third time’s a charm is a saying i always found weird, because what? who said and how? but i found solace in it today, as i walked with two young Syrian girls trying to find an open place to feed them after 10.30pm.

they were barefoot with dirty clothes, walking aimlessly, trying to catch eyes to ask for help but simultaneously too shy to approach. i initially diverted my way when i saw them in front of me, until i realised – seconds later – how timid they looked, so i backed up. are you Arab? i ask, the older one nods. have you eaten? she shakes her head. okay come with me, what do you want to eat? 

she doesn’t respond, the younger one – who looked not older than two stares at me with huge eyes, neither begging nor rejecting. just staring, as if she’s seen the whole world already and is ready for whatever situation she finds herself in. 

i direct them to the first place i see, and the older one tells me she wants chips and ayran. how about your sister? do you want a sandwich? she looks uncertain. i decide to get them a meal either way. as i enter; the waiter regretfully tells me they’re closing. i ask the girls if they’re okay with walking down the road until we find another place, the older one eagerly nods. we walk, i realise a little too fast for the younger one who almost begins crying when her trousers slip down. they look like they haven’t washed in a very long time, with dirt all over their faces and hands.

i slow down. let’s pull your sister’s trousers up? the older one obliges. i can’t shake off the image of their tiny bare feet so blackened and small against the hard harsh concrete of Istanbul. i felt so shamelessly extravagant next to them for having shoes on.

we talk, she tells me her name, fouzo – i ask if she’s also known by fawzieh? she nods, smiling shyly. and your sister? sabreen. how old are you? she says she’s 11 and her sister is four, but her sister doesn’t talk. she doesn’t know how to, she only makes noises. i ask if because of trauma or because of delayed speech, and fouzo looks at me confused. i realise how inappropriate the question is for a young child. who are you living with? my family. are your parents home? no my father is in Syria and my mother is divorced. so are you with your mother? my mother is divorced from my father, she repeats, not sure why i’m not understanding her. then she says, we live with my nana – their grandmother. 

i stop at a falafel place. do you want falafel? fouzo shakes her head. okay, let’s see what else there is. i tell her if we don’t find a food place, I’ll buy them some bread and salami to take home and make a good sandwich. she readily agrees. then she tells me, we only have bread and cheese at home. i make a mental note to not buy them cheese.

we near a new fast food shop that i had judged earlier as a gentrification of the area, but which now felt like a saving grace. are you open? i ask the waiter, he responds in the positive. third time’s a charm.

i take the girls in with me, and ask them what they want — fouzo suddenly smiles wildly and asks me if she can have ‘krispy’, boneless fried chicken. of course, pick what you want. she picks. both the waiter and the cashier girl turn out to be Syrian, and they watch me as i speak to the young girls and give the order, before approaching them themselves. they ask the same questions over again, but this time fouzo seems to have opened up more and is happily telling us about their difficult life.

her father was forcefully returned to Syria from Turkey – refouled – against his will – and so they stay with their grandmother. their mother is somewhere in Turkey but not with them because her parents divorced. they’re a lot of siblings — but fouzo has never been to school so she struggles with how old everyone is. she tells us the names and attempts to tell us ages, but messes up every time and laughs at herself before starting again. then she lets us in – that two of the brothers left and never came back home. where are they? we don’t know. and you’re allowed to just leave the house everyday like this? yes – we try to find ways to survive. 

she’s so unfazed, and so so young. all three of us adults look at each other helpless. then the cashier suggests that they be taken in by an orphanage, telling me she herself grew up in an orphanage in Turkey before she came off age and was well looked after. i shrug, desperately wanting to help – but cannot possibly take two young girls off the street and put them in an orphanage having just met them and without informing their family or knowing anything about them. i find myself so angry suddenly at my helplessness. how do we help in a country which feels impossible to navigate legally? which has no qualms with sending Syrians back to a warzone if it decides they’re ‘illegal’.  

where do you live? we all ask. she shrugs, she tries to explain but gives up. she tells us it’s an hour walk. they know the way and usually return home by midnight. 

somewhere in between all this, and as we wait for their food, the waiter tells fouzo to pick her sister up properly and sit her down on her lap. we’re all concerned for them, and my heart warms when I see those working in the restaurant unconcerned as to whether or not the girls are visible. third time really is a charm. the waiter sees me grabbing wet tissues to attempt clean their faces and directs them instead to the restrooms, telling them to clean their feet with the warm water and come back. 

they leave, and we all sit in silence waiting for them and their food. 

they return, and the waiter speaks to them again, instructing them to come back tomorrow at a certain time, so that he can give them clothes and shoes to wear. i confirm that fouzo has understood, and she says yes. their food is finally ready and fouzo is excited, smiling from ear to ear as sabreen remains expressionless. the waiter and cashier thank me and i thank them back, all three us still lost at how else to help the young girls — i give them the food and ask them what they’re going to do now — and fouzo says they’re going home to eat with everyone else. is the bag heavy on you? she says no. it is heavy.

i bid them goodbye, and turn the opposite direction, turning back every now and then to check on them as they walk down the road, wondering if i should be walking with them home in this night or if they knew the streets better than me, unsatisfied with my decision and a second too late to turn back and catch up with them as they disappear in the distance, i pick up my stride and rush to catch the metro home with nothing left but prayers, praying God gets them home safely and they get to devour the boneless fried chicken and chips they waited so patiently for. 

and then to keep them safe and protected in this life.