Out of the frying pan

My bread comes from hauling a man-sized bag around the city and picking out recyclables from waste bins along the Turkish-Syrian border. Each night I drag it behind me on shopping cart wheels, as to avoid the sun. This is also when most of the competition sleeps. I hope to one day get an electic bike to do this faster. I know some may pity me, but I’m one of the lucky whose family is still together. Mashallah.

Life in my homeland was nice. So they tell me. I often wonder if my family’s old home is still intact. My earliest memories were of panic, my mother worrying about what we’d eat, and so on. This continued as we went from one box to the next. I’m talking about those two-to-three story cement boxes many still call homes in the Middle East.

I’ve been told droughts ruined our soil, if it’s even still ours. Then, insurrection took what was left. Now we live on the scraps of the world, and our welcome in the only land I’ve known, has worn thin. There’s plenty of work if you’re willing to sweat, and not get much in return. I could maybe become a builder in this hell, but I dream of getting that bike to get through trash faster. At least there is wind on a bike.