Hybrid
Chapter 1
An electric fan whapped around and around, barely stirring the hot, dry air. I kept my eyes on the two-holed outlet behind the woman speaking. Right above that a photo of the Lady holding a torch up high stared back at me. It had something to do with America and freedom. Mawoma, my mother’s father, snapped his finger across my wrist to get my attention, an impatient gesture from an impatient man.
I ran the words through my head again before speaking aloud, “She says it will take time.”
He slapped the bundle of papers against the gunmetal gray steel table with his vein-lined hand. “Tell her this is what we have, all you need.”
“I did.” I reply. He could understand as well as I.
“Tell her again.”
The woman’s polished fingernails lay like stone chips on the other side of the desk.
“Mawoma says that these are the correct papers.”
She pursed her lips, flipping through the papers again. “I see that, but as I keep telling you, this isn’t something that happens in a day or a month. It takes time. No matter the paperwork.”
She leaned back. “Where is your mother?”
“Dead. She was a translator for your American embassy.”
She then pointed to my grandfather, “You have relatives here, kinsmen.”
I stared back down at the outlet, remembering the last time I had seen my aunt, my grandmother, my uncle. Remembering the wailing as they were buried under the hard rocks beneath a clear blue sky.
Mawoma snapped my wrist again. “Lift your head, Naze. Let the part of you that is Kurdish speak.”
The woman’s eyes followed his hands, then she spoke again. “Help me understand. Why is a thirteen-year old Kurdish girl being sent by herself to live in America?”
I couldn’t raise my eyes. I repeated what I’d been saying for the past hour. “Half-Kurdish. My father is American, Stephen Dupres. He was an attaché with the American consul. That’s why we’re here. My grandfather has chosen to honor my mother’s wish that I be reunited with him.”
“When did she die?”
The white walls tightened around me. “Five years ago.”
“And your most recent correspondence with your father?”
“Five years.”
Her eyebrows raised. “So why now?”
I clasped my hands together so she wouldn’t see them trembling. “Halabja, we were at Halabja. My aunt was a freedom fighter.” I had trouble speaking the words. “She died there…and others also.”
Her eyes softened. “Yes, we heard of that. Such a shame. One of many atrocities, I’m afraid.
At another snap upon my wrist, I, once again, gathered the lie I had been told to repeat. “My grandfather has chosen to honor my mother’s wish that I be reunited with my father, my American father.”
The woman stirred across from me. “Let me check and see if they’ve found your name on the list of emigrant requests. What did you say your father’s surname was, Dupres? I think I remember seeing that. Wait here, please.”
She walked around her desk and left through the door.
My Grandfather shifted in his seat and stood. “Naze, your rifle and knife will go your cousin. Our fight will continue.” He walked to the door. I knew what was coming, what he had made clear before coming here. He was leaving me forever, like a pot that was cracked and broken, no longer useful for anything. I shook with the effort of not pleading to him, promising that I would never awaken the village with my nightmares, never threaten my cousin again, never hide each time the wind shifted, never be who I was now.
“As-salamu alaykum.” Peace be upon you. I heard the click of the door as it closed. And I was alone again.
Within minutes, my world seemed filled with noise. The sound of the grey suited embassy people voices as they peeled me off the chair. I knew if I moved I would no longer be me. There would be nothing left, not my kinsmen, my mother, my aunts, not my land, not even my dogs. It would be the final separation of all that made me, me.
Then came the slam of the gates in the refugee camp locking me in. I flung myself at the fence clawing to get out, begging. Behind me there were voices, hands that pulled at me. But I fought, pressing tightly against the fence, the metal biting so deeply the crosshatching stamped into my fingers, my forehead, my cheek. If I stretched my head up and looked beyond the grey buildings and black cars, in the far, far distance I could see the rolling line of brown mountains, my mountains. Nothing could move me, not away from the wire wall, away from my mountains, my land. The moon rose and still I clung there, my fingers interlaced in the wire, my mouth dry from crying, my throat raw.
Each day more sounds. Jets screaming above, trucks rumbling by, horns blaring, the ever present wind howling across the flat land leaving nothing but kicked up dust. The noises never stopped, not with the morning, or the fall of the sun or late into the night. Always sounds. I wished to never hear again, but I couldn’t block out what was life here: babies screaming, children wailing, angry men scrabbling over food and women mourning lives lost.
The third day I stopped my tears. I was a freedom fighter, a Kurd. We were strong. Nothing could break us, not the loss of my kin, not this refugee camp, not the fear. Each day I ate and watched, strong, silent, hoping that my grandfather would reconsider and return for me.
An electric fan whapped around and around, barely stirring the hot, dry air. I kept my eyes on the two-holed outlet behind the woman speaking. Right above that a photo of the Lady holding a torch up high stared back at me. It had something to do with America and freedom. Mawoma, my mother’s father, snapped his finger across my wrist to get my attention, an impatient gesture from an impatient man.
I ran the words through my head again before speaking aloud, “She says it will take time.”
He slapped the bundle of papers against the gunmetal gray steel table with his vein-lined hand. “Tell her this is what we have, all you need.”
“I did.” I reply. He could understand as well as I.
“Tell her again.”
The woman’s polished fingernails lay like stone chips on the other side of the desk.
“Mawoma says that these are the correct papers.”
She pursed her lips, flipping through the papers again. “I see that, but as I keep telling you, this isn’t something that happens in a day or a month. It takes time. No matter the paperwork.”
She leaned back. “Where is your mother?”
“Dead. She was a translator for your American embassy.”
She then pointed to my grandfather, “You have relatives here, kinsmen.”
I stared back down at the outlet, remembering the last time I had seen my aunt, my grandmother, my uncle. Remembering the wailing as they were buried under the hard rocks beneath a clear blue sky.
Mawoma snapped my wrist again. “Lift your head, Naze. Let the part of you that is Kurdish speak.”
The woman’s eyes followed his hands, then she spoke again. “Help me understand. Why is a thirteen-year old Kurdish girl being sent by herself to live in America?”
I couldn’t raise my eyes. I repeated what I’d been saying for the past hour. “Half-Kurdish. My father is American, Stephen Dupres. He was an attaché with the American consul. That’s why we’re here. My grandfather has chosen to honor my mother’s wish that I be reunited with him.”
“When did she die?”
The white walls tightened around me. “Five years ago.”
“And your most recent correspondence with your father?”
“Five years.”
Her eyebrows raised. “So why now?”
I clasped my hands together so she wouldn’t see them trembling. “Halabja, we were at Halabja. My aunt was a freedom fighter.” I had trouble speaking the words. “She died there…and others also.”
Her eyes softened. “Yes, we heard of that. Such a shame. One of many atrocities, I’m afraid.
At another snap upon my wrist, I, once again, gathered the lie I had been told to repeat. “My grandfather has chosen to honor my mother’s wish that I be reunited with my father, my American father.”
The woman stirred across from me. “Let me check and see if they’ve found your name on the list of emigrant requests. What did you say your father’s surname was, Dupres? I think I remember seeing that. Wait here, please.”
She walked around her desk and left through the door.
My Grandfather shifted in his seat and stood. “Naze, your rifle and knife will go your cousin. Our fight will continue.” He walked to the door. I knew what was coming, what he had made clear before coming here. He was leaving me forever, like a pot that was cracked and broken, no longer useful for anything. I shook with the effort of not pleading to him, promising that I would never awaken the village with my nightmares, never threaten my cousin again, never hide each time the wind shifted, never be who I was now.
“As-salamu alaykum.” Peace be upon you. I heard the click of the door as it closed. And I was alone again.
Within minutes, my world seemed filled with noise. The sound of the grey suited embassy people voices as they peeled me off the chair. I knew if I moved I would no longer be me. There would be nothing left, not my kinsmen, my mother, my aunts, not my land, not even my dogs. It would be the final separation of all that made me, me.
Then came the slam of the gates in the refugee camp locking me in. I flung myself at the fence clawing to get out, begging. Behind me there were voices, hands that pulled at me. But I fought, pressing tightly against the fence, the metal biting so deeply the crosshatching stamped into my fingers, my forehead, my cheek. If I stretched my head up and looked beyond the grey buildings and black cars, in the far, far distance I could see the rolling line of brown mountains, my mountains. Nothing could move me, not away from the wire wall, away from my mountains, my land. The moon rose and still I clung there, my fingers interlaced in the wire, my mouth dry from crying, my throat raw.
Each day more sounds. Jets screaming above, trucks rumbling by, horns blaring, the ever present wind howling across the flat land leaving nothing but kicked up dust. The noises never stopped, not with the morning, or the fall of the sun or late into the night. Always sounds. I wished to never hear again, but I couldn’t block out what was life here: babies screaming, children wailing, angry men scrabbling over food and women mourning lives lost.
The third day I stopped my tears. I was a freedom fighter, a Kurd. We were strong. Nothing could break us, not the loss of my kin, not this refugee camp, not the fear. Each day I ate and watched, strong, silent, hoping that my grandfather would reconsider and return for me.
