“White Card” by Mira Mookerjee
Mira Mookerjee is a writer based in London. She has had work in published in S/He Speaks: Voices of Women and Trans Folx anthology, Azeema Magazine, The Journal of Fair Trade, and has been published in Poetry and Audience as a winner of the Alison Morland Poetry Prize. She is currently studying for a MA in Creative Writing at Brunel University.
A Word from the Author:
This piece was written in response to a brief set by my MA lecturer Benjamin Zephaniah who asked us to write about a major world event from the perspective of a child. In 2019, I spent time volunteering in refugee camps in and around Athens and have written this piece from the viewpoint of a child growing up in one of these camps. It is notable to add that since 2019 the treatment of refugees in the UK and in Greece has deteriorated even further. I titled the piece White Card to not only reflect the name of the residence entitlement card that refugees await to receive when they are in process of seeking asylum, but to also highlight the unequal systemic treatment that refugees from different parts of the world experience in their search for safety.
White Card
Farhad struggled to the front of the food queue. He knew there was not enough food for everyone and if he waited patiently at the back, they would choose to feed the cute kids instead of him. Farhad was only six, but everyone mistook him for older. He waved some crumpled papers at the woman handing out food to prove that he was in the process of getting a white card which would identify him as a registered asylum seeker.
“Food and juice,” he commanded in English. A young girl standing behind him giggled.
“Come on now Farhad, you know you should say please,” the charity worker replied, her eyebrows raised.
“Food and juice. Please.” Farhad said, flashing his teeth.
“Aftó to paidí,” the charity worker exclaimed in Greek, shaking her head, and handing him a tray, her plastic glove covered hand brushing against Farhad’s bare skin. Her blue eyes watched in expectantly, “now what do you say Farhad?”
“Ef-ari-stó-polý ky-ri-a,” Farhad replied, thanking her in overly syrupy Greek. He stuck out his tongue and darted away.
Farhad loved food, but the food they served at the camp was stodgy, salty, and bland. He used to make fun of the food with the other kids, but as his meals became fewer and further between, Farhad had started wolfing down his dinner in a quiet corner by himself. He finished his drink and tossed the empty containers into an overflowing bin.
Farhad made his way back to a corrugated iron structure, picking his way past a mass of temporary tents before locating his own. His older sister Zarina sat inside, washing his clothes in a plastic basin. He flopped an arm round her shoulder and kissed her cheek, causing water to spill on to the floor of their tent.
“Farhad! Ist!” she scolded him in Farsi. Farhad smiled back at her lovingly. She sighed and stroked his hair, “you get food and jimon?” she asked.
“Not jimon! Juice!” Farhad said, correcting her Greek to English,
“Juice, jimon, âbmive, same same,” she said, “you get any?”
“Aare,” Farhad responded, licking his lips.
“Any for me?” Zarina continued in Farsi.
Farhad looked down at the ground guiltily, he had been so hungry he had forgotten he was meant to save some for his sister.
“Farhad!” she said, whacking him over the head with a wet towel.
“Sorry, sister, sorry,” Farhad said, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Zarina sighed and pushed a shoulder into Farhad, “go play,” she ordered him, “you take up too much room.”
Farhad left quickly and went on a hunt for his friends. On the other side of the camp, he could see a group of children playing. He wanted to join them, but it was on the side where all the PKK flags were, and his sister had told him it wasn’t safe for the two sides of the camp to mix. Farhad didn’t understand why. The children looked friendly, and that side of the camp didn’t look any different from his side, but there were a lot of things Farhad had come to accept that he did not really understand. Farhad walked around until he found his friend Salim sitting on a wall. Salim was fourteen, the same age as Farhad’s sister, but Farhad thought he was a lot more fun that Zarina.
“Ahlan Farhad!” Salim said, greeting him in Arabic, “kayf halik?”
“Ahlan!” Farhad responded happily, switching to Arabic to talk to his friend, “anā beḫeīr, but you know, my sister’s being a pain.”
“What’s happening?” Salim asked him, gesturing for him to come and sit next to him.
Farhad sat himself on the wall beside Salim and explained the situation “I said I would share my food with her, but I forgot and now she is mad at me.”
Salim laughed, “I would be mad at you too little brother,” he said.
“Yes, but she does not even need the food!” Farhad continued, “have you seen her? She is getting so fat!” He said, moving his hands to mimic a round belly, “and she will not leave the tent to get her own anymore!”
Salim put an arm around Farhad’s shoulder and looked at him seriously, “Farhad, you must make sure your sister eats.”
Farhad sighed; he knew Salim was right.
“Hey,” said Salim, changing the subject, “I heard there might be new people arriving to the camp.”
“Who?” said Farhad.
“People from Ukraine,” explained Salim, “there is a war with Russia, so people are having to leave.”
“A lot of people?” Farhad asked.
Salim nodded, “I think so.”
Farhad wondered where there would be space for the Ukrainians to sleep in the camp, he hoped there would be enough tents for them. Maybe the camp would be made bigger, he thought. Farhad had heard of Russia, but he did not know where Ukraine was.
“What do they speak in Ukraine?” He asked Salim.
Salim shrugged, “I don’t know.”
“I hope it is Farsi,” said Farhad.
Farhad had picked up a good amount of Arabic. Most of the kids around him spoke either Arabic or Dari, but he still missed some of the jokes and struggled to understand when everyone was talking over one another. He knew some Greek too, but Zarina had told Farhad that he must study English and German, as those were the countries they were hoping to settle in. Farhad didn’t like English or German very much, he thought German sounded like someone trying to cut down a tree and English sounded like a lot of words without proper endings bumping into one another. Both languages were very harsh and hard. It would be nice, he thought, if these Ukrainians spoke Farsi like he did.
“Farhad, do you still have that football?” Salim asked, breaking Farhad’s train of thought.
Farhad nodded.
“Go fetch it and we will play,” said Salim.
Farhad ran back to his tent to find his ball and tell his sister the news about the new arrivals from Ukraine.
“It means there will be more people coming to the camp,” he told her as he rummaged around their tent.
Zarina shook her head, “they will not come here,” she said.
Farhad stopped looking for his ball and looked at her, “why not?” he asked.
“I have seen them in Athens already,” Zarina explained, “they do not need papers or white cards to get support like we do.”
“But why?” Farhad asked, assuming he was missing something, “are they not also refugees like we are?”
“Yes, they are also refugees.” Zarina responded.
Farhad thought for a moment, but he was still confused, “is the war in Ukraine worse than other wars? Are they in more danger than we are?”
Zarina shook her head, “war everywhere is bad. We are all in danger.”
Farhad paused, “so why do we need to wait for white cards and papers?”
Zarina looked into her brother’s young eyes and decided to change the subject, “what are you looking for little brother?”
“My ball,” he replied, “but I don’t think it is here anymore.”
“No matter,” she said, “it is getting dark so you should sleep now anyway,” Farhad stuck out his bottom lip, “but,” Zarina continued, sensing her brother’s frustration, “next time I go to Athens I will find you a new ball.”
Farhad smiled and nodded his head, “will you work in Athens tonight?” he asked.
“No, no, not tonight,” Zarina replied.
“Okay,” said Farhad, “I like it better when you stay here anyway.”
Zarina smiled and stroked her little brother’s head, “go to sleep now.”
Farhad wriggled into his sleeping bag and closed his eyes. He had grown used to the noise around him and he soon fell asleep.
In Farhad’s dream he was back in with his mother, his head in her lap. He could hear her singing his favourite lullaby and could smell oranges on the trees outside. He struggled to keep his eyes open, watching the white curtains that framed a view of the mountains sway in the breeze. He could hear the rustle of papers coming from his father’s study next door. He wondered if he had time to kiss his father goodnight before he fell asleep. He wanted to ask his mother, but his body was so tired. With effort, he turned his head to hers and focused his eyes on her face. But what he saw was a blur, a mash of smudged colours without any identifiable features. Farhad was frightened, what had happened to his mother? He tried to reach out to her, but he could not. She was no longer singing, and Farhad could feel water dripping on his face. His mother was fading, her body floating away from him, her arms swaying limply like the curtains in his bedroom.
Farhad woke to realise his throat was sore from screaming. He blinked until the green walls of his tent came back into focus. His sister’s arms were wrapped round him, rocking him against her swollen belly.
“It’s okay Farhad,” she soothed him, “you’re okay. I’m here, I’m here.”
