They came for Mahmoud and his father again the next morning, this time to take them to a crowded refugee camp in a cold, muddy field surrounded by a wire fence. Multicolored camping tents stood among heaps of trash and discarded clothes, and Hungarian soldiers in blue uniforms and white surgical masks guarded the entrances and exits. There was only one real building, a windowless cinder-block warehouse filled with row after row of metal cots.
Mahmoud and his father found Mom and Waleed among the newly arrived refugees, and they shared a tearful reunion. They were each given a blanket and a bottle of water, and found cots for themselves. But when the food was delivered, they missed out. The Hungarian soldiers stood at one end of the room, tossing sandwiches into the crowd like zookeepers throwing food to the animals in a cage, and Mahmoud and his family didn’t know enough to rush the tables to catch their lunch.
Mahmoud expected his father to laugh it off, but he wasn’t joking anymore. Instead, Dad sat on his cot, his face and arms purple and bruised,
staring off into space. Getting beaten and thrown into prison by the Hungarians had finally broken his spirit.
It scared Mahmoud. Of the four members of his family who were left, he was the only one who wasn’t broken. His mother had snapped the moment she had handed her daughter away, and now she wandered the maze of mattresses and blankets in the detention center, asking people she had already asked if they had seen or heard of a baby named Hana.
Mahmoud’s brother, Waleed, was broken too, but unlike his mother he had been broken piece by piece, over time, like someone snapping off little bites of a chocolate bar until there was nothing left. He lay listless on a foam mattress, disinterested in the card games or soccer games the other children were playing. Whatever childish joy he had once possessed had been sucked out until there was nothing left.
And now his father was dead inside too.
Mahmoud fumed. Why were they even here? Why did the Hungarians care if they were just passing through? Why had they taken them all the way to the Austrian border only to throw them in a detention center? It felt personal somehow. Like the whole country was conspiring to keep them from finding a real home. There were policemen with guns at every door.
They were more like prisoners than refugees, and when they got out of here it would just be to go back to Serbia. Back to another country that didn’t want them.
After everything they had been through, they weren’t going to make it to Germany after all.
But Mahmoud wasn’t ready to give up. He wanted life to be like it was before the war had come. They couldn’t go back to Syria. Not now.
Mahmoud knew that. But there was no reason they couldn’t make a new life
for themselves somewhere else. Start over. Be happy again. And Mahmoud wanted to do whatever it took to make that happen. Or at least try.
But making something happen meant drawing attention. Being visible.
And being invisible was so much easier. It was useful too, like in Aleppo, or Serbia, or here in Hungary. But sometimes it was just as useful to be visible, like in Turkey and Greece. The reverse was true too, though: Being invisible had hurt them as much as being visible had.
Mahmoud frowned. And that was the real truth of it, wasn’t it? Whether you were visible or invisible, it was all about how other people reacted to you. Good and bad things happened either way. If you were invisible, the bad people couldn’t hurt you, that was true. But the good people couldn’t help you, either. If you stayed invisible here, did everything you were supposed to and never made waves, you would disappear from the eyes and minds of all the good people out there who could help you get your life back.
It was better to be visible. To stand up. To stand out.
Mahmoud watched as a door on a nearby wall opened, and a group of men and women in light blue caps and vests with the letters UN written on them came inside, escorted by some important-looking Hungarian soldiers.
Mahmoud knew that the UN was the United Nations—the same group that had been helping people at the Kilis refugee camp. The UN people carried clipboards and cell phones, and made notes and took pictures of the living conditions. This place was run by the Hungarians, not the UN, so Mahmoud guessed they were there to observe. To document the living conditions of the refugees.
Mahmoud decided right then and there he was going to make sure the observers saw him.
Mahmoud got up from his cot and walked to the door. All he had to do was push his way through, and he would be outside. But a Hungarian soldier stood guard next to it. She wore a blue uniform, a red cap, and a thick black leather belt that held a nightstick and had all kinds of compartments. Over her shoulder she carried a small automatic rifle on a strap, the barrel pointed at the gymnasium floor.
The guard ignored Mahmoud. He stood right in front of her, but she looked over him. Past him. Mahmoud was invisible as long as he did what he was supposed to do, and as long as he was invisible he was safe, and she was comfortable.
It was time for both of those things to change.
Mahmoud took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Chuk-chunk.
The sound echoed loudly in the big room, and suddenly all the kids stopped playing and all the adults looked up from their mattresses at him. It was green outside, and sunny, and at first Mahmoud had to squint to see.
“Hey!” the guard cried. She saw him now, didn’t she? The UN observers did too.
“Stop! No! Not allowed!” the soldier said in bad Arabic. She struggled to find the right words and said something in Hungarian that Mahmoud didn’t understand. She started to raise her gun at him, and then she glanced up and saw the frowns on the faces of the UN observers.
Mahmoud stepped outside. The woman looked around at the other guards and called out to them, as if asking what to do. Mahmoud took another step, and another, and soon he was away from the building, walking toward the road.
Waleed ran through the door after him, followed by the rest of the children. The Hungarian guards yelled after them, but they didn’t do anything to stop them.
“Mahmoud!” Waleed said, panting as he ran up alongside his brother.
His eyes were bright and alive for the first time Mahmoud could remember.
“Mahmoud! What are you doing?”
“I’m not staying in that place and waiting for them to send me back to Serbia. Come on,” Mahmoud said. “We’re walking to Austria.”