born and where I was living when the war started. Then the questions start to become strange.
‘Are there any landmarks in Aleppo?’ he says.
‘Of course.’
‘Can you name some of these?’
‘Well, there’s the citadel. The Umayyad Mosque, Khan al-Jumruk, al-Firdaws Madrasa, which means “the school of paradise”, al-Otrush Mosque, the Bab al-Faraj Clock Tower … do you want more?’
‘Thank you, that should be sufficient. Is the old souq in the north or east of the city?’
‘It’s central.’
‘What do they sell at the souq?’
‘Thousands of things!’
‘Such as?’
‘Fabrics, silks and linen. Carpets and lanterns and silver, gold and bronze, and spices and teas and herbs and my wife used to sell her paintings there.’
‘What’s your country’s name?’
‘Syria. Don’t you want to know how I got here?’
‘We’ll get there soon. These are just standard questions, part of the procedure.’
He pauses for a moment and consults his papers. Then he scratches his shiny head.
‘Have you seen Daesh?’
‘No, not personally.’
‘So you’ve never come in contact with anyone from this group?’
‘No. Of course I’ve seen them on the streets or wherever, but I’ve never had any personal contact with them.’
‘Were you ever held prisoner by Daesh?’
‘No.’
‘Did you work with Daesh?’
‘No.’
‘Are you married?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is your wife’s name?’
‘Afra Ibrahim.’
‘Do you have children?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many?’
‘One, a boy.’
‘Where was he born?’
‘In Aleppo.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He died in Syria.’
He pauses for a moment and stares at the desk. The woman next to him looks sad. I’m starting to feel agitated.
‘Can you say something special about him? Something you remember about him?’
‘Who?’
‘Your son. I understand this is difficult, Mr Ibrahim, but could you please try to answer the question. It’s important that you do.’
‘OK. Once, when he was riding his bike down the hill – I’d told him not to because there was such a steep hill going down to the city from our bungalow – well, he fell off it and broke his finger and it didn’t really mend and he had this little bend in his finger.’
‘Which hand?’
‘Which hand?’
‘On which hand was this injury? Right or left?’
I look down at my hands and remember Sami’s hand in mine.
‘It was his left hand. I know because his left hand fit into my right hand and I could feel his bent little finger.’
‘What was his date of birth?’
‘January 5th 2009.’
‘Have you ever killed anyone?’
‘No.’
‘What’s the national anthem of your country?’
‘Is this a joke?’
‘Is that your answer?’
‘No! It’s called “Guardians of the Homeland”.’
‘Can you sing it without the words?’
I hum a few of the lines through gritted teeth.
‘Do you like reading?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘What was the last book you read?’
‘A book about the crystallisation process of honey.’
‘Do you read political books?’
‘No.’
‘What about your wife?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘What does your wife do for a living?’
‘She is a painter. Was.’
‘What is the current situation in your country?’
‘It’s heaven on earth.’
‘Mr Ibrahim, I understand that these questions may seem to be a bit unnecessary to you, but they are an important part of your screening.’
‘The situation in my country is complete chaos and destruction.’
‘Who is your president?’
‘Bashar al-Assad.’
‘When did he become the president?’
* * *
And the questions continue in this way. Do I have any association with the president? Where is Syria? What countries does it share borders with? Is there a river in Aleppo? What is its name? Eventually he begins to ask me about my journey here, and I tell him as much as I can remember in a straightforward, linear, coherent way, just like Lucy Fisher suggested. Except it’s harder than I thought, because when I try to answer his questions he replies often with a question that I wasn’t expecting, something that throws me and takes me to another part of the journey. I tell him as best I can about how we reached Turkey, about the smuggler’s apartment, about Mohammed, and the trip to Leros, about Athens and all those nights we spent in Pedion tou Areos. I don’t elaborate. I don’t tell him about Nadim. I do not want him to know that I helped to kill a man, that I am capable of being a murderer. And finally I tell him about how we made it to England. But I don’t tell him what happened to Afra before we arrived – I wouldn’t even be able to say the words out loud.
He tells me the interview is over. The voice recorder is turned off and the files are closed. A bar of light from a rectangular window close to the ceiling falls across his smile.
When I stand my legs are numb and