hold back her laughter. “You looked comfortable there, down on the ground.”

“Ah, she’s done it again,” Aamir said with a grin.

“I must have hit a hole in the field,” Hassan said. “I tripped and fell. It was unfair of you to take advantage of my injury.”

“Hee hee!” Hamza was laughing so hard it was all anyone could hear.

Sarimah stood up and put a hand on Hassan’s shoulder. She thought maybe he really was hurt.

“Hassan, that is awful. I feel bad.”

“Thank you, Sarimah. I was hoping some of you were going to check on me. But it is okay. I am fine, really.”

Sarimah knew he was upset. Even though Hassan was a rough player, he and Sarimah were friends. She started to feel bad.

“No, I am serious,” she said. “We came to this camp about the same time. Every day we watch for your mother and sister to come. I need you to be in good shape for them. I can’t start kicking you around on the soccer field.”

She stopped talking suddenly. She realized she shouldn’t be reminding Hassan of his family. He had made the trip to the Turkish camp with about seventy-five others from his village. But his mother had stayed behind to look after his sick younger sister and his grandmother. She had promised they would be right behind him. That was a year ago.

Sarimah guessed it was why Hassan got so angry playing soccer. Off the field he was much nicer. He looked at her and cracked a smile.

“Okay,” he said. He went to retrieve the ball from behind two olive trees. “We will have a penalty shoot-out to decide the real winner. Aamir, you’re in goal. We each get one shot. Hamza is first.”

Sarimah liked the idea. She counted twelve yards from the goal to mark the penalty spot.

Hamza shrugged his shoulders. He grabbed the ball — a gift from an aid worker a year ago — and tried to bounce it. They had patched and repaired it so often, it hardly moved once it hit the ground.

Hamza placed it on the spot. Then he took ten steps back and studied the goal.

“Oh, hurry already. The fighting back home is going to be finished by the time you shoot,” Hassan shouted.

Hamza began his run and tried blasting a shot up the middle. It went straight into Aamir’s belly. He caught it with a satisfying thud.

“Ha! Nice try! Who is next?” called Aamir.

Hassan stood at the penalty spot. He put the ball down. Then he picked it up and replaced it again two more times. Each time it rolled a little, he put it back in a different place.

Aamir pretended to fall asleep: “Zzzz.”

Finally, Hassan took two steps back and then sprinted forward. He hit the ball confidently, but it sailed wide to the left. “Nah!” he said in disgust, as a couple of Turkish camp workers went after the ball.

“That’s two!” Aamir said. “Let’s go, Sarimah.”

The camp workers threw the ball back to Sarimah and stopped to watch. Some of the other refugees had heard the laughing and decided to watch, too.

“Okay,” Aamir said. “If she scores, Sarimah is world champion.”

Sarimah put the ball down and stepped way back. She glanced at the bottom right corner of the goal before starting her run. Instead of shooting there, though, she hit the ball hard to the left. Aamir was already diving the wrong way and Sarimah scored with ease.

“Gooaall!” Hamza shouted.

Sarimah lifted her hands in the air and heard what sounded like cheering.

“Sarimah! Sarimah!”

She turned to see her father rushing toward her from across the field. He had never told her to stop playing football with boys before, but she was suddenly worried.

“Papa,” said Sarimah, “what are you doing here?”

“Come quickly,” her father said. He grabbed her hand and led her away.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Canada.”