Refugee

By Bill Webster

Refugee is the final exciting novel in The Sloping Meadow trilogy. This time the principal storyteller is Mahir, a 13 year-old boy who has no choice but to start out on an epic journey from war-torn Syria to try and help his mum and little brother.
In this gripping adventure, he has a series of escapades, including a fight with a large brown bear in Slovenia, and is constantly either greatly helped or really mistreated by the people he meets.
Lucy and her friends find him in Antalya, in the Temple of Apollo, the worse for wear. They agree to help him escape to Northern France with a very daring plan that carries a lot of risks…
This illustrated novel has a non-stop, action-packed story, including insights from others featured as storytellers commenting on war and what it means to be a refugee. It carries a very important message for all who read it and their outlook on war and refugees will change forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398409064

Bill Webster

Bill Webster was a theatre manager at Epsom Playhouse for five years, as well as a civil servant for almost 39 years, serving the most vulnerable children and adults in the High Court, especially in the Court of Protection. Taught English literature by Peter Dale, the acclaimed modern poet, he enjoys writing and illustrating the novels and painting in oils and drawing in soft pastels. He is a keen gardener and has always been interested in spiritual matters. Bill is married to Bev and they have two children and three grandchildren and live in Carshalton, Surrey.

Book preview

About the Author

Bill Webster was a theatre manager at Epsom Playhouse for five years, as well as a civil servant for almost 39 years, serving the most vulnerable children and adults in the High Court, especially in the Court of Protection. Taught English literature by Peter Dale, the acclaimed modern poet, he enjoys writing and illustrating the novels and painting in oils and drawing in soft pastels. He is a keen gardener and has always been interested in spiritual matters. Bill is married to Bev and they have two children and three grandchildren and live in Carshalton, Surrey.

Dedication

For my wife, Bev, Eliot and Jana, Luka and Theo and Michelle and Monaie.

Copyright Information ©

Bill Webster 2022

The right of Bill Webster to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398409057 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398409064 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

With acknowledgements to the Austin Macauley Publishers for editing and publishing all my novels and Peter Dale, Dick Stoker and Maurice Holmwood who taught me so much about English Language and English Literature at Glastonbury High School.

Chapter 1

The Ruins of Aleppo, Syria

Above us, the sky is still black from the smoke of a cluster of fires on the ground.

It is exactly 5 pm, and just minutes ago we have had four or five bombs dropped on our heads. These have caused the fires that smell worse than burning tyres and give off toxic fumes. Children cry now as the toxic fumes enter their lungs and choke them.

Just for a moment, try and imagine what I have just told you: in the place where you are sitting or standing, four or five bombs are being dropped from the skies down to where you are, with the sole intention of killing you.

Welcome to our world.

My brother, Taj, thinks the world, his world, this world and for that matter, my world, has gone mad.

Why do they want to bomb the very life out of us?

The very truth is we have actually done nothing to deserve it.

We were at school only four years ago and we are always willing to study hard. Muslims can study hard, you know.

Taj says to me today, If we had no bombs ‘just for one day’, we could play football again in the streets like we used to; against the mosque walls. Only the mosque is no longer there! Why was our sacred mosque destroyed?

He is right, of course, but try telling that to the politicians, who are intent on cracking our dusty heads wide open. This daily bombardment has sent Mum mad and our dad was taken by the men in dark clothes long ago. We fear we will not see him again.

Mum is keen for me to leave and try my best to get to Turkey and out of there to France and then perhaps to England but she wonders if, at 13, I have the will, the skill and the sheer strength to achieve this task.

I am not sure myself but I cannot stay here as it is beginning to get me down. I am depressed, as they say, at 13!

‘How is this possible?’

Let me download from my phone a great photo of Mum and my brother so you can at least see what they look like.

Oh, Mum is called Rabiha Aslam and she is 37, but almost every day, tells me she is feeling more like 57. I tell her that the war, the so-called war, where we just absorb the bombs but do nothing in return, cannot last forever but she feels differently. Onslaught is a more accurate description of what we have to endure incessantly. Calling it a war is as inaccurate as calling a small town a city or a river a sea.

Here they are; I hope you can see just how happy they were when the photo was taken. It was a great day in Aleppo; hot and happy; that’s what we say in Aleppo. The sky was Syrian purple.

Oh, before I download the photo for you, I am Mahir Aslam, the first born of my father.

Here then is Mum and my brother, looking happy in the Syrian sunshine.

We grew maize and barley and cotton; we led simple lives.

In the photo, you can see how well our young cotton was doing in our field. With the bombing, however, we could not continue and help it mature, so the cotton had to be abandoned; only the maize was strong despite everything that was conspiring against it.

It is only in my beautiful country, Syria, that I have seen such purple skies; our teacher, Yara, taught us that the purple was in fact on the opposite end of the colour spectrum to the yellow. Now whether we see a purple sky when the yellow is seen or whether we see the yellow sky when the purple is seen I do not know. Perhaps they come but only when they are together.

Mum usually makes delicious bread and lentils but recently even that has stopped with the constant bombing. We are just like you in the UK and the rest of the world, but the main difference is that we have lots of bombs dropping on us from the sky every day. You do not have this assault on your physical being. How can any of you understand what war is? How are we expected to seek out your sympathy; how on earth are you expected to show your empathy towards the ordinary people of Syria when you are without this infernal, ceaseless suffering?

After 1500 days of bombs dropping on us, Mum grabs me by my arm on this hot Syrian day and lovingly instructs me:

Taj is too young to make it. I love you, Mahir, but I want this. I want you to make it somewhere to safety and then do what you can to either get us there as well or help us where we are. Is that clear? Mahir Aslam, my first born and much-loved son?

I say, Mamma, perfectly clear but I will miss you and Taj so much.

My eyes now fill with tears as I contemplate my fate.

Yes, that is true, but if we do not do something and soon, my son, there will be nothing left of you or me or Taj, or even Aleppo. Just look what they have done to our beautiful land.

A solitary tear has appeared and is running down her face quickly drying up due to the dirt and dust that cling to her beautiful, sad face. We have to put up with this dust and dirt caused solely by the bombs. Mum has visibly aged since it all began.

Mamma, I agree so much with this. I will do as you say and cannot promise anything better than what you have but I will take hope with me as my only friend and pray to Allah, the Magnificent, for strength and support.

You, my boy, are my beautiful son, who was good at school but has no school now to be good at. Your school was a great place to learn until the school was bombed. You will do well. This I am sure. Your dear Uncle Betrose will assist you to make it to Turkey. From there you will be more or less on your own. So, ask Allah to protect you every day and have faith in your uncle and especially in Allah, The Beloved and Magnificent.

It is now 7 pm and after we have eaten a meagre amount of food, the time has now arrived for parting. We have now come to the time when Uncle Betrose arrives and I say my goodbyes to those two souls whom I love the most on Earth.

Can you imagine what it is going to be like for me at 13 to say goodbye to them?

There is no time for tears anymore. We have all cried too much for papa when he was taken early one morning; I sometimes cannot remember what he looks like. I cannot; when I shut my eyes, I don’t see him clearly anymore. That is how crazy it all gets here. I feel angry about this and guilty.

I feel guilty because my little brother, Taj, and my dear mum, Rabiha, will have to face whatever is left to be faced on their own. I now have mixed feelings about leaving: happy to go; unhappy to leave them.

No, I refuse to cry but I hold their hands and pretend that I am everything that Mum tells