SYRIA GIRL
By: Elijah Hill
Tags: Refugees, Syria, Syrian Refugees, Lovestory, Literature

THE END

(But also the beginning)

It was Friday, a school day, and once again I was stuck in court.

I wore ripped jeans, a baggy hoodie and a slightly muddy pair of converse sneakers. It was meant to be a joke — they were the same clothes I’d worn breaking into the bottle store.

The stiff-looking lawyer they’d assigned me didn’t seem to get the punchline though.

‘This is your third time meeting Streisand,’ he whispered to me as he ruffled through his case notes, ‘You know what she’s like.’

I ignored the twat and looked around the small courtroom. Two eyes glared back at me. The bottle store owner was trying to be a tough guy. I snorted and glared back until his stare shifted away. I glanced at the police prosecutor, some old dude with a big moustache, and then up front where the court-aide was getting to her feet.

‘All rise for Judge Streisand.’

I heard heels clicking on the oak floorboards. We stood. The lawyer was sighing. My feet started to heat up. I moved my weight from one foot, and back to the other.

I’m done for.

The clicking heels grew louder and more prominent, and then bursting through the double doors was Judge Margaret Streisand. She had a hawk nose, hawk eyes, and a hawk’s brain.

‘Scared?’ my lawyer whispered.

I shrugged. ‘She just acts like she’s disappointed in me you know? No one else does that.’

Judge Streisand didn’t look at me as she strolled past. Instead, she said hello to the police prosecutor, checked in with her court staff, then pulled out a stack of paperwork from behind her desk. I wanted to run away. I could feel my muscles tensing up.

I won’t make it through the door, I thought, But so what? I shouldn’t have come in the first place.

The judge finished consulting with whoever needed consulting, gave her paperwork a slight rustle, then declared court open. I shut my eyes.

‘Mr Danny Frey.’ She boomed from the front of the room, ‘I thought we’d made a deal.’

I opened my eyes. Everyone was staring at me, ‘Sorry miss.’

‘Sorry? Sorry works the first two times you come to court. As they say in the U.S — third strike and you’re out.’

I stared at the picture of the Queen, and the Union Jack that sat behind her desk; trying to avoid those eyes.

‘Anyway….’ She shook her head, ‘Let’s hear what the police have to say.’

As per usual, the police prosecutor mumbled his way through what had happened. There was security footage of a group throwing bricks through the bottle store windows before helping themselves to what was inside.

One of the youths was wearing the same jersey I’d been found in. Three bottles of scotch had also been found on me (there’d been a fourth but I disposed of the evidence at a party the night before). The total cost of the theft ran to around £2000 — not a big deal, but the fact that I’m not rich and this was my third time sort of made it a big deal.

When the prosecutor had finished, the bottle store owner spoke. Then my lawyer spoke. Then the police prosecutor said something which my lawyer refuted and they all descended into a technical-term festival.

I was struggling to stand still. I needed to run or have a fight or jump off a pier or something. My eyes flicked about; I noticed a rather large woman walking through the court doors. She wore a white hat with a red cross on it and when she caught Streisand’s eye the judge smiled which was something I’d never seen before.

The red cross lady squeezed into one of the aisles and stared at me. She looked like she wanted to smile at me or something so I turned away and pretended to watch my future being decided. When I looked back she was still watching me.

Back in the realm of court decisions, things were happening too fast for me to keep up. The judge finished with the police, my lawyer, and the liquor store owner, and concentrated her full attention on me. I gulped again, wondering if it was still too late to run.

‘Mr Frey,’ she said, ‘The police and your lawyer have mentioned that there were other youths on the scene with you.’

I stared ahead, not looking at her.

‘Mr Frey,’ she repeated, ‘You could cut the time of your sentence if you were to add a few names to our list.’

I stood silent, she had to ask me again, ‘Well?’

‘I don’t rat.’

‘Even for a reduced sentence?’

‘Even for a reduced sentence your honour.’

She gave a sharp nod.

‘How old are you Danny?’

‘I’m seventeen your honour.’

‘Well right now you’re not making many smart moves. This is your third offence and what’s stopping you from committing another?’

She paused, waiting for me to speak, I just crossed my arms and stared towards the ceiling. When I didn’t answer she looked across at my lawyer, ‘At the moment your jail sentence is looking like six months in juvenile detention.’

I tried to keep a straight face, but inside I was kicking myself for not bursting into tears or something. A few of my mates had been to juvie and they all came out colder.

Streisand stared around the courtroom, ‘Six months of juvenile detention, there’s no telling what a young man will learn there… It could scare them off a life in crime, give them a deterrent. Or it can harden them. Push them over the edge.’

She paused like the narrator of a play… letting her sentence roll out to fill the courtroom.

‘But Mr Frey, I also have a second option on display today.’

Judge Streisand turned to the large woman in front, the one who’d been watching me.

‘Donna Appleby from the Red Cross has alerted me to a new youth program they’re running.’

The judge pulled out a sheet of paper and read from it, ‘The scheme takes young juvenile delinquents to places where they can do some good. In two weeks, Donna will be heading to Turkey to work in a refugee camp housing people affected by the Syrian civil war.’

I stared at this Donna woman; she was nodding along. Then her eyes flicked to me and she smiled. I pretended I hadn’t made eye contact by turning back to the judge.

‘In five months, you’d be finished Mr Frey, so this is shorter than your juvenile detention sentence, but still long enough to have an impact on your life.’

She peered over her glasses at me, ‘What do you think?’

My lawyer put his hand up like he wanted to say something, but I beat him to it — anything was better than juvie.

‘I’ll do it.’

What could have been a smile twitched on her lips, ‘Is our police prosecutor happy with that?’

The policeman consulted with a deputy before nodding.

‘Very well then,’ said Judge Streisand, ‘I hereby hand Mr Frey over to the Red Cross.’ She hardened her tone, ‘If you ever turn up here again Mr Frey, you’ll be serving everything in full. We want you to be able to contribute to society Mr Frey, but this is your last chance to come clean.’

I nodded, ‘Thanks, your honour.’

Then my lawyer and I were walking out of there, halfway down the aisle the Red Cross woman stepped out in front of me.

‘Nice to meet you Danny,’ the woman gave a big wide motherly sort of grin, ‘Our plane leaves from Heathrow the Monday after next, I’ll be in touch.’

‘Thanks,’ I grunted, and as my lawyer and I walked off I was thinking about the bullet I’d dodged. There were worse prison wardens than the Red Cross lady.

But one thing made me pause for a moment as my lawyer hailed a cab.

Where the hell is Turkey?

****

The tarmac was hot, blurry, and cracked despite it still being midway through spring.

Our plane had just touched down at Izmir Adnan Menderes Airport, Turkey, and we were transferring our luggage from the terminal to an old Land Rover with safari covers.

We were a group of eight, all British, all carrying pale complexions and sweating like crazy even though we’d only been outside for about two minutes.

Donna, the large Red Cross minder I’d seen in court, sat in the passenger’s seat. While a tall but lanky middle eastern man hopped into the driver’s side. Both wore the red cross on the chest of their t-shirts.

I piled into the back with the other juvies and sat staring out the window. I don’t think any of us really knew what to do with each other. In prison we would’ve established some sort of pecking order, but this was different.

Sitting in the row across from me was a girl with long dreads and a tattoo rolling across her shoulders. She raised her eyebrows, ‘What are you here for?’

It was a typical juvie question, ‘I robbed a bottle store.’

‘Seems harsh you’d get this.’

‘It was my third strike.’

She nodded, exposing the silver on her teeth, ‘I shot my drug dealer in the kneecap.’

‘Now that seems harsh.’

‘Well,’ she said, a vicious smile playing across her lips, ‘It was his third strike.’

The rest of the juvies were the same as dreadlocks girl, slightly psychopathic teens with bad upbringings and broken homes. The Land Rover was filled with swearing, a couple of gang references, and bragging as it made its way to the place we were supposed to be helping out.

A large fence wormed its way around the camp, but the fence had no gates. Donna explained to us that people were free to come and go as they pleased.

‘Most stay though,’ Donna said, ‘Good jobs are scarce and it’s hard to get back on your feet when your life has been swept from under you.’

Around us, there were hundreds and hundreds of tents made up of more colours than I’d ever imagined. I laughed as I spotted a Homer Simpson tent. The girl next to me turned her dreadlocked head, ‘What’s funny?’

I pointed out the tent and she cracked up, ‘Of all places for that fat American to show up….’

The Land Rover rolled to a stop outside the barracks we’d be staying in. The setup was nothing more than a group of shipping containers with a canvas roof stretched over top of them. There were four bunks to a container plus area to store our stuff.

It’d barely make one-star accommodation in the U.K, but in the camp it was a mansion when compared to the Homer Simpson tent.

We were told to choose any bunk we wanted, I was a little slow and ended up with one of the bottom bunks near the window. It suited me just fine: heat rises, and we’d be there through the summer, top bunk wouldn’t be quite so enjoyable at that point.

As I was setting up my bed, the girl with the dreads watched. She had the bottom bunk at the other side of the container.

‘Where abouts in the U.K are you from?’ she asked.

‘London, you?’

‘Edinburgh.’

I nodded and went back to my bed, I didn’t see the point in small talk, we’d have enough time to get to know each other over the next five months.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Huh?’

‘I said what the hell’s your name?’

‘Danny.’

I didn’t need to ask her name, she’d tell me.

‘I’m Malia.’

I sat down, the bed creaked, ‘It’s a crazy place we’ve found ourselves in.’

She shrugged, then spat in the corner of the room, ‘Beats juvie.’

I nodded, and looked outside at the rows of tents that flapped in a slight wind, ‘Yeah… for us anyway.’

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