Closed Country

Yaromek sat with his short wave radio. It was an old stereo like a small brief case with a handle that allowed it to be carried around. The lid came off and divided into two speakers that stood up on the floor. The rest of the unit contained the cassette recorder, the radio and the record player. He attached the radio to the big wire aerial that hung over the curtains in the room. The receiver was by the window. The wire aerial hung down with a metal crocodile clip on the end. Yaromek clipped it to the telescopic aerial. He looked at his notebook. He had written down where Trans World Radio was, the time the transmission was due, the frequency it was on. Now was the time, half past eight in the morning. 11.5 MHZ was the frequency. Yaromek tuned into the station. The voice of the preacher, speaking in his own language, came through loud and clear.
"Although man could see the beautiful things that God made, he decided to worship the created things. Man from time immemorial has worshipped the Sun, the stars and the planets, instead of worshipping the much bigger God who made all these things. All the ancient religions of the world are forms of idolatory. The Bible talks about people worshipping gods that were carved out of stone and wood, gods that could not be gods at all. Some of it the craftsmen throws on the fire and some of it he makes into a god, never realising that it is only made of the stuff he put on the fire. You need to turn to the real God, the God who made all things, who creates them and sustains them by the power of his word. He longs to forgive. He sent his Son Jesus to die for you on the cross."

Yaromek went into the town square and began preaching.
"You must repent of your idolatory. The statues you worship are idols. The craftsmen puts some of it into the fire, then he makes the rest into a God. Well, can't you see? It's only made out of wood. It's the same stuff that you burn up on the fire. It can't do anything, can it? You should believe in the true God. You should believe in the God who made the heavens." For several hours Yaromek continued preaching, drawing from the various sermons and stories he had heard on the radio and repeating them over and over again. "You must believe in Jesus. God will forgive you if you repent and believe in him. Jesus died a cruel death. He was God's son." He wondered why the people around were taking so little notice. "Why isn't anybody listening to me?" he asked.
"We worship Mazaduk, the fish god," someone said.
"You worship a wooden statue carved into the shape of a fish. Which has most power, the fish you eat for dinner or the wood you use to cook it with? Which of those can perform miracles?"
"Mazaduk is a very good god," said someone else. "He is very kind to us. We are fishermen, Mazaduk tells us when the weather will be good. On the day of Mazaduk's procession, when they carry him through the town square on his chair, there shall be no rain."
"When is the day of Mazaduk?" Yaromek asked.
"This year it is January 15th."

Yaromek began to pray it would rain on the 15th January. His mother called him down to tea, a simple meal with a fish that had the texture and appearance of tinned tuna and little shells that were like pasta.
"Mother, I don't want anything to eat. I'm fasting and praying."
"What for?" asked Mother.
"That it will rain on the day of Mazaduk."
"It will never rain on the day of Mazaduk," said Father, "it never does. He is the god of the fishermen. He looks after them."
"He is a statue of a fish."
"He is more than that," said Mother, "there is power behind the statue. It has a spirit. It is the spirit of Mazaduk that keeps fishermen safe on the seas. Do you want this fish, or should I give it to your father?"
"Give it to father." Yaromek returned to his tiny room. Could it rain on the day of Mazaduk? God could do anything. Couldn't he? God just had to say the word and it would rain on the day of Mazaduk and everyone would believe that Jesus was the greatest. Was Mazaduk such an evil god? He wasn't just a statue, there was a spirit behind him. Wasn't it an evil spirit? If it was evil, why did it keep the fisherman safe? This was not just a myth, very few fisherman from Yaromek's village had ever died in shipwrecks. Jesus could do miracles, couldn't he? Yaromek believed that Jesus had done miracles long ago, but to believe that he could command one now, that was quite a different story. Nevertheless, Yaromek persevered.
"I call on you God, I call on you Jesus, make it rain on that horrible, detestable idol. Yes, make it rain on the day of Mazaduk. Stop them worshipping a statue carved into the shape of a fish. Stop them worshipping an evil spirit."

January 15th came. "It's the day of Mazaduk," Yaromek said at the breakfast table.
"Breakfast?" asked mother.
"No, I'm still fasting."
"Still fasting and praying for what?" asked father. "It never rains on the day of Mazaduk. Never, ever. Look, there's not a cloud in the sky. I wish I hadn't given you that old radio. It's rotting your brain."
"We shall see," said Yaromek. An hour and a half later the village elders arrived to carry Mazaduk out of his small hut and into the street. They were dressed in brown sackcloth and looked like medieval monks. By now the sky had become overcast. There was a slight drizzle.
"Take Mazaduk outside," said one of the elders. "He will stop the rain." They each grabbed ahold of the poles that led from the back and front of the chair on which Mazaduk, the wooden fish shaped god, sat. They carried it outside.
"Stop the rain, stop the rain!" shouted the elders. It began to pour.
"Shout louder," said one of them.
"Mazaduk, you are a god."
"You are powerful."
"You can stop this rain."
"Carry him to the town square. He is angered by all the preaching about this other god called Jesus that goes on in the town square. Maybe he will stop the rain if we take him there." As they continued to carry the god the rain became heavier than ever. It was quite impossible to carry Mazaduk to the town square. The elders' robes were soaked right through. One of them slipped and stumbled onto the wet ground. The idol fell off his chair and crashed onto the cobblestones where it lay on its side in the pounding rain.
"Oh no, oh no. Look what has happened to our god. What has become of you, Mazaduk?"

The next day Yaromek came to preach in the town square. Everybody was interested.
"We saw what happened to Mazaduk," said one man.
"Who will protect the fisherman now?" asked another.
"If you want real protection I'm sure it will come from Jesus," said Yaromek.
"What must we do?" asked another.
"You must turn from your sins and cry out to God. Jesus will forgive your idolatory." There were about thirty people who became Christians that day. On Sunday Yaromek brought his radio into the village hall. It wasn't time for the radio broadcast but he had recorded several of the programmes on tape. He set up the radio and they listened to a tape of a sermon about the Prodigal Son.
"The son asked for his share of the inheritance. The father would have some money in the bank that he would have given to the son when he died, but it would be possible to give him the money now. He went and spent it on riotous living. Prostitutes, drink, all the pleasures of the world. How many friends would you have if you did that? Lots of friends, until the money ran out. Then he began to starve. He got a job feeding pigs. Pigs were detestable animals. To jews in those days, that would be like feeding rats. He probably thought that the pigs were a lot better fed than he was. So he finally goes home to his father. His father runs down the road to meet him. Remember, in their society it wasn't normal to run. He throws his arms around his son. He probably smelt. How many religions have a God like that? A God who will welcome you home with open arms?" The listeners were amazed, especially as the programme was in their native language. For several weeks these meetings went on, until the village hall grew crowded and there were not enough seats to go around. One Sunday there was a rather unwelcome knock on the door. Two policemen stood their in dark brown uniforms.
"If you continue using this village hall as a church we will demolish it," said one of them.
"If you destroy God's house, God will destroy your government," said Yaromek.
"How can your God destroy our government?" asked the other. "This country has been a peaceful monarchy for 250 years." A few weeks later the bulldozers moved in and demolished the community centre. The king was overthrown the next month. General Dubois and his soldiers stormed the palace. There were some security people around but they carried only revolvers, not the high powered weapons that the general's soldiers had. They didn't stand a chance. No one was prepared for a military coup on this scale. After all, who would want to kill the king? But the king was killed and General Dubois became president. That was when Yaromek's problems really began.

The police came to Yaromek's house. They searched the house and had a good look at the radio and the notebook that Yaromek had written the times and frequencies of the radio transmissions in. They had a look through his father's room as well. They arrested Yaromek. Two men in brown uniforms walked him down to the police station and sat him in the interrogation room.
"You are a spy," said one of the officers. "Who gave you the radio?"
"I bought it," Yaromek lied.
"That thing was made twenty years ago. It has a record player in it. You're too young to have one of those. If you bought it, you bought it off somebody else."
"Was it a present from your father?" asked the other officer. "Your father seems to know everything about radio. Several radios were found in his room. He had an old valve radio kit, a transistor radio kit with springs in a wooden box, and a radio kit with a little black bug that goes in a white board full of holes. He had several portable radios, some of which seem to have been under repair. I also found his certificate from college where he studied electronics."
"Your father is a spy as well," said the first policeman. He punched Yaromek in the face. "Did he teach you to use the radio? Not many people could use a radio the way you use it. Writing down all the times and frequencies in a little book. Is that how the CIA give you your orders?" The policeman hit him in the face once again.
"They're religious radio broadcasts. They have nothing to do with the CIA. Have a listen to the tapes I made of the broadcasts if you don't believe me."
"Some of them are religious radio broadcasts, the ones you want us to hear. But you have erased the recordings you made of the instructions you received from the CIA." They both began to punch and kick Yaromek violently and put him in a cell. He watched the sun go down through the bars and lay down on the floor. Yaromek tried to sleep, but the the wounds he had received from his beating felt painful against the concrete floor. The next morning his mother came to see him.
"Your father is dead," she said. "Someone threw a hand grenade into his boat. He died. Two of the other fishermen were injured."
"The police thought he was a spy. They found all the radios in his room."
"You and your radios!" shouted Mother. "You and your insane religion! You have brought death and destruction on our village. Your father is dead. Two other men can no longer work. We were better off when we worshipped Mazaduk." Mother slammed the cell door and stormed out. Yaromek began to cry. His father was dead. His mother blamed him. Mazaduk himself was badly cut and bruised after a beating from the policemen. Were the fishermen better off when they worshipped Mazaduk? He had kept them safe. Yaromek corrected his thoughts. Mazaduk was nothing more than a demon. Jesus was the real God. The last few months had been a fantastic time of spiritual encouragement. The rain during Mazaduk's ceremonial procession through the streets. The people responding to the preaching in the village square. The village hall becoming a church. All of this, the demolition of the village hall, Yaromek's arrest, the killing of his father, was some kind of attack from the forces of evil.

The two policemen roughly dragged Yaromek from his cell into a small van where he sat on the floor with some other prisoners. The van was extremely hot and the air inside was suffocating. It bumped and clattered over a rough road. The journey went on for several hours.
"I need a drink," shouted one of the prisoners, whose face was pale with the heat. One of the policeman, who was sitting in the front passenger seat of the van, handed him a large plastic water bottle. He took two sips. The policeman grabbed the bottle back again.
"Don't have too much," he said. "We're not stopping on the way and there's no toilet." The van continued to bump up and down for several hours more. This time the policeman passed the water bottle around everyone. Yaromek took two large mouthfuls.
"Not too much," said one of the other prisoners. "We're all feeling ill with the heat, this water is to share. And anyway, there's no toilet." The van continued clattering and banging up and down until it was dark. Shortly after sunset they reached their destination. The policemen led the prisoners out of the van. One of them had a flashlight. They came to some wooden sheds.
"Is that where the cows live?" asked one of the prisoners.
"Cows?" asked one of the policeman. "What cows?"
"The cows that we're looking after." The policemen both roared with laughter.
"They think this is a farm. It isn't a farm, it's a coal mine. You don't have cows in a coal mine."
"No," said the other policeman. "It isn't the cow that pulls the cart, it's you. You're the one who pushes your own cart. And this isn't a cattle shed, it's your shed. It's where you live." The prisoners lay down in crude bunk beds that had wooden boards for mattresses and flea ridden blankets. Yaromek managed to get a few hours sleep. The bed was uncomfortable, and the noise of the other prisoners was also a distraction. One of them snored loudly, and one had a cough that sounded like something serious. Another prisoner was annoyingly grinding his teeth. It was also very cold. Yaromek was by now so tired that he did manage to get to sleep for a few hours. He dreamt of his village at home. He dreamt of his father. He was one of his father's workmates. The hand grenade was thrown onto the boat. Yaromek woke up screaming.
"Be quiet," shouted one of the other prisoners. "For goodness sake, I was only just getting to sleep."

The prisoners began working in the coal mine. It was cold underground, and the thin shirts they wore offered no protection from the cold. It was dark. They chiselled away at the coal with pick axes and carried it out in buckets. Some of the men carried candles. The seams were narrow, and you had to crawl with pick axe, candle and bucket on your hands and knees. One of the men made a fire with sticks. He stamped on a rat, tied it to a stick and roasted it over the fire. He offered Yaromek a piece of the rat. Yaromek was horrified.
"Yaromek," said the prisoner. "You are afraid of what will happen to you if you eat the rat, that you will catch some sort of disease from it. I am afraid of what will happen to you if you don't eat the rat. I have seen prisoners die of malnutrition. Your body cannot function without protein. You won't live very long on bread and soup. Take some of the rat, it will sustain you." Yaromek ate a small piece of rat.

In the winter it grew colder. Yaromek felt faint with cold when he came back from the mine into the dormitory, and felt relieved at the warmth that came from the soup. The bread was rock hard. It had to be cut with a saw. Some of the men had particularly sharp teeth, they could eat it. Yaromek's teeth were not as good and he soaked it in the soup for a few minutes before he attempted to chew it. At least the bread was filling. The soup was thin and the vegetables in it had seen better days. Yaromek wondered if he could survive a whole winter here. Escape would be dangerous and the long journey would be dangerous too, but it would be easier than sitting in this cold, dark place waiting for the winter to end. The cold could kill him, if a diet of rats, bread and soup didn't finish him off first. When everyone else was asleep Yaromek carried his pick axe to the fence. It wouldn't be a silent operation, but the camp itself wasn't particularly quiet at night anyway. Perhaps the sound of someone attacking the fence with a pick axe would be less noticeable above the din of men in a dormitory snoring and coughing. Yaromek would have to take his chances. If they caught him trying to escape they wouldn't necessarily shoot him. Yaromek was more afraid of solitary confinement. He had met prisoners who had spent a year in a tiny little cell, too small to stand up or lie down in, given only one bowl of soup a day with no bread. Yaromek swung at the fencepost with his pick axe. It moved a little. He swung at it again. It moved a lot. He swung at it once more. It flew out of the ground and lay on its side. Yaromek picked up the pole and lifted up the fence wires. He crawled underneath them. He was free. Travelling at night was dangerous. It was completely dark, and Yaromek had no candle with him as that would have been seen clearly by any soldiers for quite some distance. He had to walk over mountain paths that were covered in snow and scree. He could very easily fall to his death. He walked very slowly and felt for the side of the mountain with his hands, in order to be sure that he did not get too close to the other side of the path. For several hours this went on. To Yaromek, in the freezing cold and dark, it seemed an eternity. If he could make it through the mountain pass before daybreak he might be all right. Eventually the sun rose. Yaromek could see a road at the bottom of the mountain. He walked towards it. The snow had melted on the road. Yaromek saw that the road was mined. He slid along the road on his stomach, trying hard not to touch any of the mines. After a good few hours of patient work crossing the minefield the appearance of a large animal convinced him that he had reached a part of the road that was no longer mined. He was face to face with a wild boar. Boars do not like human company. Yaromek crossed the path of the boar, which ran along the road after him, unfortunately not in the direction of the minefield. Yaromek could not outrun the boar and wondered how he was going to escape it. Suddenly he saw a tree. It was just the right shape to put his foot in between two branches and pull himself up onto a higher branch. The boar stood at the foot of the tree, snarling and panting excitedly. Yaromek pulled himself onto another branch and another, climbing to the top of the tree. When the boar could no longer see him, it lost interest and wandered off. Yaromek let it wander a long way before he came down again. Yaromek could see the sea. He walked towards it. It took him about half an hour to get there. Down by the sea he met a man in a small boat.
"I'm a fisherman from a village in Mepromba province," said Yaromek.
"What are you doing here?"
"I want to go to another country, maybe to England."
"How can you pay me?" asked the man.
"I will help you. I will fish for you, I will cook for you. I will make sure that your passengers and crew are well fed."
"I like you. You've got the job."

Yaromek became fisherman and cook on the small boat as it sailed across the ocean.
"One of the nets has got a hole in it," said one of the other crewmen.
"I'll have a look at it," said Yaromek. "I'll see what I can do." Yaromek examined the damage very closely and repaired the net with a big needle and thick thread. Yaromek cast the net into the water. A few hours later the other five men helped him pull him it back in. It was very heavy. They laid all the fish down on the deck of the boat. Yaromek picked up a beautiful, long blue fish and started cutting it up with a knife. He expertly skinned, degutted and filletted the fish. He then cooked it on the paraffin stove. The men enjoyed their meal.
"You're a good cook," said one.
"Yes Yaromek, you really know how to cook fish." The ship sailed for several months until it came to England. They sailed up the Thames in the middle of the night when no one was around.
"Grab that rope," said the man who owned the boat, "and tie it to something." One of the men took the rope and leapt from the boat to the river quay where he tied it around a metal pole. "This is England. You have reached England. Goodbye everybody and good luck." Everybody got off the boat. "Untie me," said the boat owner. One of the men stood on the quay and untied the rope. He threw it to the boat owner who sailed away, off into the night.

Yaromek was living on the streets of London. One night he was walking down a busy street full of pubs and take aways.
"Excuse me," he said to a young couple, "could you help me buy some food, please?"
"No," said the man. He approached somebody else.
"I've come to London looking for work. Could you buy me some chips?"
"No." A man walked right up to Yaromek. He had obviously had a lot to drink. He staggered and smelt of lager. He began shouting at the crowd.
"These people come here and they take all our houses and all our benefits and all our jobs. Well, I think they can sod off back to where they came from!" He punched Yaromek in the face several times. Yaromek's head bobbed from side to side like a punch bag, becoming more and more bruised. Yaromek grabbed the man by the shoulders and pushed him away. The man fell over into the road, right in front of a taxi that screeched its brakes and blasted its horn. Two policemen came to investigate.
"What's going on?" one of them asked.
"These two men were having a fight, then this black man pushed the other man in front of the car."
"That's not true," said Yaromek. "This man punched me in the face five times."
"Oh yeah, and for that I deserve to be crushed to death under the wheels of a taxi, do I, black boy?"
"I didn't see the taxi. I just wanted to push him away. That was an accident." Yaromek and the other man were both arrested and taken down to the police station. Yaromek sat in the interrogation room in front of the two police officers.
"What are you doing here?" asked one.
"I was sent to prison because the government of my country didn't like my religion very much. I escaped. I've come here to claim asylum."
"Your claim to asylum is not possible if you have committed a criminal offence," said the other officer. "You pushed a man in front of a taxi."
"It was an accident."
"That's not what it looks like to us," said the first policeman. "We're going to have you taken to a detention centre and then you'll be deported."

A few days later Yaromek was marched by six security men wearing bullet proof vests on to an aeroplane at Heathrow airport. He began to protest loudly to the other passengers.
"I was in prison in my home country. I escaped from the prison and crawled through a minefield on my stomach. My father was killed by a hand grenade that was thrown on to his boat, and two of his friends were injured. Now they want to send me back home to die."
"We've never heard anything like this," said one passenger. "We always thought that you people came to this country because you wanted more money and a better job."
"You can't send him back if he's a genuine asylum seeker," said one of the others. One of the security men was a nurse. He gave Yaromek an injection in the thigh. Yaromek let out a little scream and fell down into his seat.
"What was that, an anaesthetic?" asked one of the security men.
"No," said the nurse. "An anaesthetic would be dangerous. That was temazepam. He's not deeply unconscious. He's asleep." Yaromek woke up on the plane with his seatbelt on and the sun shining on his face through the window.
"This is your captain speaking," came the voice over the loudspeaker. "We're going to be landing in a few minutes time, so fasten your seatbelts, and have a nice holiday."