Enitan is hammering. It’s supposed to become what he calls the hospital. Somewhere dry and sheltered. Wooden pallets fixed together, more solid than the canvas of the tents and the tarpaulins. The tent where Enitan sleeps is there, right next to the wood and his tools. On the other side of the clearing, by the spacious shack, a queue has formed. It is drizzling.
This queue breathes: men are chatting and pushing forward in a friendly way, checking out what’s happening inside the tent. A woman with blonde curls that fall into her face when she tilts it, which she does often, is attentive and fast-working. The other barber is a man with tight-cropped curls. He frowns a lot, taking a step back, rocking on his heels, hand still on his customer’s head, brushing away stray clippings, tousling the hair into the right shape.
Ramzi is standing in line with the others. Farrukh recognises his slumped posture from when he saw him with his mates at the water taps yesterday. That’s when he found out his name.
‘You from the UK?’
Ramzi nodded. There wasn’t a reason not to answer – Farrukh didn’t want anything from him: We’re just killing time. We’re all here, innit, not like one of us got a golden ticket. Ramzi didn’t look at him, though.
Eventually one of his mates said, ‘Today not good. You from UK?’ He pointed at Farrukh.
‘Yeah, man.’
‘He too, from Newcastle.’ He pointed at Ramzi. ‘Why you here?’
‘I need to get back, man.’
‘He too.’
Ramzi was detached, not engaging at all. Like the guy said, it wasn’t his day.
‘He is Ramzi. From Afghanistan but also from UK.’
Farrukh nodded and left. He could always wash a bit later. No need for bad energy because some guy was having an extra bad day.
Ramzi still looks depressed. He does need a haircut; really needs it. His black strands are tied at the back but some fall out over his face. He can’t pull this one off, not this bloke; the long strands pull him down, making his face even sadder.
Farrukh tries again. Would be rude not to.
‘Hi.’
‘Getting your hair done?’
‘Yeah. You?’
‘Yeah.’
‘About time.’
‘Yeah.’
Ramzi’s shoulders are up by his ears, maybe because of the drizzle, maybe because he’s cold, maybe because of fuck off.
‘You from Newcastle?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why you here, then?’
Farrukh isn’t in the mood to beat around the bush, doesn’t have that sort of patience today.
‘Long story.’
‘Yeah, same.’
The hammering is getting louder. Enitan’s friend has joined, a skinny dark man with a metallic blue jacket. They are fixing slats to the frame. It’s starting to look good. The corner poles are in place and now the sides are going up one pallet slat at a time.
Farrukh turns to them. ‘Nice place you got there.’
But Enitan is distracted.
‘Nice place,’ Farrukh repeats.
‘It’s not for me.’ Doesn’t look like Enitan is in the mood to give him any face time.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I have a place. This is going to be a hospital.’
‘Yeah, you’ve said.’
‘You asked me before?’ Now he’s got Enitan’s attention.
‘No, I heard. You told someone else.’
Enitan is checking Farrukh out, eyes lingering. His phone rings and he straightens up, answers. A young white man with blond dreadlocks comes up from the street with a roll of nylon string in his hand. It’s all different colours: red, blue, green and yellow.
‘Hey, can I have that string?’ someone from the queue shouts.
The dreadlocked guy laughs and shakes his head, then points at Enitan. ‘Sorry, but it’s for him.’ He is aware that he’s carrying a rare commodity, something too useful for people not to try and barter for.
Enitan hands the hammer to his friend, steps out of the wooden frame into the mud and puts his hand up, asking the dreadlocked volunteer to wait while he’s on the phone.
Farrukh hasn’t so much but blinked, he’s following every move.
‘That guy is connected; he can get anything.’
Ramzi is lost. What is the point here exactly?
‘His new place?’
‘No, he’s making something for the camp. First aid, classrooms, something else I forgot.’
‘Why?’
‘Someone has to. It’s good, innit.’ Farrukh is tense.
‘I can feel the water underneath my sleeping mat when it rains.’
Farrukh is still watching Enitan, who is making big gestures while he talks.
‘You gotta make yourself a better place, man. Find some wood. Anything. You can’t just give up. Ramzi is your name, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ramzi, that guy there, he is, like, busy. Watch him. If you want to make it here you gotta get busy.’
Ramzi’s frame tightens. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Five weeks. Supposed to have been a quick stop. I lost my temper. Wasn’t supposed to be here.’
‘No one is supposed to be here,’ Ramzi says.
Farrukh is surprised. Didn’t look like Ramzi had it in him, this talking back.
A new family arrives. It’s obvious by the way they look around the clearing, they have no idea where anything is. The volunteer who is leading them stops, points to the barber. The two women are led away by the tall man, whose hoodie has One Love written over its back. The young boy follows his mother, his hands holding on to the outside of her legs to help him spin around.
The men have joined the line.
‘I have been living in the UK from time. Already had grant to stay and all.’
‘Yeah.’
Farrukh turns to the new arrivals.
‘You have tents? They give them out in that caravan over there.’ The pink van is parked on the other side of the clearing.
‘They make a place for us.’
Farrukh approves. ‘That’s good. Your family?’ The other man, who looks like a younger version of the father, is barely in his twenties.
‘Yes.’ The father introduces himself. ‘We’re from Sinjar, Kurds from Iraq.’
Farrukh turns back to Ramzi. ‘I’m just saying, ’cause I have seen you and you don’t look like you’re in good shape. You need to get busy. Don’t let it get you down. Just saying. No offence meant.’
The small boy comes running from behind a tent. His trainers soak up the damp through the holes in the soles. Mud splashes up his legs. He is giggling, running fast, his father chasing after him.
Ramzi is on snooze, hasn’t said anything, but Farrukh keeps talking. ‘I shouldn’t be here. Left ages ago, like when I was really young, innit. Been up in Leeds. Now I’m stuck here, can’t get back.’
Farrukh wants to chat, but Ramzi is stalling him like a clutch stuck in neutral.
All of a sudden Enitan shouts, ‘Wait for me, just one minute.’ He jumps down the rise between the clearing and the camp road beneath and walks off with the dreadlocked volunteer. As if on cue, Enitan’s skinny friend puts down the hammer, pulls a piece of tarpaulin over the wooden frame, sits underneath and wraps his arms around himself, the blue of his jacket bright.
The queue is getting smaller; only the new family, Ramzi and Farrukh are left. The woman with the blonde curls steps out of the tent.
‘Quick break.’ She smiles.
Ramzi does a good job, his smile is convincing, his face no longer looks like he has gum disease.
‘You can go first,’ Farrukh offers.
‘That is nice of you.’ Ramzi is not impressed.
The father is throwing his little son high up in the air, catching him, arms outstretched. The sun breaks through the trees at the back of the clearing. The boy is happy and shrieking.
‘Do you remember when you first arrived?’ Ramzi asks.
‘In Britain?’
Ramzi nods.
‘Of course.’
‘I mean the first thing that happened.’
‘Yeah, I do.’
‘First British person I met was a policeman. Opened the lorry and said, “Welcome to England.” Then they took me to prison.’ Ramzi says it like it wasn’t even him, like it’s some random piece of information that doesn’t belong to him.
Farrukh laughs. ‘That’s what they do. How old were you?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Did you shit yourself?’
Ramzi is back on minimum exertion, no reaction. Maybe Farrukh is pushing his luck. He is shifting from one foot to the other – it’s cold, that drizzle has made him uncomfortable. But he can’t leave Ramzi here. He has to wait, see what the barber can do with this sad face. They are both good but the guy knows a thing or two about changing the men with a new cut.
‘I was thirteen. Some guys I knew died in a car boot. I was lucky. I was in a lorry, there was air,’ Ramzi offers.
‘I know what you mean. I shat myself. Like proper. I was only fifteen, innit.’
‘Yeah.’
The little boy is running around again, his arms spread wide, turning and making the noise of a plane engine.
‘How old?’ Farrukh asks.
The father holds up four fingers.
The woman barber stubs her cigarette out on a stone.
Ramzi turns to the younger relative. ‘Go. You just arrived. You got lots of things to do.’
The male barber is now available too. Ramzi and Farrukh both nod towards the father, catch each other, look away. The father puts his hands together in prayer, bows.
‘How long have you been here?’ Farrukh says.
‘Two months,’ Ramzi replies.
Enitan is climbing back up the mound from the road.
‘What is it with you and this guy?’
‘Nothing.’ Farrukh’s tone is sharp. ‘I just find him, don’t know, he is like always doing something.’
Ramzi scoffs. ‘Just now you told me to get busy. Which one is it?’
But Farrukh is again fixed on Enitan, who is standing in front of the frame, hammer in hand. His friend is still squatting underneath the plastic, head hanging over his bent knees.
‘Doesn’t look like he wants to work any more.’ Farrukh’s voice is high now.
‘He’s tired,’ Enitan replies. He says it like I’m tired of you.
He holds a piece of wood, fishes some nails out of his jeans pocket, props the wood up with his elbow and uses his left hand to hold a nail, then begins to hammer with his right hand.
‘You have a lot of tools.’ Farrukh has moved closer. ‘I might want to borrow some.’
‘I don’t give them out. If you need to you can use them here, but they can’t leave this place unless I’m there too.’
‘How am I going to use it here? I’m on the other side of the road, Iranian section.’ Farrukh is standing with his hands in his jeans.
Enitan does not reply. Hammering seems to be his number-one priority.
‘You got to be kidding me? Just let me borrow them, mate.’ Farrukh’s winding him up.
‘Sorry, can’t give them out.’ Enitan places a couple of nails between his teeth.
‘Why not?’ Hiding his anger isn’t part of Farrukh’s repertoire, but Enitan is all Zen and calm, starting on the next slate.
The young Kurdish man is leaving the barber’s tent with the sides of his head shaved.
Ramzi taps Farrukh on the shoulder.
‘He’s full of himself,’ Farrukh snorts.
‘Not really, mate. Would you just give away your stuff? Maybe if you asked a little nicer.’ Ramzi seems to have all the insights. Suddenly.
The Kurdish father is leaving the barber’s tent too.
Farrukh wants to shout over to Enitan, say that he needs the tools, but his throat is on fire. His fingers turn white from squeezing them inside his pockets.
The woman barber calls, ‘OK, ready.’
Ramzi gives Farrukh a little push.
‘I’ll wait here if I’m finished first.’
‘Nowhere to go anyway, is there?’
After, Ramzi catches Farrukh walking off, sliding down the mound towards the road. Enitan is still hammering in the background.
‘Why did you talk to me?’
‘Why not?’
‘You made such an effort. Many guys to talk to here.’
‘You already know England, innit. Not everyone speaks good English here. Ever noticed?’
Farrukh stops in the middle of the path.
‘I just wanted to talk. Chat, you know.’
‘My mother is sick. I wanted to see her. I came here to get smuggled back to Iran. Can’t really go with a visa, can I, while I’m waiting for my indefinite stay.’
‘I see.’
‘You see what?’ Farrukh’s head is jerking around.
‘I understand.’ Ramzi pauses for a second, then starts again. ‘OK, you’re fed up with me now, but you the one that bugged me. Make up your mind next time.’
He calls after a guy and trots to catch up with him. In less than a second Farrukh is beside him.
‘I’m not annoyed with you. Just this place.’
He holds out his hand. Ramzi isn’t in the mood but Farrukh keeps his hand there, steady, until Ramzi shakes it.
‘Why are you so depressed, man?’ Farrukh is pretending it’s not been him, doom and gloom all afternoon, ready to burst.
‘Why? I’m stuck here.’
‘We’re all stuck here. It’s not for ever.’
‘How do you know?’ Ramzi is waving for his friend, further up, to move on.
‘I’m waiting for my papers to go through. I shouldn’t have left Leeds. I even tried to get back, went to the police here and told them everything so they could deport me to England.’
The laughter breaks out of Ramzi like he has been waiting for a good one for a while. ‘How did that work out for you?’
‘They said it’s not their problem.’
‘You crack me up. You pretend to be all smart and stuff, that you know how to do this, and you go to the police?’
‘I know.’
Embarrassment isn’t even the word. Everyone has told Farrukh this. Everyone. Police and refugees, not a great combination here. He was lucky they didn’t drive him far away and release him in the middle of a field somewhere.
‘My mother begged me not to come, but I was already here. I had to do something. Not my brightest moment, I know.’
Farrukh thinks about how he left. Long time ago. The walking to Turkey. Then in a lorry, being handed over from one smuggler to another, until he was finally in England, at the police, then foster care. All went well, over the years, kind of, if not for his little problem. His temper. Always getting him into trouble because he can’t wait for the fog in his head to clear. His indefinite stay was practically a formality, yet here he was, squatting like the new arrivals.
‘If I hadn’t lost it, I wouldn’t be here. Not your typical story. A lot of the guys think I’m proper slow.’
‘I don’t.’ Ramzi’s answer ricochets. ‘I understand. Haven’t seen my mother, or anyone from my family, for seven years.’
‘Hard times, man. Hard times. Why are you here in the first place?’
‘I turned eighteen. They refused my case. Been living on the low until a few months ago.’
Farrukh motions down the path. ‘Let’s have a tea in the Afghan café. Don’t worry, I have money. Not much, but enough to get warm.’
The café is crowded and noisy. Men sit cross-legged in little groups on a wooden seating platform covered in waxed cloth. Bowls of sugar are standing at equal distances. The floor is filled with shoes. The air is thick with smoke.
Farrukh buys spiced teas and they sit down on the edge of the platform.
‘Do you speak to your mum?’
Farrukh blows into the hot plastic cup.
‘I haven’t spoken to her or my sister in seven years. Don’t even know where they are.’
‘What?’ Farrukh turns, the thin waxed cloth shifting with him as he moves.
‘I have nowhere to go in Afghanistan. Nowhere.’ Ramzi points to the door. The blond volunteer, the one with the dreadlocks from earlier, greets the chef, who is busy with a big pan of rice.
‘Used your clothes line?’ Farrukh can’t help himself.
The volunteer is lost.
‘Your string. The plastic,’ Farrukh says.
‘Ah yes. You needed some.’ The volunteer laughs. ‘It’s very popular here.’
‘It is. Where did you get it?’
‘I see.’ Farrukh knocks the tea back. ‘Another one?’
Ramzi’s glass is half full.
‘Sit with us?’
The blond guy joins them, happy for the company.
‘Which part are you staying in?’
‘Iranian,’ Farrukh replies.
‘Afghan area.’
‘I’m staying with some Sudanese men. Brothers really.’ He leans forward and extends his hand. ‘Sébastien.’
Ramzi shakes Sébastien’s hand. ‘Ramzi. And this is Farrukh. How long have you stayed in the camp? You’re French, right? Your accent…’
Sébastien laughs. ‘Yes, a white man, French, staying with his Muslim brothers. They’re teaching me about our faith.’
‘That’s interesting.’ Farrukh looks like he wants to nap.
Ramzi’s eyes widen. ‘You’re Muslim?’
‘I converted last year.’
‘Here?’
‘No.’ Sébastien smiles now. ‘I converted before. I came to volunteer and became friends with some of the people here. They invited me to stay. My brother, the one I’m staying with, he is waiting for his claim to go through. Then he will come and live with me and my family. Until then I stay with him.’
‘You are staying here? In the Jungle? Why?’ Farrukh is stunned.
‘To learn. My family is not Muslim. They don’t understand. Here I can be in my faith and with my brothers all the time. They’re teaching me to be a man. A Muslim man.’
‘OK.’ Farrukh looks like he is losing his faith. ‘So, you mean, you’re sleeping here, although you have a home in France, a real home?’
‘Yes.’ Sébastien’s face is rosy from the condensation in the café. He looks like a little boy, open and trusting and proud.
‘There is nowhere better for a white man like me to learn about what it means to be a Muslim than here.’
‘How?’ Ramzi is on high alert now.
‘The Jungle is like a laboratory.’
‘A what?’
‘You have to live with people, get along. Look at the Muslims. Here we have Sunnis and Shias living side by side, helping each other even. Some of them left their countries because it was dangerous for them there. They decided, I will not live like this, I will go and find a better place where I can survive, where I can build a life for me and my family. When they arrive here they are even closer to each other than at home.’
‘You’re deep, man.’ Farrukh is becoming restless again. His legs are twitching.
‘They come here to this awful place and they make a life for themselves. Try to keep their dignity. I learn so much from everyone here. About Islam, about life. Some told me that they feel they are cowards because they left, they didn’t stay and fight. But they are real men, they are brave.’
Farrukh can’t sit still any longer; he jumps up.
‘Another tea?’
Sébastien is quicker. ‘Please, I will.’
He’s back with three steaming cups in a minute.
‘You work with that guy all the time?’ Farrukh’s foot is scraping along the floor.
‘Who, Enitan?’
‘Don’t know his name. The guy this morning.’
‘I help out where I can.’ Sébastien slides onto the platform, crosses his legs, puts the tea down in front of him. ‘And you, how long have you been here?’
‘Two months,’ Ramzi says.
Farrukh is watching a guy at the entrance. He is limping in, on crutches, one of his legs in a cast.
‘Did you come here from Afghanistan?’
‘No.’
Ramzi is leaning back to get comfortable. Whatever valve was keeping him shut earlier is open now, here in the warm shack. It’s gushing out freely, his story. The story of his father.
‘They even sent us a letter, the Taliban. My father had been a commander during the Soviet–Afghan war. That’s why they wanted him. He said, “I have my family now, I already fought.” We had land, we didn’t need the money. We were living a happy life.’
Farrukh checks him from the side. The barber did a good job. Above the temples the hair is clipped back, the top falls to the sides, wavy. The face appears rounder this way, not as pulled to the ground as before. Ramzi’s eyes are in full motion, as if he can still see it all.
‘One day I returned from a friend’s house and they had taken my father. Kidnapped him.’
Sébastien’s whole body is acknowledgement, listening.
‘They wanted to show the villagers what happens when they ask you and you keep refusing. We don’t know, up to today, if he’s dead or alive. We heard that he was killed by the Taliban. But we don’t know.’
They all drift off. Farrukh is thinking about his own father.
‘I had no option. The Taliban came for me too. My mum told them I wasn’t home. But she knew they would eventually find me. So she told me to leave and get to the UK.’
Farrukh puts his hand on Ramzi’s shoulder. Ramzi smiles at him, his eyes narrowed. Farrukh pats him on the back.
‘I’ll be right back, need to take a leak.’
It’s dark but Farrukh knows his way around. The sporadic fires, for cooking and to keep warm, help.
Here is the mound that leads to the clearing. It is quiet at this end of the camp. Mainly family tents. Farrukh climbs over the rise and waits. The barber’s shack stands tall; its white walls are visible even now. Enitan’s place is not that obvious, it blends into the night. He steps carefully until he touches one of the corner poles with outstretched hands. His breathing is quick. Weird. He didn’t run, he didn’t even rush down here, there is no reason. He takes a few mouthfuls of air, looks around. Tents and shacks are sticking out against the night sky. The air feels good after the stuffy café. He moves his foot along the bottom of the construction to the opening that will become the door. It’s easier to step over there. He doesn’t need anything in particular but he knows he needs something, here and now.
His phone shines a dim light onto the grass in the middle of the hut-to-be.
‘What is it you want?’
The voice surprises him. He stumbles and falls onto his backside.
Enitan’s friend is sitting in almost the same position that he did in the afternoon. Only now he is inside the blue tent that matches his jacket. A torch is switched on, throwing his shadow against the thin walls.
‘What is it you want?’ he repeats. He looks as tired and beaten as earlier, opening the zipper. But he doesn’t look shy.
‘Nothing.’ They stare at each other while Farrukh backs away slowly. ‘Thought I’d lost my screwdriver here earlier.’
‘You did not have a screwdriver. You said Enitan has to give you his stuff.’
‘Borrow.’
‘He said no.’
‘Don’t come back here.’
‘Or what?’
Farrukh can’t help himself.
Enitan’s friend comes out of the tent. Farrukh scrambles down the rise, his head pounding. Some guys, so full of themselves, no consideration, just trying to get ahead themselves. Not like Enitan bought the stuff himself. It didn’t really belong to him.
Ramzi and Sébastien are still talking. A couple of others have joined them. There is a plate of food between them. Farrukh is sweating. He brushes off the grass from his trousers, his fingers shaking. Ramzi introduces him to the new crowd that has joined them.
‘Farrukh? Old-fashioned,’ a plump guy observes.
‘Yep. Mum named me after some poet.’
Farrukh’s eyes focus on the entrance to the café; he’s pulling at his collar.
‘You know any of his work?’
‘No.’ Farrukh is still avoiding him. ‘Like you said, old-fashioned.’
‘Come on,’ the plump guy challenges. ‘You must know something –’
Boom!
The air splits. An explosion rattles the tent. For a second there is nothing, just silence, then the shouting starts, the sound of falling debris. Everyone runs outside and down the street towards the flames.
*
‘Careful, careful.’
People run with water and help to pull whatever they can out of the fire. It’s busy, consuming everything in its way. There are orange flames: they reach into the sky, jumping to a nearby tent.
‘No one is hurt so far, but watch it, everyone.’
People are shouting and scattering the burning things to starve the fire. Farrukh walks back to the café. The cook returns behind the counter.
‘Too dangerous here.’
‘Shit happens.’
‘Let me know if the fire spreads. I’m taking care of the food here, otherwise I would be helping.’
‘There are enough people. Nothing you can do anyway. Already contained.’
‘Dangerous place. This time we’re lucky.’
‘Guess so.’
Farrukh sits back down. It’s completely empty inside. The cook hands him another tea.
‘Don’t worry. No one is hurt. Tomorrow it will be repaired, you’ll see.’
‘Sure.’
It takes a while until the others return. The plump guy comes straight over and pats Farrukh on his back.
‘Always fires, so easy here.’ He sits down next to him. ‘A poem would help us all now, you know.’
‘Don’t think so. Told you it was my mum, I don’t even know nothing.’
‘Come on.’ The café is filling up with smoke again. ‘For us. For tonight.’
Farrukh is not going to make a fool of himself, not here, not now. Ramzi and Sébastien arrive. Ramzi is all over the place, his eyes wide open again.
Farrukh shifts on the platform. ‘Fire out yet?’
‘Almost.’
The plump guy tries again, but Farrukh doesn’t look like he is going to change his mind. So the plump guy stands up, raises both arms, then lowers the left hand down on his heart. His voice carries over the noise in the small shack. Words about the sky, and descending, abandoned, into exile.
‘Do you know it?’ Ramzi whispers to Farrukh. ‘It’s that poet he was talking about.’
‘Probably.’ Farrukh leans closer. ‘My father disappeared as well. Just went missing. No one knows where.’
‘Why?’
‘The things he said. I was young, I don’t know everything. But in my country you can’t even change your religion. That’s why my mum doesn’t want me to come.’
The plump guy is stepping forward, his eyes closed now, making a show of it. The men laugh but their eyes are fixed on him. His face is full of it. Dramatic pauses. These things resonate, the memories, fate, all that brought them here. Especially when the longing is heavy in each word. Exile.
When he stops, the last sentence hanging in the air, the whole shop starts clapping. Sébastien looks even younger, his face glowing.
‘What happened? You were gone for a while.’
Ramzi is acting like they’re good friends now. The plump guy shakes a fist and thanks his audience.
‘Well done. My mum would be proud.’ Farrukh raises his palm and they slap their hands together.
Ramzi can’t leave it, leans over again. ‘Where did you disappear to?’
The men go back to their little groups, mood raised. A poet, here, now, in between all the smoke, inside and outside.
It’s not like they are friends, really. He doesn’t owe Ramzi anything. Least of all an explanation.
‘To take a piss, like I said.’