with small eyes sprang out from behind a container filled with bricks and told us to come in.
The trafficker shook hands with the Iranian, who looked as if he must be the site foreman to judge by his clean shirt and neat beard, introduced us in a few words,just our names, as if we were expected and arrangements had been made in advance, then turned to us and said, Behave yourselves. That was all. Behave yourselves. Then he picked up his bag from the ground and left.
The site foreman scratched his head, and asked, What can you do?
Nothing, we said. (Honesty was the best policy.)
I thought as much, he replied. Come with me.
Sufi and I looked at each other and followed him.
The building was a skeleton, without doors or windows. The foreman led us to an apartment where there were no tiles on the floor, just rough, cracked concrete. This is where the people who work for us live, he said. I walked to the middle of the room and looked around. The windows and doors were sealed with nylon. There was no running water, nor any gas. The water, said the foreman, was brought by lorry, and to cook they used gas cylinders which were refilled in a nearby shop. An electric cable, patched up with adhesive tape, climbed up the outside wall of the building, came in through the window, ran along the ceiling and hung down by the door to the corridor, with a lightbulb on the end.
Go and get some sand, said the foreman. Sand. From around there.
We came back with two buckets of sand each, just to show that although we were small we were strong.
Pour it in that corner. Good, like that. Smooth it with the broom and unroll a rug on top of it. One of those over there, that’s it. Unroll it. You’ll sleep here until the building is finished. Then we’ll go to another site. Stay clean and remember you’re not alone. The better you behave, the better you’ll get on with everyone, okay? You’ll soon get the hang of things here, washing, eating, praying and the rest. If you have any problems talk to me, don’t try and solve them yourselves. Now go down to the yard, introduce yourselves to the other workers and do what they tell you to do.
They were all illegals. Not a single one of the bricklayers, carpenters and electricians working for that firm had papers. And they all lived there, in that big housing complex, in the apartments under construction. Let’s be clear about this, they didn’t live in them because it made them do better work, or even work harder—although in a way both things were true: if you build a house which isn’t yours, but feels like it is for the moment, you start to grow fond of it and end up taking better care of it, and if you don’t have to waste time going home in the evening and coming to work in the morning, you can start work as soon as you wake up and stop just before going to bed or having dinner, if you still have the strength to eat—no, they lived there because it was the safest place to be.
The fact is, nobody ever left the site.
The site wasn’t only our home.
The site was our world.
The site was our solar system.
During the first few months, neither I nor Sufi set foot outside the site. We were afraid of the Iranian police. We were afraid of ending up in Telisia or Sang Safid, and if you don’t know what they are, that’s only because you’ve never been an Afghan refugee in Iran, because all the Afghan refugees in Iran know what Telisia and Sang Safid are. They’re legendary. They’re supposed to be temporary detention centers, but they’re more like concentration camps, judging by what I read later about concentration camps. I don’t know if I’m explaining myself well. What I mean is, places without hope.
In Afghanistan, you only had to say their names to suck all the air out of a room like in those vacuum-packed bags they use for food. Clouds would cover the sun and the leaves would fall. It was said that the police there forced people to climb to the top of the hills—in those
The trafficker shook hands with the Iranian, who looked as if he must be the site foreman to judge by his clean shirt and neat beard, introduced us in a few words,just our names, as if we were expected and arrangements had been made in advance, then turned to us and said, Behave yourselves. That was all. Behave yourselves. Then he picked up his bag from the ground and left.
The site foreman scratched his head, and asked, What can you do?
Nothing, we said. (Honesty was the best policy.)
I thought as much, he replied. Come with me.
Sufi and I looked at each other and followed him.
The building was a skeleton, without doors or windows. The foreman led us to an apartment where there were no tiles on the floor, just rough, cracked concrete. This is where the people who work for us live, he said. I walked to the middle of the room and looked around. The windows and doors were sealed with nylon. There was no running water, nor any gas. The water, said the foreman, was brought by lorry, and to cook they used gas cylinders which were refilled in a nearby shop. An electric cable, patched up with adhesive tape, climbed up the outside wall of the building, came in through the window, ran along the ceiling and hung down by the door to the corridor, with a lightbulb on the end.
Go and get some sand, said the foreman. Sand. From around there.
We came back with two buckets of sand each, just to show that although we were small we were strong.
Pour it in that corner. Good, like that. Smooth it with the broom and unroll a rug on top of it. One of those over there, that’s it. Unroll it. You’ll sleep here until the building is finished. Then we’ll go to another site. Stay clean and remember you’re not alone. The better you behave, the better you’ll get on with everyone, okay? You’ll soon get the hang of things here, washing, eating, praying and the rest. If you have any problems talk to me, don’t try and solve them yourselves. Now go down to the yard, introduce yourselves to the other workers and do what they tell you to do.
They were all illegals. Not a single one of the bricklayers, carpenters and electricians working for that firm had papers. And they all lived there, in that big housing complex, in the apartments under construction. Let’s be clear about this, they didn’t live in them because it made them do better work, or even work harder—although in a way both things were true: if you build a house which isn’t yours, but feels like it is for the moment, you start to grow fond of it and end up taking better care of it, and if you don’t have to waste time going home in the evening and coming to work in the morning, you can start work as soon as you wake up and stop just before going to bed or having dinner, if you still have the strength to eat—no, they lived there because it was the safest place to be.
The fact is, nobody ever left the site.
The site wasn’t only our home.
The site was our world.
The site was our solar system.
During the first few months, neither I nor Sufi set foot outside the site. We were afraid of the Iranian police. We were afraid of ending up in Telisia or Sang Safid, and if you don’t know what they are, that’s only because you’ve never been an Afghan refugee in Iran, because all the Afghan refugees in Iran know what Telisia and Sang Safid are. They’re legendary. They’re supposed to be temporary detention centers, but they’re more like concentration camps, judging by what I read later about concentration camps. I don’t know if I’m explaining myself well. What I mean is, places without hope.
In Afghanistan, you only had to say their names to suck all the air out of a room like in those vacuum-packed bags they use for food. Clouds would cover the sun and the leaves would fall. It was said that the police there forced people to climb to the top of the hills—in those
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