A Hope More Powerful Than the Sea

by Melissa Fleming

  “You could join me in no time,” he told Doaa when he relayed his revised plan to her. They were sitting side by side at a small table in their favorite café, sipping tea and smoking a shisha pipe while Bassem took a break from work.

  Doaa, stunned, set down her cup. “I won’t let you go alone,” she said without hesitation. “I can’t be separated from you!”

  “You’re just jealous,” Bassem teased her. “You think that if I go to Europe ahead of you, I’ll find a beautiful European woman to replace you.”

  Doaa punched him in the shoulder. “Fine,” she shot back, “you go find one, and I’ll find an Egyptian husband.” While they joked about this, deep down Doaa was hurt that Bassem would consider going to Europe without her, and maybe she was a little afraid that he might actually find a glamorous woman in Europe that he liked better than her.

  “I’m just kidding, Dodo. I would never look for anyone else. You are the only one for me. Finding someone else would be like trying to replace the moon with the stars.”

  Still unsettled, Doaa rested her head on his shoulder. “You can’t ever go anywhere without me.” She felt her head rise and fall with his breath. But she could tell that Bassem was set on going, with or without her. She was tired of seeing him struggle in Egypt and knew she had no good case to convince him to stay. She felt that if she refused to let him go, she would be standing in the way of his future, yet she couldn’t stand the idea of staying behind if he left. Her life was with him, one way or another, and neither of them had a life in Egypt. She began to think that perhaps she could brave the water if it meant having a shot at a decent life with the man she loved. She told herself that she would also be helping her family—sending money to them and eventually bringing them to a better place.

  What she didn’t know was that Bassem had already begun discussing his idea with her mother. “It’s up to you,” Hanaa told the young man she loved like a son, “but I think you should break up with Doaa before leaving.”

  “Never!” he exclaimed, stung by the idea of it. “I’m going because I want to give Doaa everything she wants.” He continued to plead his case, and Hanaa finally gave in and told him that if he was dead set on going, it was fine with her, but she felt that he should travel ahead, find a place for the family, and then apply for Doaa to join him later as his wife. “I do not want her traveling with those smugglers,” Hanaa said. “Anyway, there’s no way she’ll ever set foot in the water.”

  A few days later, Doaa told her mother that she had decided to go to Europe with Bassem. Hanaa was devastated at the thought of Doaa’s making the difficult, dangerous journey, but understood that they felt this was their only shot at a better life. But just thinking about Doaa’s being crammed on a boat with hundreds of other refugees horrified Hanaa. However, she knew that Doaa, having made her decision, would be adamant about carrying it out. “Either you let me go to Europe, or you can send me back to Syria,” Doaa told her mother the first time Hanaa protested. She looked at her determined daughter, now nineteen years old and an engaged woman, and knew that she couldn’t stop her.

  That year already, over two thousand refugees and migrants had lost their lives attempting to sail to Europe, and it was only the beginning of August. Late summer and early fall, when the seas were relatively calm and the weather warm, was peak season for refugees to sail across the Mediterranean. More lives would inevitably be lost at sea. Worldwide wars, conflict, and persecution had forced more people to flee their homes and seek refuge and safety elsewhere than at any other time since people began keeping track of the displacements. By the end of 2014, UNHCR would record close to 60 million forcibly displaced people, 8 million more than in the previous year. Half of those were children. Every day that year, on average, 42,500 people became refugees, asylum seekers, or internally displaced, a fourfold increase in just four years.

  The chief reason for the massive increase in refugees was the war in Syria. With refugee populations swelling into the millions in neighboring countries, and with little opportunity to work and educate their children, more and more people were risking their lives on dangerous journeys to reach a better life in Europe. People fleeing directly from the relentless violence in Syria found criminal agents in their home cities who not only offered to smuggle them across the border, but, for the right price, across the sea to the promised land they would supposedly find in Europe.

  The lucrative business of smuggling people away from the wars and poverty of Africa had quickly expanded from Libya to meet the growing demand from Syrians and Palestinians for a sea route from Egypt.

  The smugglers were not difficult to find through word of mouth in refugee neighborhoods or on Facebook, where they advertised what looked like vacation packages on luxury yachts. Two tickets to Europe would cost Bassem and Doaa $5,000, with $2,500 to be paid up front, and the rest being paid if they made it safely to Italy. The smuggler Bassem found was a Syrian middleman using a fake name who was known in the community as the go-to front man. He told Bassem that he could sell him passage on a safe ocean liner and that the journey would take no longer than a few days.

  As the day to leave approached, Doaa began to have a sense of foreboding about the trip. One day as she and Bassem were at their favorite café, talking about the smugglers’ promises of safe passage, she shared her fears with him. She told him she’d had a premonition that the boat would sink.

  “You worry too much, Dodo,” Bassem admonished her. “I have just as strong a feeling that it will be fine.” But he wouldn’t tell her about his own dark fears. Bassem always wanted to be strong for her, and that meant keeping his concerns to himself.

  Bassem didn’t have enough money left in his savings to pay for the trip, and the Al Zamel family had no extra cash at all. To come up with the money, Doaa sold the gold bracelets and necklace Bassem had bought her for their engagement, and the laptop he had given her as a gift. Hanaa also sold some of her jewelry to pitch in, reluctant to see the pieces go, but wanting to invest in her daughter’s future and willing to pay extra for a safe boat. Bassem’s family in Syria also wired him $200 to help out, and all this added up to $2,500, enough for the down payment plus 500 euros to start up in Europe. They had no idea how they would come up with the rest, but figured that once they were there, they could borrow and work to pay off their debt. Bassem paid the smuggler and was told to wait for a call.

  On August 15, 2014, that call came. Doaa packed one small black duffel bag with her most precious belongings—her Quran; a new gold-colored top and trousers that Bassem had bought her; the remaining engagement jewelry; a silver set with a bracelet, necklace, and a ring with fake diamonds; and a Syrian metal jewelry box decorated with hearts. She said a tearful good-bye to her father, who had to stay behind to work, holding him close and breathing in his familiar scent of shaving cream and the shisha pipes he loved. Then she stepped into a taxi with Bassem, her mother, and her siblings. Hanaa insisted that she and the children accompany Doaa and Bassem to see them off. Bassem gave the driver the address the smuggler had texted him of an apartment in the coastal resort town of Al Agami, about twelve miles west of Alexandria.

  When Doaa and Bassem entered the two-room apartment in one of the high-rises along the El Nakhil Beach, they found it filthy and hot. Flies darted from one corner to the next above the few pieces of furniture, which were covered in dust, and appliances that were caked in a heavy rust. Two other Syrian families had arrived before them, sitting in the gloomy room on the sofa or on the floor with their restless children. Including Bassem and Doaa, there were thirteen of them in total. Meanwhile, Hanaa and her children had settled nearby in another shabby apartment owned by the smugglers while they waited for Bassem and Doaa to take off. Bassem called the smuggler to ask when they would leave. The smuggler instructed him to be patient and to stay on call, that it could be at any time depending on the weather and how easily they could get around the police. After several hours went by, Bassem called the smuggler back. He never t
old Doaa much of what was said during these exchanges, but he conveyed that they would be leaving soon.

  They left the apartment for a brief spell to get some fresh air and to buy falafel sandwiches from a beachside stand. Doaa felt self-conscious from the stares that the locals were giving her. She and Bassem and her family were obviously not there for a vacation, and everyone knew that the Syrians in the area were trying to leave the country. They never received a phone call from the smuggler that day or the next, and soon the days and nights started to blend together for Doaa. Everyone was jumpy and anxious.

  Finally, Bassem’s phone rang one evening in the apartment. “Get ready,” the voice on the other end said brusquely. “Leave the apartment in a half an hour, at 9:00 p.m. Go downstairs and don’t draw any attention to yourselves. The bus will be waiting in the street behind the building.” The smuggler warned Bassem to pack light, that there would be no room for luggage. Doaa added a bag of dates and two bottles of water to her duffel bag, then carefully wrapped their passports in plastic wrap, which she then placed in a sandwich bag, and zipped everything in a side pouch of the duffel bag along with their wallet bulging with five one-hundred euro bills and two hundred Egyptian pounds. Around her, the other refugees gathered their own belongings.

  They all left the apartment with their bags, and Doaa and Bassem met with Doaa’s family to say their good-byes. They hugged Hanaa, Saja, Nawara, and Hamudi as Doaa’s eyes overflowed with tears. She could barely speak through her sobs. She worried that this could be the last time she would ever see them.

  “Please look after yourselves. Call when you arrive. We will be worrying about you every minute,” Hanaa told them as the situation suddenly became more real to her. “Are you sure you don’t want to change your minds? Bassem, you can come live with us. Please don’t go!” Hanaa had been trying to be brave for Doaa, but was now overcome with fear for her daughter and future son-in-law.

  Doaa tried to reason with her. “Mom, nothing will change here.” Doaa fought to control her tears and steady her voice with determination. “It is never going to get any better. We have made up our minds,” she said resolutely.

  Then, nine-year-old Hamudi turned to Bassem and demanded with his hands on his hips, “Why don’t you go by yourself and leave Doaa here? I’m going to miss her.”

  Doaa smiled and hugged Hamudi again. “Don’t worry, once I get to Europe, I’ll bring you there, too, and we will be all together and things will be much better.”

  Finally, in the dark, Doaa and Bassem turned and walked away from Doaa’s family toward a dim street corner where the two other Syrian families were waiting. After some time a small white bus pulled up, and a large, barbaric-looking man, who was unshaven and dressed in all black, stepped out and ordered them to board, joining about thirty other people already on the bus, seated on top of each other to fit in. No kindness or welcome was in his voice. Doaa sat on Bassem’s lap and rested her arms on the duffel bag. No one on the bus spoke, but they nodded to the newcomers in solidarity.

  As the bus took off, Doaa whispered to Bassem under her breath, “These smugglers are thugs, Bassem. I don’t trust them and they frighten me.” Bassem tried to reassure her that it would all be okay, even though this was not what the smuggler who had sold them the journey had promised.

  One of the smugglers made his way down the aisle. He was smaller than the man who had told them to board, but he was also dressed head to toe in black and spoke just as harshly. Noticing Doaa, he barked at her, “What do you have in your bag?”

  “Just some clothes and dates and water, as we were told,” Doaa replied timidly.

  He nodded. “Keep your passport with you at all times, and hide it in your clothes.” Then he moved on and repeated the same question and command to the next row.

  After what seemed like an hour, the minibus came to a halt and they were ordered to get off. The group was immediately herded into the back of a large truck meant for transporting sand. While it was dark outside, it was pitch-black in the container once the smugglers closed the back hatch, sealing them in. Everyone was crammed together with no room to move, no windows, and no air circulation. The children were strangely quiet, and Doaa noticed that one woman was visibly pregnant. “These thugs are inhuman,” Doaa whispered under her breath. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  Doaa and Bassem could tell from the noise of honking horns, music, and voices that the truck was traveling through populated areas, but after a while the only sound was of the wheels bumping up against potholes and stones. Doaa held Bassem’s hand as she peered through the darkness at her fellow refugees, wondering what circumstances had driven each of them to embark on this dangerous journey. After an hour, the truck halted abruptly, and the back hatch opened. Doaa gratefully gulped the fresh air. She was stiff from sitting squeezed up against the other people, and her legs shook as she jumped down from the truck and discovered that they had arrived at a barren coast. Other refugees had arrived before them, clustered in groups of families or friends, sitting in the sand and waiting silently in the dark.

  Including the forty other passengers from Doaa and Bassem’s truck, they estimated that about two hundred people were gathered on the beach, now at the mercy of their ten criminal travel agents. The smugglers were all barefoot and dressed in black with their pant legs rolled up to their knees. They told the refugees to remain completely silent and explained that they were doing everything they could to evade the police and the coast guard, but by many accounts, they were also paying off officials to turn a blind eye to the smuggling. Doaa checked her watch. It was 11:00 p.m.

  The wait in silence was excruciating. It was cold and she wished that she had worn a sweater under her thin jacket.

  After two hours, the smugglers divided the refugees on the beach into three smaller groups without explanation. One hundred people were in the first group, with the second and third groups having fifty each. Doaa and Bassem were in the first group. As soon as it was formed, they heard a smuggler shout, “Run!” Bassem picked up their bag and together they set off in the black night toward the sound of the breaking waves. It was cloudy and thus dark and difficult to see. Doaa couldn’t even see her hands as they swung in front of her as she took her steps. After a few minutes, a voice ordered them to stop running, keep quiet, then to start again. They could hear the sound of waves crashing and the heavy breathing of their fellow travelers, but they had no sense of orientation except from the smugglers who led them. Their eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but no boat was in sight.

  Instead, as they were making their way to the shore, they stumbled into a group of uniformed coastguardsmen asleep on the beach. At the sight of them, the entire group turned on their heels and ran in the opposite direction. Doaa and Bassem were running at the head of the crowd when they heard the sound of bullets and shouts of “You kilaab [dogs]! Stop!” Running faster, they shouted to the other refugees, warning them, “It’s a trap! Run!”

  Bassem took Doaa’s hand as they sprinted. Their black bag was strapped to his back, weighing him down. Doaa tried to get him to abandon it, telling him that nothing in it was worth getting shot over. “No,” he insisted, “it has all our memories inside.” Then suddenly he tripped and fell. The coastguardsmen were gaining ground behind them. Doaa pulled him up and they kept running. The group that ran with them was getting smaller. The families with children and the elderly had surrendered, unable to outpace the guards. A girl Doaa’s age was running alongside Doaa and Bassem. She had lost track of her family and wanted to stop, but Doaa took her hand, telling her, “Stay with us. We’ll help you.”

  When they finally reached the main road, Doaa checked her watch again. It was 3:00 a.m.—they had been running for almost two hours. No houses were along this stretch of road, only empty desert, and soon other Syrians from their group who had escaped joined them. One was speaking in a loud voice into his phone to one of the smugglers, demanding that they come and pick them up. After the call ended
, a barrage of questions ensued. Where were they? Did the smugglers set the trap intentionally, knowing that the coastguardsmen would be there? “There are always arrests,” one man said knowingly. “It allows the coast guard to show they’re doing their job. They get their cut from the smugglers for allowing part of the group to make it to the boat.”

  So that’s why they divided us into groups, Doaa thought angrily.

  Bassem, Doaa, and the girl they were helping walked over to the nearby road. Doaa could see a cluster of farms ahead of them. As she and Bassem made their way toward the farms, Doaa looked back to see that the girl had stayed behind with another group of Syrians.

  As they continued forward, Doaa saw a gang of over twenty menacing-looking young men carrying sticks and knives walking toward their group. “I was in touch with your organizers,” one of them said as he approached, trying to sound friendly. “I was told to help you. We’ll take you back to the boat.” Doaa and Bassem had a bad feeling about the men, but they didn’t know what else to do. At a loss for an alternative, they followed the men down a side road.

  One of the men looked at him and said harshly, “Don’t worry about them!”

  “They’ll catch up. Keep moving, or the police will find and arrest you,” another said.

  “Keep close to me,” Bassem told Doaa. She was the only girl among the group, and he was afraid the men would kidnap or rape her, and that he wouldn’t be able to stop them. Doaa moved in closer to Bassem, feeling as if they’d made a terrible mistake in following these men. Allowing themselves to fall behind the pack, Doaa and Bassem whispered together, coming up with a plan. They stopped walking and Bassem announced, “We want to wait for the others.”