He’ll probably get into another argument in a second and forget about us, said Zahra. Anyway, my grandmother is waiting to listen to my mother’s tape. Come with me.

THE SECOND-HAND CLOTHES

Ululations seeped into the hut. Saba peered through the window. A woman had delivered a baby. Saba didn’t know whether the woman had arrived pregnant or conceived in the camp. The passage of time she had tried to ignore was sharpening its blade.

A convoy of a Land Rover trailed by a few lorries made its way to the aid centre. Zahra appeared from behind the cloud of dust, grabbing Saba by her hand.

Where have you been? Saba asked. Zahra, how is it possible we do not see each other for a long time in this small place?

To be seen and seeing each other are not the same, Zahra said, smiling. She pointed to the lorries. Come on, let’s go and look. Maybe they will be the ones to build our school.

By now, Saba thought, she should have been in college, the gates of university within sight. How long have we been here? Zahra took her friend by the arm and ran to the aid centre.

A man with a briefcase climbed down from the Land Rover. The aid supplier, as he was called by staff, greeted the aid coordinator and handed him a newspaper.

The Englishman held the newspaper open in front of him, his eyes sparkling with every page he turned. It was as if the stories from back home soothed his loneliness.

The Khwaja filed past Saba and Zahra and engaged in a conversation with the Englishman. Both men bent their heads over the newspaper, the Khwaja nodding his head as the Englishman talked. The Englishman gesticulated, the smile across his face turning into laughter, as if memories had lifted off the mask he wore in the camp and revealed another version of him.

The Englishman handed the paper to the Khwaja, who hurried home without stopping to pick up his share of the second-hand clothes the aid workers were instructed to distribute to the refugees.

Boss, just like that? said one of the staff from the back of a lorry to the aid supplier. Shouldn’t we at least ask for their sizes?

So you think we should line up all these refugees, measure them up and then sort out all these clothes according to gender and size? the aid supplier asked. Maybe we should also consider their individual taste? Just throw the clothes off the lorry.

They did. Saba looked up. For a moment, everything was suspended in the air. Shirts, jeans, underwear, dresses and bras flew above people’s heads. Clothes and underclothes, the public and the private, all mingled in the free air before they fell to earth, where separation began, where humanity had to be divided into sections, as if that was the only way to live. Even in this wilderness, boundaries mattered.

I have a dress, she heard a man yelling. Anyone with trousers or a shirt?