Ghabeleh Hamleh
by Suzi Ehtesham-Zadeh
a short story from the collection Zan published by Dzanc Books | June 11, 2024
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The pounding in Ameneh’s temples won’t let up, and it’s beginning to scare her. She has had headaches before, but this is different—it feels like something foreign has invaded her body and is occupying every square inch of it, from the tips of her fingers, which won’t stop tingling, to the pit of her stomach, which feels like it is being twisted and kneaded like bread dough.
Maybe if she takes a walk, the pounding and tingling will subside. Ever since she arrived in the camp, she has been longing to go out to the far edge of it, the part that hangs over the water. If she keeps her head down as she walks, she can avoid eye contact with the other refugees who cross her path. She is not ready to communicate with anyone yet. It is only Ameneh’s third day at the camp. So far she has been lucky enough to sleep in a tent by herself, even though the camp is overcrowded and she has seen whole families sleeping on the bare ground wrapped in nothing but blankets. The Farsi interpreter at the registry, an older Iranian woman, told Ameneh she would be given a single tent for a few days until they could find a family for her to lodge with. This, the woman told her, was because Ameneh was ghabeleh-hamleh—open to attack. At first Ameneh was insulted—to call her ghabeleh-hamleh was to suggest that she was weak. But the interpreter went on to explain, “It’s because you’re a young, single woman, and you are here alone.” She lowered her voice and added, “It’s better for you if they label you this way. You will have more comfortable accommodations, and they might process your paperwork faster.” |
When Ameneh steps out of her tent, the sky is overcast and there is a strong wind. She passes through row after row of tents, crosses the empty lot at the center of the camp, and reaches the promontory—the only side of the camp that is not enclosed by chicken wire. The wind whips at her headscarf and billows her skirt, but the cold air feels good against her face. She sits with her back against a boulder and squints across the water at the distant shoreline. This, she knows, is Turkey, where she boarded an overcrowded raft just a few days ago and made the terrifying journey across the sea. Whenever she has thought back on this journey over the past few days, she has been unable to stop reliving one moment of it: the moment when a dark object fell out of the raft and sank beneath the surface of the water. She had closed her eyes and ears at the time and convinced herself that it was a backpack that had fallen. She convinces herself again now.
In her peripheral vision, Ameneh can see another figure sitting on a boulder to her left. The words ghabeleh-hamleh leap into her mind. There is no one else here but the two of them, and she is, indeed, open to attack. But when she musters her courage and turns to look at the figure, she realizes it is a child. She recognizes him: she has seen the boy repeatedly over the past three days. Every time she has seen him, he has been alone, and Ameneh knows this means he has made the journey to the camp without his family. He can’t be more than nine or ten years old.
In her peripheral vision, Ameneh can see another figure sitting on a boulder to her left. The words ghabeleh-hamleh leap into her mind. There is no one else here but the two of them, and she is, indeed, open to attack. But when she musters her courage and turns to look at the figure, she realizes it is a child. She recognizes him: she has seen the boy repeatedly over the past three days. Every time she has seen him, he has been alone, and Ameneh knows this means he has made the journey to the camp without his family. He can’t be more than nine or ten years old.
The boy’s face is turned away from her, but she recreates his beautiful, unmistakably Afghan features in her mind’s eye: the mop of dark hair, the slanted eyes rimmed with long lashes, the high cheekbones. He is wearing rubber slippers that are several sizes too big for him, and a jacket that is too small. His gaze is fixed on the sea, and Ameneh pictures him standing on the shores of Turkey alone and terrified, being squeezed into a vessel that is carrying three times the number of people it is designed to carry, not having anyone to comfort him when the dinghy pitches and tosses in the choppy water.
Her impulse is to go over and talk to the child, but she decides against it. She doesn’t want to frighten the boy. She will return to the camp and leave him alone with his thoughts. As she passes by him, she whispers “Salaam Alaikum.” The boy doesn’t answer, but he turns to her and there is a moment of understanding—perhaps even a faint smile.
When she gets back to the camp, she realizes she has missed lunch. It is a mistake to skip a meal in the camp, because there will be no food available until the next meal. Hunger will only increase the pounding in her temples and the prickling sensations which have now extended to her toes—but it is a relief not to have to stand in the food line. There are always large groups of Syrians in the line, and they make Ameneh uncomfortable. They greatly outnumber the other refugees at the camp, and this gives them too much power. The African refugees scare her, with their dark, lean bodies, their shifty eyes, and their furtive movements. The Pakistanis are secretive. The Kurds are proud.
As for the Afghans, they have mostly ignored her so far. Ameneh knows that rumors about her are circulating among them. She is not one of them. Her parents are Afghans, but Ameneh herself has never been to Afghanistan. She was born and raised in Iran, in a small hut at the edge of a large estate where her parents worked for a wealthy Iranian couple as gardener and maid. The language she speaks most comfortably is Farsi, not Dari. She thinks of herself as Iranian.
Her parents do not know she is here. No one knows she is here. Several months ago, she fled the abusive man her parents forced her to marry and somehow found her way to Turkey, and from there to this camp in Lesvos.
Her impulse is to go over and talk to the child, but she decides against it. She doesn’t want to frighten the boy. She will return to the camp and leave him alone with his thoughts. As she passes by him, she whispers “Salaam Alaikum.” The boy doesn’t answer, but he turns to her and there is a moment of understanding—perhaps even a faint smile.
When she gets back to the camp, she realizes she has missed lunch. It is a mistake to skip a meal in the camp, because there will be no food available until the next meal. Hunger will only increase the pounding in her temples and the prickling sensations which have now extended to her toes—but it is a relief not to have to stand in the food line. There are always large groups of Syrians in the line, and they make Ameneh uncomfortable. They greatly outnumber the other refugees at the camp, and this gives them too much power. The African refugees scare her, with their dark, lean bodies, their shifty eyes, and their furtive movements. The Pakistanis are secretive. The Kurds are proud.
As for the Afghans, they have mostly ignored her so far. Ameneh knows that rumors about her are circulating among them. She is not one of them. Her parents are Afghans, but Ameneh herself has never been to Afghanistan. She was born and raised in Iran, in a small hut at the edge of a large estate where her parents worked for a wealthy Iranian couple as gardener and maid. The language she speaks most comfortably is Farsi, not Dari. She thinks of herself as Iranian.
Her parents do not know she is here. No one knows she is here. Several months ago, she fled the abusive man her parents forced her to marry and somehow found her way to Turkey, and from there to this camp in Lesvos.
She won’t be able to find any food for several hours, but Ameneh must find a way to deal with the beast inside her, which has now taken hold of her lungs, making it difficult for her to breathe. There is a dull ache in her chest and her throat feels as though it is about to close up. Maybe some cold water on her face will help. This means, of course, that she has to go to the latrine.
Ameneh has learned to shut down parts of her olfactory apparatus since she has been in this camp, otherwise she would not be able to tolerate the fetid smell that hangs permanently in the air. She has seen men in bright yellow vests sweeping certain areas of the camp and has noticed how lazily and inefficiently they do it, collecting only the largest pieces of garbage and pushing the smaller pieces further and further into the corners until they are impossible to retrieve and left there to rot. The latrine is cleaned every day with a hose, but she has traced the path of the swill that runs out from beneath it and has noticed that it has nowhere to go; it gathers in puddles and the dirt eventually absorbs it.
Just outside the entrance to the latrine, she feels suddenly light-headed. She tries to steady herself, but her legs give way beneath her, and she falls to the ground. When she comes to, an aid worker is bending over her, her face so close that Ameneh can see her pores. A few seconds later she feels hands beneath each of her armpits, hoisting her to her feet. She glances down and sees her headscarf lying in the dirt. The aid worker stoops to retrieve the scarf and places it in Ameneh’s hands.
The women steer her toward the clinic. She feels her legs beginning to buckle again, but as soon as she is inside the doctor approaches her and eases her into a chair. He is an older man, perhaps the age of her father, and his round belly is visible beneath his white uniform. She has never been touched by a male who wasn’t a family member, but she does not resist when he puts his fingers against her face and pulls back her eyelids, when he lifts her headscarf and moves his fingers up and down her neck, even when he pushes back the neckline of her shirt and places a cold metal gadget against her chest, right above the curve of her breast. She complies when he asks her to pull up her sleeve and helps him to slide the cuff around the bare flesh of her upper arm.
Ameneh has learned to shut down parts of her olfactory apparatus since she has been in this camp, otherwise she would not be able to tolerate the fetid smell that hangs permanently in the air. She has seen men in bright yellow vests sweeping certain areas of the camp and has noticed how lazily and inefficiently they do it, collecting only the largest pieces of garbage and pushing the smaller pieces further and further into the corners until they are impossible to retrieve and left there to rot. The latrine is cleaned every day with a hose, but she has traced the path of the swill that runs out from beneath it and has noticed that it has nowhere to go; it gathers in puddles and the dirt eventually absorbs it.
Just outside the entrance to the latrine, she feels suddenly light-headed. She tries to steady herself, but her legs give way beneath her, and she falls to the ground. When she comes to, an aid worker is bending over her, her face so close that Ameneh can see her pores. A few seconds later she feels hands beneath each of her armpits, hoisting her to her feet. She glances down and sees her headscarf lying in the dirt. The aid worker stoops to retrieve the scarf and places it in Ameneh’s hands.
The women steer her toward the clinic. She feels her legs beginning to buckle again, but as soon as she is inside the doctor approaches her and eases her into a chair. He is an older man, perhaps the age of her father, and his round belly is visible beneath his white uniform. She has never been touched by a male who wasn’t a family member, but she does not resist when he puts his fingers against her face and pulls back her eyelids, when he lifts her headscarf and moves his fingers up and down her neck, even when he pushes back the neckline of her shirt and places a cold metal gadget against her chest, right above the curve of her breast. She complies when he asks her to pull up her sleeve and helps him to slide the cuff around the bare flesh of her upper arm.
A look of alarm crosses the doctor’s face when he studies the number on the dial. He turns toward Ameneh and addresses her directly even though he knows she can’t understand the words he is speaking. The interpreter translates: “You are too young to have such high blood pressure. You are having a panic attack.”
The doctor disappears into the back room of the clinic and returns with two small white pills in his hand. The nurse fills a plastic cup with water and tells Ameneh to take the pills. “These are tranquilizers,” she says. “They will help you to relax, which is what you need most right now. Tonight you must sleep, and tomorrow you must come back to check your blood pressure again.”
Dark clouds are gathering in the sky by the time Ameneh leaves the clinic, and she is far too drowsy to wait in the line for the evening meal. She walks slowly back to her tent, falls onto her pallet, pulls the blanket around her, and sleeps.
She is awakened a few hours later by the sound of explosions in the sky. Her first thought is that the camp is under attack. She waits for the next explosion to come, and when it does, she is relieved—almost amused—by her mistake. Sharp flashes of lightning are now visible through the canvas of the tent, and the wind is so fierce that the structure is threatening to collapse. The rain has begun to seep through the seams of the tent, soaking the ground beneath her pallet. She cocoons herself inside her blanket and tries to tune out the sounds. Before long, she drifts off to sleep again.
The next time she awakens, it is to a sound of rustling inside her tent. Some kind of creature—maybe a rat—has found its way inside. Whatever the creature is, she decides it will not harm her; it is just seeking shelter from the storm that is still raging outside. But when she feels it pawing at her blanket, she stiffens. Just as she is lifting her arms to bat the creature away, there is a sensation of warm breath against her cheek, followed by the sound of panting. Human breath and human panting.
Ghabeleh-hamleh. The words begin to echo in her mind. But then, a flash of lightning illuminates the face of her invader, revealing his high cheekbones, his slanted eyes, and his mop of hair. She raises the edge of the blanket to make room for the boy, then hugs his body to hers and strokes his tear-drenched face with her fingertips.
The doctor disappears into the back room of the clinic and returns with two small white pills in his hand. The nurse fills a plastic cup with water and tells Ameneh to take the pills. “These are tranquilizers,” she says. “They will help you to relax, which is what you need most right now. Tonight you must sleep, and tomorrow you must come back to check your blood pressure again.”
Dark clouds are gathering in the sky by the time Ameneh leaves the clinic, and she is far too drowsy to wait in the line for the evening meal. She walks slowly back to her tent, falls onto her pallet, pulls the blanket around her, and sleeps.
She is awakened a few hours later by the sound of explosions in the sky. Her first thought is that the camp is under attack. She waits for the next explosion to come, and when it does, she is relieved—almost amused—by her mistake. Sharp flashes of lightning are now visible through the canvas of the tent, and the wind is so fierce that the structure is threatening to collapse. The rain has begun to seep through the seams of the tent, soaking the ground beneath her pallet. She cocoons herself inside her blanket and tries to tune out the sounds. Before long, she drifts off to sleep again.
The next time she awakens, it is to a sound of rustling inside her tent. Some kind of creature—maybe a rat—has found its way inside. Whatever the creature is, she decides it will not harm her; it is just seeking shelter from the storm that is still raging outside. But when she feels it pawing at her blanket, she stiffens. Just as she is lifting her arms to bat the creature away, there is a sensation of warm breath against her cheek, followed by the sound of panting. Human breath and human panting.
Ghabeleh-hamleh. The words begin to echo in her mind. But then, a flash of lightning illuminates the face of her invader, revealing his high cheekbones, his slanted eyes, and his mop of hair. She raises the edge of the blanket to make room for the boy, then hugs his body to hers and strokes his tear-drenched face with her fingertips.
~
According to the UN Refugee Agency (UNHCR), there are approximately 43.5 million refugees in the world, almost half of them children under the age of 18. An estimated 30,000 Afghan refugees reside in Greece. Many of them arrive in boats from Turkey, often facing a treacherous journey across the Aegean Sea. Some Afghan refugees originated in Iran, which is home to approximately 3 million Afghans. Afghans are a marginalized community in Iran. There are frequent deportations of undocumented Afghans as well as widespread reports of human rights abuses of Afghans by Iranian authorities, including public executions.
