Escape from Saddam (18 page)

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.”