《Syria Girl》Malia and me

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The tarmac was hot, blurry, and cracked despite it still being midway through spring.

Our plane had just touched down at Izmir Adnan Menderes Airport, Turkey, and we were transferring our luggage from the terminal to an old Land Rover with safari covers.

We were a group of eight, all British, all carrying pale complexions and sweating like crazy even though we’d only been outside for about two minutes.

Donna, the large Red Cross minder I’d seen in court, sat in the passenger’s seat. While a tall but lanky middle eastern man hopped into the driver’s side. Both wore the red cross on the chest of their t-shirts.

I piled into the back with the other juvies and sat staring out the window. I don’t think any of us really knew what to do with each other. In prison we would’ve established some sort of pecking order, but this was different.

Sitting in the row across from me was a girl with long dreads and a tattoo rolling across her shoulders. She raised her eyebrows, ‘What are you here for?’

It was a typical juvie question, ‘I robbed a bottle store.’

‘Seems harsh you’d get this.’

‘It was my third strike.’

She nodded, exposing the silver on her teeth, ‘I shot my drug dealer in the kneecap.’

‘Now that seems harsh.’

‘Well,’ she said, a vicious smile playing across her lips, ‘It was his third strike.’

The rest of the juvies were the same as dreadlocks girl, slightly psychopathic teens with bad upbringings and broken homes. The Land Rover was filled with swearing, a couple of gang references, and bragging as it made its way to the place we were supposed to be helping out.

A large fence wormed its way around the camp, but the fence had no gates. Donna explained to us that people were free to come and go as they pleased.

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‘Most stay though,’ Donna said, ‘Good jobs are scarce and it’s hard to get back on your feet when your life has been swept from under you.’

Around us, there were hundreds and hundreds of tents made up of more colours than I’d ever imagined. I laughed as I spotted a Homer Simpson tent. The girl next to me turned her dreadlocked head, ‘What’s funny?’

I pointed out the tent and she cracked up, ‘Of all places for that fat American to show up….’

The Land Rover rolled to a stop outside the barracks we’d be staying in. The setup was nothing more than a group of shipping containers with a canvas roof stretched over top of them. There were four bunks to a container plus area to store our stuff.

It’d barely make one-star accommodation in the U.K, but in the camp it was a mansion when compared to the Homer Simpson tent.

We were told to choose any bunk we wanted, I was a little slow and ended up with one of the bottom bunks near the window. It suited me just fine: heat rises, and we’d be there through the summer, top bunk wouldn’t be quite so enjoyable at that point.

As I was setting up my bed, the girl with the dreads watched. She had the bottom bunk at the other side of the container.

‘Where abouts in the U.K are you from?’ she asked.

‘London, you?’

‘Edinburgh.’

I nodded and went back to my bed, I didn’t see the point in small talk, we’d have enough time to get to know each other over the next five months.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Huh?’

‘I said what the hell’s your name?’

‘Danny.’

I didn’t need to ask her name, she’d tell me.

‘I’m Malia.’

I sat down, the bed creaked, ‘It’s a crazy place we’ve found ourselves in.’

She shrugged, then spat in the corner of the room, ‘Beats juvie.’

I nodded, and looked outside at the rows of tents that flapped in a slight wind, ‘Yeah… for us anyway.’

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