Eventually we arrive in a place called Croydon. Lucy Fisher meets us at the station and takes us to the centre. It is a tall building on a brown street. Inside we go through checkpoints, barriers, security, where they scan us, search us and get us to sign in. Then we sit in a waiting area with people who look as frightened as we do. And so we wait. Diomande goes in first. Next is Afra, and a few minutes later I am taken to a room at the end of a long corridor.
There are two people sitting in this room, a man and a woman. The man is probably in his early forties; he has shaved off his hair because he is balding on top. He doesn’t look into my eyes, not once. He asks me to sit down, says my name as if he knows me, but his eyes wander. And yet there is an arrogance about him, a subtle smirk on his lips. The woman beside him is a bit older with curly hair. She is sitting very upright and trying to look welcoming. They are both immigration officers. He offers me tea or coffee and I refuse.
He runs through the procedure and says that the interview is being recorded. He reminds me that there will be a second interview. First, he asks me to confirm my name and date of birth and where I was born and where I was living when the war started. Then the questions start to become strange.
‘Are there any landmarks in Aleppo?’ he says.
‘Of course.’
‘Can you name some of these?’
‘Well, there’s the citadel. The Umayyad Mosque, Khan al-Jumruk, al-Firdaws Madrasa, which means “the school of paradise”， al-Otrush Mosque, the Bab al-Faraj Clock Tower … do you want more?’
‘Thank you, that should be sufficient. Is the old souq in the north or east of the city?’
‘It’s central.’
‘What do they sell at the souq?’
‘Thousands of things!’
‘Such as?’
‘Fabrics, silks and linen. Carpets and lanterns and silver, gold and bronze, and spices and teas and herbs and my wife used to sell her paintings there.’
‘What’s your country’s name?’
‘Syria. Don’t you want to know how I got here?’
‘We’ll get there soon. These are just standard questions, part of the procedure.’
He pauses for a moment and consults his papers. Then he scratches his shiny head.
‘Have you seen Daesh?’
‘No, not personally.’
‘So you’ve never come in contact with anyone from this group?’
‘No. Of course I’ve seen them on the streets or wherever, but I’ve never had any personal contact with them.’
‘Were you ever held prisoner by Daesh?’
‘No.’
‘Did you work with Daesh?’
‘No.’
‘Are you married?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is your wife’s name?’
‘Afra Ibrahim.’
‘Do you have children?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many?’
‘One, a boy.’
‘Where was he born?’
‘In Aleppo.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He died in Syria.’
He pauses for a moment and stares at the desk. The woman next to him looks sad. I’m starting to feel agitated.
‘Can you say something special about him? Something you remember about him?’
‘Who?’
‘Your son. I understand this is difficult, Mr Ibrahim, but could you please try to answer the question. It’s important that you do.’
‘OK. Once, when he was riding his bike down the hill – I’d told him not to because there was such a steep hill going down to the city from our bungalow – well, he fell off it and broke his finger and it didn’t really mend and he had this little bend in his finger.’
‘Which hand?’
‘Which hand?’
‘On which hand was this injury? Right or left?’
I look down at my hands and remember Sami’s hand in mine.
‘It was his left hand. I know because his left hand fit into my right hand and I could feel his bent little finger.’
‘What was his date of birth?’
‘January 5th 2009.’
‘Have you ever killed anyone?’
‘No.’
‘What’s the national anthem of your country?’
‘Is this a joke?’
‘Is that your answer?’
‘No! It’s called “Guardians of the Homeland”。’
‘Can you sing it without the words?’
I hum a few of the lines through gritted teeth.