The Othe(ring)

Albi. Arabic for “my heart.” The singular word embossed on the gold, heart-shaped locket. Engraved for, Safia, daughter of Maher the widower, before she set off for the country of London to take refuge from the war. Maher was poor enough to go without food for weeks but rich enough with love to gift his daughter the locket of remembrance. It proved to be a comfort for Safia as she sat, stifled, between the wet, shivering bodies rich with pungent body odours that intertwined with the sea air.

She clutched onto the locket even after the boat collided with an iceberg—only a couple of miles from shore—that was home to a single polar bear; fed by the fish thrown at it from the boats of environmentalists. So busy with the polar bear’s suffering that they ignored the plight of the immigrants being swallowed up by the waves in dark blue gulps. It was only by good fortune that the sea spat Safia out onto the pebbled shore—narrowly missing being scooped up by the border guards and subjected to the harsh processing routine on Salus Island. Strip. Open your mouth. Spread your ass cheeks. Imagine Safia, daughter of Maher, naked before so many.

It was almost dark when Safia’s shock wore off. Now she could feel the cold air being sucked through her damp clothes. Her fingertips became like raisins. She removed a carefully wrapped plastic bag from her waistband. It held just three things. A phone number. A map of the country of London, and a few maroon-coloured Proverb Pound notes—embossed in gold with the face of the current London ruler, Remus Proverb. She was to call the number as soon as she made it to Salus island. You are allowed one phone call by law. Don’t let them deny you of this. An advocate who’d met her in the streets of Damascus had promised to help her if she ever made it to London. This line of hope now washed away with the missing digits touched by the sea.

She opened the map. Relieved to see it was still in tact. She traced her fingers around the three rings. Outer Ring. Inner Ring. Ruler’s Circle. In high school, Safia had learnt about the annexing of London from the rest of England. It’s own powerful fiefdom rum by the Proverb family for almost a century. Her finger lingered on the Ruler’s Circle. Only the most connected to the Proverb’s got to live and work there.

A helicopter rumbled overhead. It’s light penetrating the darkness; illuminating everything in its wake. She tried to shield herself behind the rocks. The light shone millimetres away from her trembling body. A sharp intake of breath. She suddenly felt a forceful tug at her jacket from behind. Before she could scream, a gloved hand covered her mouth as she was thrown further away from the light. The helicopter passed without snaring a victim. Its propellers faded leaving only silence in its wake.

Daniel. That’s what she came to know him as. When he finally let her fall from his clutch it was his gentle brown eyes that she saw first. He became her guide into this new world of segregation and seclusion. In the coming weeks he taught her how to keep warm over fires that sprouted from old oil barrels. He showed her four different ways to eat sardines. Safia, daughter of Maher the Widower, longed for lamb kofta and saffron rice. She slept under an underpass wrapped in a sleeping bag dreaming of the food she would one day dine on in the Inner Ring.

In exchange for his help, Safia helped Daniel help others. Every Tuesday they would wait for a maroon coach to pull up to the dilapidated bus terminal in the East Outer. Here the border guards would wait as the terminally ill and disabled alighted with despair. Their fine clothes giving away that their humanity used to be worth something.

You cannot have a terminal illness. You cannot have physical imperfections. You cannot have mental disabilities. You cannot be poor. These were the commandments of new London.

In this London they are called The Undesirables. The families of those now being dumped at the bus terminal were too ashamed of their flaws to even pay for them to be sent to SunnyVale. A retirement community for the imperfect.

Daniel stepped forward to welcome them but was met only by aggressive words and the occasional spit in the face. Still, Daniel reached for the arm of an elderly man who suffered from early stages of Alzheimer's. His warped mind transporting him back and forth from the present to a state of confusion. Come. I can offer you food and blankets. He shoved Daniel’s kindness away--believing that even after being cast out from his gilded ring--he’s worth more to the world than Daniel. Soon, he too will be walking around in soiled clothes with dirt under his fingernails. He just hasn’t accepted it yet.

The elderly man’s upset caused a ripple affect through the crowd, and soon The Undesirables are pushing and wailing. Hoping to be taken back to the life they once new.

As Safia watched the commotion from the sidelines, she sees a magazine fall to the ground. That night, she squints under the moonlight, thumbing its pages as she envisioned all that exists on the other side of the wall. The wealth. The beauty. A place where skyscrapers pierce the blue sky. There are no factories to be found. With their crumbling chimneys that spew harsh, black chemicals into the sky causing day to still seem like night. It was the place she and her father had spoken about over a breakfast of pitta bread and hummus. A bowl of black olives mixed with goat’s cheese on the side. He made her promise to him that she would procure the life he never got to have.

Every night the magazine was the glue that bonded her dream to reality. Even as the rain caused the pages to warp. Some nights she would sneak up to the checkpoints that ushered the domestic workers between the rings. She would press her hands and forehead against the graffitied wall whilst frantic chatter called out from the checkpoint radio’s only a few feet away. A wall has been breached in the West Outer. Send reinforcements. We have six undesirables on the run. She wondered if they were fortunate enough to avoid being ensnared.

Daniel told her to forget her dream of making it into the Inner Ring. You don’t have papers. You couldn’t even work as a maid. But, she wouldn’t give up. Every time she touched her locket, now tucked away in her sock, she felt the strength of her father.

Until.

Daniel? Daniel? It was as if he had been spirited away. At the bus terminal she began waiting for him on a Tuesday. By Friday, he still hadn’t appeared. Neither had the buses. They too had stopped arriving. She tried to celebrate this. No more undesirables being dumped like animals. Then she heard about the fire pits in the forest and it dawned on her that they were, most likely, Daniel’s final resting place.

Her loneliness and despair led her back to the water. Perched on a rock out of the helicopter's glare she held her locket out hoping it would pull her back towards Syria. Towards her father, Maher the Widower. What would he think if he laid his tired eyes on her? With her matted hair and skin caked in dirt. Safia climbed the rocks. And then another. And then another. This time she wanted the helicopters to see her. She wanted to return home. She wildly waved her hands and screamed at the stars. But, sometimes destiny has other plans.

The Cowgirl.

It was the leather boots and cow print trousers that Safia saw first. She looked up to see a freckled-face female holding her hand out. Silly girl. You’ll freeze to death out here.

For the next few weeks Safia laughed with the Cowgirl. She shared her dreams of getting into the Inner Ring. The Cowgirl became like an older sister to her and Safia soon became used to the warm baths and fresh clothes. She went to bed in the Cowgirl’s spare room with a full belly. One night the Cowgirl arranged for them to sneak into the Inner Ring. The roads were quiet as its residents slept. Safia had never seen streets so clean. The city wrapped its modern arms around them as it ushered them through the streets lined with shops that showcased wealth and prosperity. She marvelled at the running lanes for the health conscious residents. She stood in front of a department store window trying to blend her reflection with the clothes on the mannequin. They were a perfect fit.

She didn’t know how she could thank the Cowgirl but she promised she would—just as soon as she could get work within the Inner Ring. At first the Cowgirl waved her offers of thanks away.

And then, one day she didn’t.

The Cowgirl called in her debt and Safia found herself in a colonial-style home. As she stood in a brass bathtub being bathed by two maids, Safia realised that she wasn’t the only girl who had been plucked from the Outer Ring’s rough streets. There were many like her whose image of a new life in London had turned into a shattered illusion.

As she put on her virginal, white nightdress the maid chastised her for insisting on wanting to keep her locket with her. Then tie it around your calf where they can’t see it. She did what she was told and as a silk blindfold covered her eyes she settled into a temporary state of darkness.

If only Maher the Widower could see his daughter now. Would he be proud? she wondered, as she sat in a circle alongside other nameless girls like her. Their faces covered by maroon, fox-shaped masks. The dimly-lit room held hostage by the dithering candlelight. She remained calm when the nurses entered with intravenous drips, and took turns roughly searching for visible veins.

Safia turned her head slightly to the left and stared at the empty chair next to her. Finally, the men came. In their maroon suits and freshly-dyed, jet black hair. Their tanned skin unnaturally smooth for men so advanced in age. Some smiled politely revealing a flash of their bright white dentures as they positioned themselves in the empty chairs. Suit jackets were removed and sleeves neatly rolled up. Safia’s blood soon flowed from her body into that of the gentleman seated next to her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him lean back with a euphoric smile. The weaker she became the more reinvigorated he felt. His ecstasy born from knowing his life was being prolonged a little longer. Safia closed her eyes. Her depleating blood oxygen caused her body to slump in her chair.

When she regained consciousness she found herself in a hospital bed. A bed amongst a row of a hundred. Other girls just like her with IV drips in their arm. This time they were being replenished with fluids in preparation for the next time they were needed for their blood. She was worth something here.

She reached out for the food tray in front of her. A plate of lamb kofta and saffron rice. She smiled weakly feeling the locket still attached to her calf. From the security bars on the windows to the armed guards at the door she knew she would never see her father again. But, I made it to the Inner Ring, my father, Maher the Widower.