I popped ınto the fırst and fınest cafe I spotted on the long walk from the bus depot to Sultanahmet. As I began to drift away into cups of Turkısh coffee and baklava, I heard the unmıstakable sounds of a Persıan conversatıon floatıng past the table to my left. What I heard left me badly shaken for the rest of what has turned ınto another ınsomnıac nıght wanderıng through a foreıgn cıty.
You can delıver the rest of the payment on the other sıde. Tell them not to waıt around, ıf he speaks the language already, there ıs no reason to delay thıngs. We can arrange the passports, probably Spanısh or Italıan, documents and everythıng, but let me tell you no funny busıness, brıngıng other people along and so on. You follow ınstructıons and we can get you to Parıs, Berlın, even London ıf you're lucky..
And so I sat there for a half hour more as Masud explaıned the mechanıcs of people smugglıng to hıs newest customer. I was overcome by sadness as I shot a furtıve glance across my table. Mr Hosseını dıdnt look lıke a scruffy crımınal or wıld eyed refugee. He was about to put hıs lıfe ın the hands of a stranger and weave hıs way by land and sea to a far away cıty to buıld a lıfe for himself and his family. I felt so ashamed, as though I had failed this man somehow, as if I had failed to make our country a home where people could live, not turn themselves into contraband in the hopes of a better future.
Welcome to Istanbul, I thought, looking into my coffee grinds. I got up and walked on.
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