The Helpful and the Helpless
He flashed me a giant smile as I got onto the bus from the border town of Shataura to the place they call the "factory" (why? I don't know. Ask someone in Lebanon) He seemed determined to help me the entire way. Whenever the bus was about to move, he came and got me. When we got to the "factory", he walked me up to the border. And even though I realized with some surprise that he could barely read, he attempted to direct me to the correct lines and the correct forms in Lebanese emigration.
I wasn't sure whether he befriended me out of idealism (in wanting to help me), opportunism (in wanting to make a buck off of me), or just loneliness. Generally I am wary of strangers, but since he was technically young enough to be my son, I grudgingly accepted his attention. Anyway, since I had no idea where I was going, I figured I would be better off following him than the hordes of men hawking currency exchange. With a face full of pimples and a shock of blonde hair, he looked no more than 15 or 16, but his eyes had a hardened, mature glance that -- along with his clothes -- betrayed his poorer roots. Although I didn't ask him anything about himself, I gathered that he was from Bint Jbail (where I had also left that day), and that he was going to Syria to visit his family. Somehow I doubted that, but I didn't say anything.
He showed me his ID card with pride as we got to the border. His eyes were sparkling with excitement. I wondered if this was the first time he had gone to Syria -- or at least, the first time alone. I told him to go on without me since I would be a long time at Syrian immigration, whereas as a Lebanese citizen he could go straight to Sham. But he insisted that I wait for him. I wondered why I felt compelled to do what he said, and then I remembered the hadith -- he who shows you kindness makes you his slave. So I waited at the door.
When he returned, he said nothing. He walked over to the side of the road and stomped his foot. He looked like he was doing everything he could to stop himself from bursting into tears. I asked him what was wrong, but he wouldn't say anything. Finally, a man came up to him and asked why he was there. He said that the Lebanese officials had told him that he was too young to go to Syria without his family's permission. "Of course," the man said, "what are you doing going by yourself? They'll throw you into the army over there." I didn't know if that was true or not, but that was what he said.
"Don't worry, we'll find a solution," he said. A couple girls about my age came over and consoled him.
I asked him if he needed anything and he said no. If he did, I'm sure he wouldn't have said. I felt terrible, but I really had to go since I was afraid the visa agent who had the papers to get me into Syria would leave me stranded between Syria and Lebanon if I didn't get to immigration fast. Feeling like Judas Iscariot, I thanked him and apologized and got into a taxi.
"Going to Iran?" the taxi driver asked.
"Insha'allah, from Syria," I said, with enthusiasm.
"That kid with you?" he asked.
"No," I said, averting my eyes.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Yes, he's not with me," I said.
We drove on, and I avoided looking back. I regretted not doing anything to help him. I hope he got back to Bint Jbail all right.
I wasn't sure whether he befriended me out of idealism (in wanting to help me), opportunism (in wanting to make a buck off of me), or just loneliness. Generally I am wary of strangers, but since he was technically young enough to be my son, I grudgingly accepted his attention. Anyway, since I had no idea where I was going, I figured I would be better off following him than the hordes of men hawking currency exchange. With a face full of pimples and a shock of blonde hair, he looked no more than 15 or 16, but his eyes had a hardened, mature glance that -- along with his clothes -- betrayed his poorer roots. Although I didn't ask him anything about himself, I gathered that he was from Bint Jbail (where I had also left that day), and that he was going to Syria to visit his family. Somehow I doubted that, but I didn't say anything.
He showed me his ID card with pride as we got to the border. His eyes were sparkling with excitement. I wondered if this was the first time he had gone to Syria -- or at least, the first time alone. I told him to go on without me since I would be a long time at Syrian immigration, whereas as a Lebanese citizen he could go straight to Sham. But he insisted that I wait for him. I wondered why I felt compelled to do what he said, and then I remembered the hadith -- he who shows you kindness makes you his slave. So I waited at the door.
When he returned, he said nothing. He walked over to the side of the road and stomped his foot. He looked like he was doing everything he could to stop himself from bursting into tears. I asked him what was wrong, but he wouldn't say anything. Finally, a man came up to him and asked why he was there. He said that the Lebanese officials had told him that he was too young to go to Syria without his family's permission. "Of course," the man said, "what are you doing going by yourself? They'll throw you into the army over there." I didn't know if that was true or not, but that was what he said.
"Don't worry, we'll find a solution," he said. A couple girls about my age came over and consoled him.
I asked him if he needed anything and he said no. If he did, I'm sure he wouldn't have said. I felt terrible, but I really had to go since I was afraid the visa agent who had the papers to get me into Syria would leave me stranded between Syria and Lebanon if I didn't get to immigration fast. Feeling like Judas Iscariot, I thanked him and apologized and got into a taxi.
"Going to Iran?" the taxi driver asked.
"Insha'allah, from Syria," I said, with enthusiasm.
"That kid with you?" he asked.
"No," I said, averting my eyes.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Yes, he's not with me," I said.
We drove on, and I avoided looking back. I regretted not doing anything to help him. I hope he got back to Bint Jbail all right.
posted by Ayatollah Logic's Wife at 12:52 AM
1 Comments:
that's heartbreaking
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