Embracing The Infidel: Stories Of Muslim Migrants On The Journey West - Couverture rigide
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Book by Yaghmaian Behzad
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Extrait :
In a small village near Kandahar, Shahrokh Khan was born to a family of farmers. “My father was an agricultural man, growing crops and selling them in the market. We had a normal family,” Shahrokh Khan told me.
In December 1979, a few years before his birth, the Russians invaded Afghanistan. Soon the country was the scene of a holy war against the communists. The Russian army left Afghanistan in 1989. A civil war followed. Shahrokh Khan did not have much recollection of the war. “I stayed on the farm most of the time,” he said. “Sometimes I went with my father on business trips to the city. We did not do much. We were a simple family.”
Shahrokh Khan’s father wished his son to grow up away from the violence of the civil war and become an educated man. So after the boy finished third grade, his father sent him to Peshawar, a city in neighboring Pakistan where many Afghan refugees were given shelter. “My father wanted me to be unlike the others in Afghanistan,” Shahrokh Khan said.
“In the beginning I was very depressed. Integration was so very difficult. I would cry all the time.” These were the formative years of his life. Living in hostels with Pakistanis and other Afghans, Shahrokh Khan continued his studies in Peshawar, learned English, and developed a love for schooling. Slowly he became accustomed to a life away from home. He had many friends, other boys from his school and the hostel. Salim, a Pakistani youth who was a classmate in Peshawar for six years, was his closest companion. They spent their free time playing cricket, watching Bollywood movies, and dancing in their rooms to Bollywood music. An Indian actor, also called Shahrokh Khan, was his idol. Like many boys his age, he wanted to grow up and be a movie star.
From time to time, during school holidays, Shahrokh Khan returned to the village to visit his family. “In Pakistan, I used to wear trousers and dress like people in other parts of the world. I didn’t wear the shalvar [the baggy pants worn by men in Afghanistan]. When I came to visit my family in Afghanistan, people looked at me in a strange way, as if I had come from another world. They wanted me to be like them. My father was a simple man. He was tolerant. My mother wore the chador [a long garment covering the head and the rest of the body except for the face] when she visited places outside our home. Inside, she didn’t wear the hijab [veil].”
After finishing the tenth grade, Shahrokh moved to Abbottabad, a city near Islamabad. Enrolling in a new high school “with very high educational standards,” Shahrokh Khan continued his studies until one day, not long after his last visit to Afghanistan in the summer of 2001, a message in his hostel room informed him of a call by the principal, Mr. Javeed, who wanted to see him right away. He rushed to the principal’s office, where Mr. Javeed told him, “Sit down. You need to be strong. Promise me you won’t fall apart.”
The principal had received a phone call from Shahrokh Khan’s mother. “She called to tell me about the death of my father,” he told me, then sank into a long silence. Staring at the coffee cup on the table before us, he finally said, “I felt the ground was shifting from under my feet. This was not easy news for me. Not at all. Tears started coming down my face.” The principal took Shahrokh Khan back to his hostel. “The next day, I took a bus to Kandahar. In situations like this, you remember the past. I could not believe this. He was okay the last time I saw him. But he wasn’t there anymore.” A long pause followed again. Biting his fingernail and trying to control his emotions, he said at last, “I went back home. Everyone was crying. My mother was crying. I saw his dead body. They were just waiting for me to see the dead face of my father. Together, we buried him. We did not know how the funeral was arranged. Some neighbors took care of everything. They cooked food for everyone.”
After the funeral, Shahrokh Khan returned to Pakistan. His father had wished him to become a learned man, and Shahrokh Khan had vowed to remain committed to his studies; staying in Afghanistan was of no use. “I wanted my mother to come with me. But we didn’t know how to support ourselves if all of us moved to Pakistan. These were days of war. The Pakistanis wouldn’t have issued a visa to my mother and brother and sister. We didn’t have any money and couldn’t pay for smugglers.”
Days passed. Focusing on his schoolwork, Shahrokh Khan hoped to distract himself from his father’s death and the predicament of his family. Then came another call from Afghanistan, less than a month after the death of Shahrokh’s father: a neighbor, calling Shahrokh
Khan to inform him that his home had been destroyed in an American aerial attack against the Taliban. He had lost his mother and his siblings. “I could not believe the news. I had just seen all of them.” Tears filled his eyes, and he was silent for a while.
“Shall we stop, Shahrokh?” I asked.
“No, I want to talk,” he said, biting his lip and giving me a warm smile.
Once again, Shahrokh Khan boarded the first bus to Kandahar. He recalled his feelings during the bus ride home.
“I was blaming myself. I could have saved my family. If I had money, I would have taken my family with me, even though they did not have Pakistani visas. We would have paid money to a smuggler. My mother would have lived in a hostel. She would have still been alive today. I asked myself, ‘Why did I leave them alone? Why was I not with them?’ They are dead now. That is what happened. A bomb fell on our house. Everyone was sleeping. And they kept on sleeping forever.”
Shahrokh Khan returned to his village and his family farm. The house he had grown up in had been utterly demolished. “There was no shape to my home. No roof. All the walls were destroyed. Everything was burnt. When I saw their bodies, they were totally burnt. In these situations, you don’t feel anything. You have lost something that you know you can’t have again. You remember your life from the past.
“There were burnt bodies of many people who I knew, people who I saw growing up. It was terrible. The whole surroundings were ruined, and I could see lots of crying faces around me, mourning and hugging each other and hitting their own faces. That was the worst moment of my life, when I looked at the faces of my family who weren’t alive anymore.”
Unable to cope with his new predicament, he wanted to end his life. “I took poison to kill myself. But I wasn’t lucky enough to die with them. My neighbor took me to the hospital.”
For nearly a month, he stayed at the neighbor’s house recovering. “To recover yourself in this situation isn’t easy at all. It’s true that time is a cure for every kind of pain. But to pass that time isn’t easy. Every single second is like a year.” After a month, Shahrokh Khan “felt alive again.”
Many things had changed now. Staying in Afghanistan was too painful, but Shahrokh Khan didn’t feel like returning to his school in Pakistan. Following the advice of a kind neighbor and family friend, Muhammad Fida, he decided to leave for a faraway land in the West, to continue his studies and fulfill the vow he had made to his father.
Muhammad Fida helped him find a buyer for the family land. A man living in Kabul offered $1,000 for a piece of land that “was worth thirty thousand in normal times.” Having no other option, Shahrokh Khan accepted the offer. The land was sold. Early one morning, with $1,000 in his pocket and a small backpack full of clothes, he left the village and headed for Pakistan.
Unlike previous times, Peshawar was not his destination. He took a bus to Quetta and continued to Taftan, the last town near the border with Iran. A map in his hand, he walked parallel to the border for three hours until there were no checkpoints in sight. Feeling safe, he crossed the border and walked through the endless barren and dusty land to Zahedan in Baluchistan province.
Shahrokh Khan was now in one of the most desolate and impoverished towns of Iran, a center of drug trafficking, and a place of occasional armed battles between smugglers and Revolutionary Guards of the Islamic Republic. The landscape, language, currency, and people were all unfamiliar. “I was scared. Everything was strange for me there. Also, I was barely able to communicate in Farsi. I had learned some basic sentences for buying tickets and food. I did not know anything about the toman [Iranian money], with the picture of Khomeini on every bill,” he told me, now laughing.
In Zahedan, Shahrokh Khan cleaned himself up in a mosque, dusted off his clothes, and inquired about the main bus station. His next stop was to be Tehran. “You can go to Tehran directly, but I took the wrong bus, to Isfahan.”
By now, the Taliban’s government had collapsed. Many Taliban warriors and supporters were on the run. Some hoped to reach Iran and disappear there among the large Afghan refugee community. Many were arrested and returned to Pakistan. “I didn’t dress like the other Afghans. I had regular clothes on.” That proved important for not being spotted and arrested by the soldiers at the many different checkpoints on the way to Isfahan. Buses and cars were checked for carrying drugs and illegal immigrants. Even Iranians who did not carry an identification card were removed from the bus and put under arrest. “I was so afraid of the controls. The bus was stopped every few kilometers. The first control was very terrible for me. I began losing my confidence. I was praying that the soldier wouldn’t come to me. I was lucky; I looked...
Revue de presse :
In December 1979, a few years before his birth, the Russians invaded Afghanistan. Soon the country was the scene of a holy war against the communists. The Russian army left Afghanistan in 1989. A civil war followed. Shahrokh Khan did not have much recollection of the war. “I stayed on the farm most of the time,” he said. “Sometimes I went with my father on business trips to the city. We did not do much. We were a simple family.”
Shahrokh Khan’s father wished his son to grow up away from the violence of the civil war and become an educated man. So after the boy finished third grade, his father sent him to Peshawar, a city in neighboring Pakistan where many Afghan refugees were given shelter. “My father wanted me to be unlike the others in Afghanistan,” Shahrokh Khan said.
“In the beginning I was very depressed. Integration was so very difficult. I would cry all the time.” These were the formative years of his life. Living in hostels with Pakistanis and other Afghans, Shahrokh Khan continued his studies in Peshawar, learned English, and developed a love for schooling. Slowly he became accustomed to a life away from home. He had many friends, other boys from his school and the hostel. Salim, a Pakistani youth who was a classmate in Peshawar for six years, was his closest companion. They spent their free time playing cricket, watching Bollywood movies, and dancing in their rooms to Bollywood music. An Indian actor, also called Shahrokh Khan, was his idol. Like many boys his age, he wanted to grow up and be a movie star.
From time to time, during school holidays, Shahrokh Khan returned to the village to visit his family. “In Pakistan, I used to wear trousers and dress like people in other parts of the world. I didn’t wear the shalvar [the baggy pants worn by men in Afghanistan]. When I came to visit my family in Afghanistan, people looked at me in a strange way, as if I had come from another world. They wanted me to be like them. My father was a simple man. He was tolerant. My mother wore the chador [a long garment covering the head and the rest of the body except for the face] when she visited places outside our home. Inside, she didn’t wear the hijab [veil].”
After finishing the tenth grade, Shahrokh moved to Abbottabad, a city near Islamabad. Enrolling in a new high school “with very high educational standards,” Shahrokh Khan continued his studies until one day, not long after his last visit to Afghanistan in the summer of 2001, a message in his hostel room informed him of a call by the principal, Mr. Javeed, who wanted to see him right away. He rushed to the principal’s office, where Mr. Javeed told him, “Sit down. You need to be strong. Promise me you won’t fall apart.”
The principal had received a phone call from Shahrokh Khan’s mother. “She called to tell me about the death of my father,” he told me, then sank into a long silence. Staring at the coffee cup on the table before us, he finally said, “I felt the ground was shifting from under my feet. This was not easy news for me. Not at all. Tears started coming down my face.” The principal took Shahrokh Khan back to his hostel. “The next day, I took a bus to Kandahar. In situations like this, you remember the past. I could not believe this. He was okay the last time I saw him. But he wasn’t there anymore.” A long pause followed again. Biting his fingernail and trying to control his emotions, he said at last, “I went back home. Everyone was crying. My mother was crying. I saw his dead body. They were just waiting for me to see the dead face of my father. Together, we buried him. We did not know how the funeral was arranged. Some neighbors took care of everything. They cooked food for everyone.”
After the funeral, Shahrokh Khan returned to Pakistan. His father had wished him to become a learned man, and Shahrokh Khan had vowed to remain committed to his studies; staying in Afghanistan was of no use. “I wanted my mother to come with me. But we didn’t know how to support ourselves if all of us moved to Pakistan. These were days of war. The Pakistanis wouldn’t have issued a visa to my mother and brother and sister. We didn’t have any money and couldn’t pay for smugglers.”
Days passed. Focusing on his schoolwork, Shahrokh Khan hoped to distract himself from his father’s death and the predicament of his family. Then came another call from Afghanistan, less than a month after the death of Shahrokh’s father: a neighbor, calling Shahrokh
Khan to inform him that his home had been destroyed in an American aerial attack against the Taliban. He had lost his mother and his siblings. “I could not believe the news. I had just seen all of them.” Tears filled his eyes, and he was silent for a while.
“Shall we stop, Shahrokh?” I asked.
“No, I want to talk,” he said, biting his lip and giving me a warm smile.
Once again, Shahrokh Khan boarded the first bus to Kandahar. He recalled his feelings during the bus ride home.
“I was blaming myself. I could have saved my family. If I had money, I would have taken my family with me, even though they did not have Pakistani visas. We would have paid money to a smuggler. My mother would have lived in a hostel. She would have still been alive today. I asked myself, ‘Why did I leave them alone? Why was I not with them?’ They are dead now. That is what happened. A bomb fell on our house. Everyone was sleeping. And they kept on sleeping forever.”
Shahrokh Khan returned to his village and his family farm. The house he had grown up in had been utterly demolished. “There was no shape to my home. No roof. All the walls were destroyed. Everything was burnt. When I saw their bodies, they were totally burnt. In these situations, you don’t feel anything. You have lost something that you know you can’t have again. You remember your life from the past.
“There were burnt bodies of many people who I knew, people who I saw growing up. It was terrible. The whole surroundings were ruined, and I could see lots of crying faces around me, mourning and hugging each other and hitting their own faces. That was the worst moment of my life, when I looked at the faces of my family who weren’t alive anymore.”
Unable to cope with his new predicament, he wanted to end his life. “I took poison to kill myself. But I wasn’t lucky enough to die with them. My neighbor took me to the hospital.”
For nearly a month, he stayed at the neighbor’s house recovering. “To recover yourself in this situation isn’t easy at all. It’s true that time is a cure for every kind of pain. But to pass that time isn’t easy. Every single second is like a year.” After a month, Shahrokh Khan “felt alive again.”
Many things had changed now. Staying in Afghanistan was too painful, but Shahrokh Khan didn’t feel like returning to his school in Pakistan. Following the advice of a kind neighbor and family friend, Muhammad Fida, he decided to leave for a faraway land in the West, to continue his studies and fulfill the vow he had made to his father.
Muhammad Fida helped him find a buyer for the family land. A man living in Kabul offered $1,000 for a piece of land that “was worth thirty thousand in normal times.” Having no other option, Shahrokh Khan accepted the offer. The land was sold. Early one morning, with $1,000 in his pocket and a small backpack full of clothes, he left the village and headed for Pakistan.
Unlike previous times, Peshawar was not his destination. He took a bus to Quetta and continued to Taftan, the last town near the border with Iran. A map in his hand, he walked parallel to the border for three hours until there were no checkpoints in sight. Feeling safe, he crossed the border and walked through the endless barren and dusty land to Zahedan in Baluchistan province.
Shahrokh Khan was now in one of the most desolate and impoverished towns of Iran, a center of drug trafficking, and a place of occasional armed battles between smugglers and Revolutionary Guards of the Islamic Republic. The landscape, language, currency, and people were all unfamiliar. “I was scared. Everything was strange for me there. Also, I was barely able to communicate in Farsi. I had learned some basic sentences for buying tickets and food. I did not know anything about the toman [Iranian money], with the picture of Khomeini on every bill,” he told me, now laughing.
In Zahedan, Shahrokh Khan cleaned himself up in a mosque, dusted off his clothes, and inquired about the main bus station. His next stop was to be Tehran. “You can go to Tehran directly, but I took the wrong bus, to Isfahan.”
By now, the Taliban’s government had collapsed. Many Taliban warriors and supporters were on the run. Some hoped to reach Iran and disappear there among the large Afghan refugee community. Many were arrested and returned to Pakistan. “I didn’t dress like the other Afghans. I had regular clothes on.” That proved important for not being spotted and arrested by the soldiers at the many different checkpoints on the way to Isfahan. Buses and cars were checked for carrying drugs and illegal immigrants. Even Iranians who did not carry an identification card were removed from the bus and put under arrest. “I was so afraid of the controls. The bus was stopped every few kilometers. The first control was very terrible for me. I began losing my confidence. I was praying that the soldier wouldn’t come to me. I was lucky; I looked...
“Behzad Yaghmaian’s intimate, horrifyingly vivid account of the plight of Muslim refugees... takes us deep into the souls of the men and women he befriends, following them from the chaotic human bazaar of Istanbul to Sofia, Athens, Paris, and beyond.” —Mother Jones
"A gripping tale of hardship, adventure and yearning, of hopes raised and dashed, and of troubled and sometimes heroic adaptations to refugee camps.... One of many strengths of this book is to show ... what strangely mixed motives impel these brave, complicated people. A masterful storyteller, Yaghmaian reveals many layers to the refugees' personalities and histories, and some to his own."—The San Francisco Chronicle
“An El Norte or Grapes of Wrath for the Muslim world–affecting, immediate and well written.”—Kirkus Reviews, starred review
“A riveting account of the hardships and survival strategies of Muslim migrants who are trying to make their way to the West. Embracing the Infidel adds an entirely new and human dimension to our understanding of migration and asylum issues.”—Dr. Jeff Crisp, Director of Policy and Research, Global Commission on International Migration
"Journalists like myself should be doing more work like this....Yaghmaian offers the reader vivid descriptions of the waterfront street bazaars in Istanbul, the migrant ghettos of Athens, and the creepy underworld of human smugglers....He shares the touching, often disturbing oral histories of these modern-day hobos. They "ride the rails"; paddling across seas in rubber rafts and crossing snow-covered mountains on foot without maps or compasses. By the end, you realize the clash of civilizations is not one of religions violently colliding, but of the poor who are desperately trying to get to the West, to share the freedoms, wealth and stability that we so often take for granted.”—Ivan Watson, National Public Radio
"An immensely remarkable book; a clear humane and startling account of the perils, sufferings and anxiety which both forced and economic migrants have to go through in order to reach the West. This book marks a return to civilized discussion of the need to proactively address questions related to the root causes of contemporary migration. Equally significantly, it also emphasizes the need to ensure that States respect the human rights of refugees and other sorts of migrants."—Jose Fischel de Andrade, Center of International Studies, University of Cambridge
“With none of the rambling typical of unedited oral histories, Yaghmaian tells these unforgettable stories with terse drama, combing his sympathetic commentary with the immediacy of rich, diverse voices.” —Booklist
From the Hardcover edition.
"A gripping tale of hardship, adventure and yearning, of hopes raised and dashed, and of troubled and sometimes heroic adaptations to refugee camps.... One of many strengths of this book is to show ... what strangely mixed motives impel these brave, complicated people. A masterful storyteller, Yaghmaian reveals many layers to the refugees' personalities and histories, and some to his own."—The San Francisco Chronicle
“An El Norte or Grapes of Wrath for the Muslim world–affecting, immediate and well written.”—Kirkus Reviews, starred review
“A riveting account of the hardships and survival strategies of Muslim migrants who are trying to make their way to the West. Embracing the Infidel adds an entirely new and human dimension to our understanding of migration and asylum issues.”—Dr. Jeff Crisp, Director of Policy and Research, Global Commission on International Migration
"Journalists like myself should be doing more work like this....Yaghmaian offers the reader vivid descriptions of the waterfront street bazaars in Istanbul, the migrant ghettos of Athens, and the creepy underworld of human smugglers....He shares the touching, often disturbing oral histories of these modern-day hobos. They "ride the rails"; paddling across seas in rubber rafts and crossing snow-covered mountains on foot without maps or compasses. By the end, you realize the clash of civilizations is not one of religions violently colliding, but of the poor who are desperately trying to get to the West, to share the freedoms, wealth and stability that we so often take for granted.”—Ivan Watson, National Public Radio
"An immensely remarkable book; a clear humane and startling account of the perils, sufferings and anxiety which both forced and economic migrants have to go through in order to reach the West. This book marks a return to civilized discussion of the need to proactively address questions related to the root causes of contemporary migration. Equally significantly, it also emphasizes the need to ensure that States respect the human rights of refugees and other sorts of migrants."—Jose Fischel de Andrade, Center of International Studies, University of Cambridge
“With none of the rambling typical of unedited oral histories, Yaghmaian tells these unforgettable stories with terse drama, combing his sympathetic commentary with the immediacy of rich, diverse voices.” —Booklist
From the Hardcover edition.
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurDelacorte Pr
- Date d'édition2005
- ISBN 10 055380393X
- ISBN 13 9780553803938
- ReliureRelié
- Nombre de pages356
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ISBN 13 : 9780553803938
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