Refugee Boy (9 page)

Suddenly a pupil ran into the classroom, swinging open the door with great force. It hit Alem in the back and knocked him to the floor. The whole class began laughing. Alem lay completely still. He was physically unhurt but wished he could disappear through the crack in the floorboard that he was now looking down at. He wanted to fade away and reappear back home with the Fitzgeralds.

‘To your seats – now!’ The powerful shout came from a teacher standing beside Alem. The voice filled the room; the pupils fell silent, leaving the teacher’s shout to reverberate around the room for a few seconds.

Alem looked up; the teacher towered above him
like a giant. He leaned down and stretched out a helping hand.

‘And what are you doing down there?’

‘Getting up,’ shouted an unidentifiable pupil.

‘That’s enough of that.’ The teacher helped Alem to his feet. ‘What happened here?’ he continued.

‘I don’t know.’ Alem’s words were barely audible.

‘You don’t know; why don’t you know?’

Alem had nothing new to say. ‘I don’t know.’

‘It was my fault, sir,’ a voice interrupted.

‘You again, Fern?’

‘Sir, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was running to get to the lesson, and when I opened the door, the door hit him and he fell to the floor. It was an accident, sir, I didn’t mean it – honest, sir.’

‘Is this true?’ the teacher said, looking towards Alem.

‘I don’t know,’ Alem said completely sincerely.

All the pupils burst into laughter once more.

‘Quiet!’ the teacher shouted loudly. He put his hands on his hips and growled at Alem in a feeble attempt to look hard. ‘Do you know any other words?’

‘I don’t know.’ Alem hesitated. There were sniggers as the pupils tried hard to hold back and not laugh out loud.

Alem was confused. ‘No – I mean yes – I mean I do, yes, I do know some more words.’

‘Good,’ said the teacher, sensing a conclusion. ‘Is his version of events true?’

‘Yes,’ Alem said loud and clear.

‘OK, that’s all I wanted to know. Now, both of you, to your seats – and Fern, don’t run in the building, and watch where you’re going or you’ll end up on the floor and you’ll be lost for words.’

The boy walked away. Alem looked at the teacher, not knowing what to do with himself. ‘Please, teacher, where do I sit?’

‘On a chair,’ shouted another voice.

There was more laughter from the class.

‘Quiet, please,’ said the teacher. ‘Wherever you can find a seat,’ he said, looking around the classroom.

From the back of the room the boy who had just knocked Alem down spoke. ‘He could sit next to me, sir,’ he said, pointing to the empty seat next to him.

‘Would you like to sit there?’ the teacher asked, unsure whether Alem would want to sit next to the boy who had just floored him.

‘Yes,’ Alem replied, tactfully adding ‘sir’ in imitation of the other boy addressing the teacher.

Alem was pleased to be going to the back of the class. After his big entrance, all he wanted to do now was sink into the background. But that was not to happen; he was to be the centre of attention for a little longer.

‘You must be the new boy,’ the teacher said to
Alem. Now the whole class turned to look at Alem again.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And your name?’

‘Alem Kelo.’

‘Well, my name is Mr Walsh and I’m sure you’ll get to know the rest of the class soon enough. Have you ever read Charles Dickens, Alem?’

‘No, but I have heard of him,’ said Alem enthusiastically.

‘Very good,’ said the teacher. ‘We have all read
Great Expectations
, and today I would like us to discuss some of the issues raised in the novel. So for now you can just listen, but if you would like to make a contribution to the debate, feel free to do so.’

The pupils turned to face the teacher and the lesson started. Although Alem had not read
Great Expectations
, there were plenty of times when he wanted to join in the debate but he just didn’t want to attract any kind of attention to himself.

Outside the classroom after the lesson the boy who had knocked Alem down went straight to him.

‘Sorry about that, mate, I really didn’t mean it. I thought I was late for the lesson so there’s me running through the school like a nutter and there you was behind the door. Sorry.’

‘It is OK, I was not hurt,’ Alem replied smiling.

‘So yu new then?’

‘Yes, my first day and now I shall never forget my first entrance into an English classroom.’

‘I said I’m sorry,’ the boy replied swiftly.

‘No, it’s OK, maybe in the future I will think it was quite funny – it’s possible.’

‘My name’s Robert. Have you got science now?’

Alem pulled out the timetable from his bag and looked at it. ‘Yes.’

‘Me too,’ Robert replied, walking away quickly. ‘Let’s go.’

There were no major problems throughout the rest of the day. Alem’s approach to the lessons was pretty much the same: take it easy, look, listen and pick up what you can. The teachers were aware that Alem was starting in the middle of the school term and most soon realised that he was new to the country.

At dinnertime Robert found Alem wandering in the playground and invited him out to the fish and chip shop. They joined the queue and after a wait of about fifteen minutes, they managed to get themselves a bag of chips each. Alem had developed a habit of reading every notice in sight and was amused by the notice on the outside door of the shop. It said: ‘Only 3 schoolchildren at any one time.’

After eating their chips they went on to the newsagent’s to buy some chocolates and there he saw a similar sign: ‘No more than 3 schoolchildren allowed.’

Alem had read about the English tradition of queuing, but after spending most of his dinnertime waiting in line, he couldn’t understand why these shopkeepers were so keen on preserving this tradition and making them queue outside their shops for as long as possible.

Alem and Robert were sitting on a wall finishing their chocolates when Robert looked at his watch. ‘Only ten minutes left, guy,’ he shouted, alluding to some type of emergency. He reached for the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Want a fag?’

Alem was horrified. ‘Do you smoke?’ he said, shaking his head vigorously.

‘Yeah, so do you want one or what?’

‘No,’ Alem replied calmly, ‘I’m much too young to smoke and look how close you are to school.’

‘Loads of kids smoke, look.’

Alem looked around and noticed that many of the pupils were smoking, some even while heading back towards the school.

‘Is this allowed?’ he said, surprised.

‘They can’t stop us,’ Robert said smugly. ‘What can they do? So long as you put it out before you enter the school gates, you’re OK. You see that girl there?’ he said, pointing his cigarette in the direction of a girl walking towards them. ‘Look, she’s smoking, she smokes like a factory, and her dad’s a teacher, so don’t fret, guy, yu safe, trust me.’ He held the cigarette
packet out, inviting Alem to partake.

‘No, it’s OK,’ Alem said, pulling out his timetable to indicate his lack of interest.

At the end of the day the smokers were more obvious. Alem found that as soon as they left the school grounds, many pupils lit cigarettes and few made any attempt to hide them. One boy even waved to a teacher who was leaving the school in his car.

Alem made his way home alone. There was a spring in his step. All things considered, he thought it had been an interesting, if not perfect, first day in school. When he got to the road where he lived, he ran the rest of the way. He rang the bell and knocked on the door. Mrs Fitzgerald opened the door and Alem bounced in, a little out of breath but excited.

‘Mrs Fitzgerald, school was so good! So many different students, so many different lessons, and every lesson was in a different classroom.’

‘So you liked it then?’ Mrs Fitzgerald gave him a warm, motherly smile.

‘Yes. I made a few mistakes and I got pushed over flat on the ground, but that was an accident. It’s good, I liked it.’

‘And you want to go back?’ she asked, heading for the kitchen with Alem trailing behind her.

‘Of course I do!’

‘Very good. Now, Alem, I want you to go up to
your room, put your things away and change your clothes. The lady from the refugee place rang earlier, she wants to see you. She said she’d be here soon. Hurry up now.’

Alem looked puzzled. ‘What does she want to see me for?’

‘I don’t honestly know, but don’t worry. I asked her the very same question and she told me not to worry. She said it looked like good news.’

An hour later Mariam arrived at the house. Mr Fitzgerald joined them in the living room, knowing that something was going to happen.

Mariam looked Alem up and down as if he was a relative she hadn’t seen for years. ‘You look very well, Alem. How was school?’

‘All right, thank you.’

‘Did you make any friends?’

‘I spoke to many people and made one friend.’

‘That’s not bad,’ Mariam said.

‘Please, please sit down,’ Mr Fitzgerald interjected. They all found themselves seats.

Mariam continued with her small talk. ‘When I first went to school it took me a whole week before I made any friends. It was terrible; things got better but it took time.’

‘Cup of tea?’ Mrs Fitzgerald asked and everyone except Alem nodded their heads eagerly.

Once the tea was on the table, Mariam revealed her reason for coming. When she spoke, she addressed Alem as if no one else was in the room.

‘Well, Alem, as you know, your application for political asylum has been submitted and we are still waiting for a response from the Home Office. We know that you said you didn’t have any relatives in Britain but we still made some investigations just in case there were some that you didn’t know about, and we have had no luck there.’

Alem couldn’t understand why she should doubt him. ‘I told you that I have no relatives here. What’s the matter? Don’t you believe me?’

‘I believe you,’ Mariam replied, trying to reassure him, ‘but it’s not just about me; besides, we’ve had cases in the past where some asylum seekers genuinely were not aware they had relatives here.’

‘If I had relatives here, I would find them myself,’ Alem said slowly and firmly. Mariam knew he meant it.

She put her file on her lap and began scrabbling through it, speaking as she did so. ‘This arrived yesterday at our head office in London.’ She pulled out a blue airmail letter; she leaned forward to hand it over to Alem. ‘It’s addressed to you, we have not opened it.’

Alem took one look at it and immediately sprang off his seat. ‘It’s from my father, I can see! It’s from
my father, I know it! I know his writing! Oh, Mariam, I am so happy! Mrs Fitzgerald, it’s my father!’

For a few moments Alem walked in circles around his chair, looking at the letter as if it was a winning lottery ticket which was just about to change his life. The letter was a breakthrough. Everyone else looked at each other and smiled, pleased that Alem was pleased.

Alem sat down and began to open the letter. It was an awkward letter to open. It was one of those extra-light airmail letters that fold in such a way that the letter itself becomes the envelope.

‘I’ve a letter opener,’ Mr Fitzgerald said, turning to leave the room.

‘Actually,’ Mariam interrupted swiftly, ‘I think it may be best if you read the letter alone, Alem.’

Alem stopped. The room went silent as he looked around for a reaction.

‘Go to your room if you like, it’s probably best if you read it in your own space,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said.

Alem headed upstairs and Mrs Fitzgerald began to pour Mariam more tea. ‘How would his father know how to contact him?’ she enquired.

‘The Refugee Council is well known around the world, and many people know that if someone is in Britain and they are in the process of seeking refugee status, we can usually track them down.’

‘Tell me something,’ Mr Fitzgerald said, eager to learn, ‘are there British refugees in other countries?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Mariam replied. ‘You would be surprised how many British refugees there are in places like Brazil and Mexico. They’re usually whistle blowers but there are very old political refugees from the time of World War II still living in Russia and Cuba.’

For the next fifteen minutes they drank more tea and talked about Cuba. Then it occurred to Mariam that they had heard nothing from Alem, so she expressed her concern to Mrs Fitzgerald, who went up to his room and stood outside the door.

‘Alem?’ she said, but there was no reply. ‘Alem, are you all right?’

There was still no reply. She knocked on the door and raised her voice. ‘Alem, is anything the matter?’

Mariam heard the calls and went and stood at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Is everything all right, Mrs Fitzgerald?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied, ‘Alem’s not answering me. Alem,’ she continued, ‘Alem, can I come in?’

At last Alem replied. His voice was quiet, conveying no obvious emotion. ‘No, please don’t come in. I’m OK – I shall come down soon. Please leave me alone for a while, I will be down soon.’

‘As you say,’ said Mrs Fitzgerald, and she made her way downstairs.

Back in the living room Mrs Fitzgerald told Mariam what Alem had said and then offered her another cup of tea.

Nobody knew what to think or do. The tea ritual was now useful because it meant that something was happening in the room. Then as they drank, they heard Alem making his way slowly down the stairs. He entered the room expressionless. He sat back in the seat where he sat previously and threw the letter on the coffee table in the centre of the room. It slid across the table and ended up tucked under the saucer of Mariam’s cup.

‘Read it, Mariam, and then tell me what I should do,’ Alem said.

Mariam picked up the letter, unfolded it and read it silently to herself. The only sound that could be heard was the sound of rush-hour traffic and barking dogs in the distance.

My dearest son,

I do hope this letter finds you soon and that you are as well as can be. War is such a terrible thing, my son, I hope you never witness it again. Darkness is upon our land; it seems that every man that is alive is limping and that there are bloodstains on the dresses of all our women. Today I found the arm of a man lying at the side of a street. No body, just one arm. And I found myself asking trivial questions like, ‘Is this an Ethiopian or an Eritrean arm?’ Could you believe it? I was asking this question,
I
, the great Pan-Africanist. War is eating away at our souls, young man, it is terrible.