The Naked Don't Fear the Water

An Underground Journey with Afghan Refugees

Matthieu Aikins

• Editorial: Harper
• Año: 2022
• ISBN:
  9780063058606
• Categoría: Politics & International Relations
• Categoría: Immigration Policy

A NYTBR Editor's Choice

"This is a book of radical empathy, crossing many borders – not just borders that separate nations, but also borders of form, borders of meaning, and borders of possibility. It is powerful and humane and deserves to find a wide, wandering readership."— Mohsin Hamid, author of Exit West

In this extraordinary book, an acclaimed young war reporter chronicles a dangerousjourney on the smuggler's road to Europe, accompanying his friend, an Afghan refugee, in search of a better future.

In 2016, a young Afghan driver and translator named Omar makes the heart-wrenching choice to flee his war-torn country, saying goodbye to Laila, the love of his life, without knowing when they might be reunited again. He is one of millions of refugees who leave their homes that year.

Matthieu Aikins, a journalist living in Kabul, decides to follow his friend. In order to do so, he must leave his own passport and identity behind to go underground on the refugee trail with Omar. Their odyssey across land and sea from Afghanistan to Europe brings them face to face with the people at heart of the migration crisis: smugglers, cops, activists, and the men, women and children fleeing war in search of a better life.As setbacks and dangers mount for the two friends, Matthieu is also drawn into the escape plans of Omar's entire family, including Maryam, the matriarch who has fought ferociously for her children's survival.

Harrowing yet hopeful, this exceptional work brings into sharp focus one of the most contentious issues of our times. T he Naked Don't Fear the Water is a tale of love and friendship across borders, and an inquiry into our shared journey in a divided world.

Part I

The War

1

At first light, I leaned against the window and looked down at the mountains. We were flying into the rising sun, and its rays threw the badlands into relief: corrugated brown cut by green valleys, and speckled with hamlets still reached by donkey. We were near the intersection of Afghanistan, Iran, and Turkmenistan, but which country I saw below I couldn’t say. Frost had crystallized on my porthole, rosy with the dawn just like our contrails would be to the people below.

I settled back against the headrest. We were still a few hours out from Kabul, where my friend Omar was waiting for me. When I closed my eyes, I could see his face when he dropped me off that summer at the airport, suddenly pleading, his hand gripping mine: “Come back, brother. Don’t leave me. Everyone else is leaving.”

The plane was quiet. The few passengers I could see were slumped forward or sprawled out asleep across the rows. These empty places would be filled on the return to Istanbul, I knew, with Afghans fleeing the war. My own seat might be taken by someone who planned to cross the water in the little rubber boats that departed from Turkey to Europe. Thousands of refugees were landing each day now on the Greek islands, and many more were on the way. It was late October 2015, and something miraculous was happening that fall, a violation of a fundamental law: under the weight of the people, the border had opened.

For years, the pressure outside Europe had been building as war spread through the Middle East and made millions homeless. The boat people were mostly Syrian, Afghan, and Iraqi. Many were women and children, and, short of shooting them, there was no way to stop them. From Greece, they headed north through the Balkans, filling city squares and border crossings, a spectacle on the news, a crisis. To keep the European Union from tearing itself apart, Germany suspended its rules and let the migrants through; other countries followed suit, and now the five frontiers between Athens and Berlin were down. Screens around the world showed the masses walking through open borders, proof of the impossible, a clarion announcing universal freedom of movement—a dream for some, and a nightmare for others.

No one knew how long the miracle would last. Thousands of people were landing each day now in the little boats. A million would pass into Europe.

And Omar and I were going to cross with them.

WE HAD MADE OUR DECISION back in August, when I’d returned home to Kabul after an assignment in Yemen. I’d known Omar since I’d started working in Afghanistan, and he’d always dreamed of living in the West, but his aspiration had grown urgent as the civil war intensified and his city was torn apart by bombings. American soldiers were on their way out of the country; I was trying to move on, too, burned out after seven years reporting here, but I couldn’t leave Omar behind. So when I’d flown back earlier that summer, my friend had been on my mind. I had no plan yet, but an idea was taking shape. Omar and I needed to talk.

WELCOME TO HAMID KARZAI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. At the immigration counter, I handed over my passport and placed my fingertips on the green glow of the scanner, then walked to the baggage carousel and got my suitcase, wheeled it to the X-ray machine. The cop at the monitor was looking for guns and bottles. Alcohol was illegal in the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan, except at the embassies and international agencies, but foreign visitors were allowed to bring in two precious bottles each. I hefted my suitcase onto the conveyor belt, along with the bag of scotch and gin from the duty-free in Istanbul, and walked to the other end, rehearsing my lines.

My ancestors came from Japan and Europe, but I look uncannily Afghan: almond eyes, black hair, wiry beard. So the border guards invariably assumed that I was a local with haram contraband, a lucrative catch, since the confiscated booze would likely end up on the black market. Over the years, my Persian got better, but that just made the conversations more awkward.

“Brother, are you telling me you’re not Afghan?”

“No, sir,” I’d say, scrambling around the belt with my passport before the cop could snatch the bottles. “Look at my name, I’m not even Muslim—sorry.”

Outside the terminal, I inhaled the dry summer air. I hadn’t been sleeping much since Sanaa, but my tiredness left me as the scene came into focus: faraway snowcaps of the Hindu Kush, the slums on the hillside, the Humvee with its turret pointed at the gate. In the parking lot I spotted a gold Toyota Corolla and, listening to the radio with the window down and a cigarette lit, my friend Omar. He got out and walked forward: taller than me, broad-shouldered, with a fleshy grin and crow’s-feet. As we embraced, the heat made his stubble prick against my cheek; he smelled of cologne and smoke. Prying my suitcase from my hand, Omar hefted it into the trunk. We drove into the roundabout outside the airport, a gyre of taxis, armored SUVs, buses, the policemen shouting, the beggars tapping windows, the peddlers swinging racks of phone cards and dashboard ornaments. Omar nosed the Corolla forward, cursing softly, one hand on the wheel and the other clutching a Pine, from time to time leaving it between his lips to run his fingers through his dark mop of hair. It wasn’t until we got out onto the airport highway, with its long stretch of cavernous wedding halls, that we could relax and catch up.

“It’s good that you’re back, baradar,” he said in Persian. He smiled but kept his eyes on the road.

“It’s good to see you too, brother,” I said.

He knew my lease was expiring, and that I’d come back to clear out the house. It seemed like half the city was escaping that summer of raftan, raftan—going, going. Afghans were losing hope in their country’s future. The middle class spent their savings on flights and visas to Turkey; young men filled buses departing for the southern desert near Iran. Omar’s own family was leaving. Four of his siblings were already in Europe, and his mother and sister were getting ready to escape with smugglers. But for a long time, Omar’s plan had been to emigrate to America through the Special Immigrant Visa, a program created by Congress to reward loyal Afghan and Iraqi employees—a happy ending for a few, to soothe America’s conscience. Omar should have qualified; he’d served in combat as an interpreter for the Special Forces, and worked with USAID and demining contractors. But when he sent his application to me, I saw that he was in trouble. He needed all sorts of paperwork that he’d never thought to collect over the years: letters of recommendation from his supervisors, copies of his employers’ contracts with the US government. How was he supposed to track down a Green Beret captain he knew only by first name? Or get documents from the demining company, which had gone out of business? Hello my dear and sweet brother, he emailed while I was abroad. I hope you are fine and doing well. Please wish for me best of luck and find the chance to get the US visa and move there. I am really tired of life here.

We sent in everything he had. It took two years for the answer to come back: We regret to advise you that your application for Chief of Mission (COM) approval to submit a petition for the SQ–Special Immigrant Visa (SIV) program has been denied for the following reason(s): Lack sufficient documents to make a determination. . . .

When his dream of America was dashed, Omar was left with the same prospect as his mother and sister: taking the smuggler’s road to Europe, a long and dangerous journey across the mountains and sea. That’s when I had my idea. If Omar was going to travel that way, then I wanted to go with him and write about it. Given the risk of being kidnapped or arrested, I’d have to disguise myself as a fellow Afghan migrant, but after all the dangerous assignments we’d done here together, I trusted Omar with my life. This way, I could see the refugee underground from the inside. And I wouldn’t have to leave my friend behind. We’d be helping each other. And I would pay for everything.

Omar was silent a moment after I laid it out for him, as we sat parked outside my house that August. He could tell I was serious. Then he grinned. “Of course we can go together.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, brother.”

“All right,” I said. “When can we leave?”

He sighed. “Not yet,” he said. I’d assumed he was ready, but it wasn’t so simple. First, he had to get his parents out of the country.

“Of course,” I told him.

And there was someone else keeping him here in Kabul: Laila. She was his landlord’s daughter and lived two houses down. They’d been seeing each other in secret for several years now, but I hadn’t realized things had gotten serious. She was the love of his life, he told me. They planned to get married. But she came from a wealthy Shia family; Omar was Sunni and had only the Corolla to his name. If only he’d gotten the visa to America, he would have had something to offer her family. He could have taken her there legally. Now he had to get asylum in Europe first and then come back for her. But while he was gone, her father might try to marry her off to someone else; Laila told him that she could delay, but not defy, the patriarch’s decision.

That was his dilemma: to win Laila, Omar would have to leave, and risk losing her.

AFTER I MADE MY PROPOSAL that day in August, we dropped my luggage off at the house and ran errands. It was late by the time we came back and there was a blackout in the neighborhood, as usual. We had a generator but as we drove up, I could see that the upstairs windows were dark above the courtyard wall, and I wondered if anyone was home; but then Omar honked, and old Turabaz, our chowkidar, creaked open the gate for us. As we pulled in, the dog barked and threw herself against her chain.

I’d lived in a few different houses in Kabul during the years I spent there as a freelance journalist, but this was the first I’d made my own. A few years earlier, I moved with three other foreigners. We renovated the house, planted roses in the garden, held parties, and then, one after the other, my friends left the country, replaced by other, increasingly transient housemates. Most expats didn’t come to Afghanistan for long. It was an adventure or a chance to make money.

I got out of the car and shone my light on the tufted, yellow lawn. I’d been away for months. The shed, where we’d once distilled vodka, was filled with trash. For security, someone had crudely bricked up one of the doorways that led to the street. And the dog, wild at the best of times, was matted with filth and mad with excitement, her tongue greeting my palms as I crouched to her. “Isn’t anyone taking care of her?” I snapped at Turabaz.

Omar was crouched by our old gas generator. We yanked and cursed, but it wouldn’t start, so we went from room to room examining the house’s furnishings by flashlight. I wanted to sell them and give the money to Turabaz, since he’d soon be out of a job, although the secondhand markets in Kabul were glutted from emigrants liquidating their households. Omar had helped us move in, and he remembered exactly how much we’d overpaid for each item.

“You spent a hundred dollars for that,” he said, shining his beam on a dusty pressboard shelf. “It’s probably worth five dollars now.”

When Omar went to check out the kitchen, I sat down at a desk in the living room. I was starting to feel the jet lag. We used this room as our office, and I’d written a lot of my stories here, with a gas heater hissing in the winter, the door open to the garden in the summer. In the gloom, the carpet’s stains were faintly visible. I rubbed one with my toe—red wine. When we hosted parties we pushed the desks together into a bar that grew sticky with homemade punch. People from all over the world had danced together here. For a while we’d called this country home. Now we were leaving it like a shell we’d outgrown.

When we finished our inventory, Omar and I took the dog for a walk. Turabaz had named her Baad, which means “wind” in Persian. She was mostly German shepherd, I think, and I liked to show her off because home invasions were becoming a problem. When I walked her, the kids in the street, seeing her daggerish grin, cried gorg, wolf. She was affectionate, but difficult to train due to a tic from some puppyhood trauma. At the slightest pressure on her hindquarters, she’d chase her tail in a snarling loop that brought to mind the self-swallowing serpent Ouroboros. One of my since-departed housemates had acquired her on a whim while I was out of town. I still had to figure out what to do with her.

Kabul’s streets were empty at night. We walked over to Kolola Pushta Hill, a pair of mounds with a graveyard on one and a mud-walled fort on the other, built by the British in the nineteenth century and now home to an Afghan army unit. As Baad snuffled at a gutter, Omar stalked ahead, whispering into his phone to Laila. He was telling her what he’d told me as we were driving home. He’d made up his mind to leave and become a refugee, but not until he and Laila were engaged. He was going to ask her father for her hand, on the assumption that Omar could get asylum and bring his bride to Europe. He’d warned me that it might take some time to convince the patriarch. I replied that I could be patient. I had to go back to the US anyway to finish an assignment but I planned to return in October. Surely Omar would be ready by then.

The track wound upward among the gravestones, jagged stones with sticks and rags tied to them. Across from us, the outline of the fort sunk against the streetlights beyond. A scraping cough came from the darkness of the graveyard, and then the smell of hashish. I tightened my grip on Baad’s leash. Let Omar try to win his beloved, I thought. If we were going to travel underground together, then I needed time to prepare to pass as Afghan. Once we started there would be no turning back, not without abandoning my friend. Because we might be searched, I’d have to leave behind the American and Canadian passports that allowed me to move so easily through this world full of borders. And yet it wasn’t just checkpoints and fences that governed our movements; there were laws and webs of surveillance and more intangible lines drawn by self-interest—the tracks our lives ran on, the limits to our imagination. The wall is al...