A Hope More Powerful Than the Sea

by Melissa Fleming

  Five minibuses were waiting outside the apartment complex in Alexandria, already packed with fellow Syrian and Palestinian refugees, who looked up as the doors opened but said nothing. Doaa and Bassem climbed inside and found a single seat in the back for them to share, wedging their bag and their two life jackets between them and the window. People were packed in so tightly that Doaa could barely breathe, and a hushed tension filled the bus as it moved toward the highway as part of a convoy with the other buses. Doaa pulled her jacket up around her face, as if it could shield her from any security forces that might be watching. Just when she felt like she was about to faint from the stifling air inside the bus, they veered off into a truck stop and pulled up alongside a big run-down bus. They were ordered to get off and join other passengers in the bigger bus. People on this second bus were already sitting on each other’s laps or standing crammed together. “Get in, dogs!” they heard from inside the bus. “Men on one side, women on the other!” There were more women and children than men, so this rule quickly broke down. Another smuggler rasped, in an uglier tone, “If anyone opens his mouth, we’ll throw you out the window!” Of all the smugglers that Doaa and Bassem had dealt with in their previous attempts to leave, these were the roughest and most cruel.

  Bassem usually assumed the role of reassuring Doaa, but was instead thinking about a way to get them off the bus. He didn’t trust the men in charge at all. He was unsettled by Doaa’s words as they sat down: “I feel like we are being taken to our deaths.” Just days before, she had also said to him as they were having coffee on the balcony that, as much as she tried, she couldn’t picture them in Italy or Sweden or anywhere in Europe. Everything after they boarded a boat was blank to her, as if the door to a house had opened and nothing was inside but emptiness. “The boat is going to sink,” she told Bassem flatly. Bassem had brushed off her remark, joking that her fear of the water was getting the best of her, but now he wondered.

  As he was about to raise his doubts to Doaa, the bus turned into a rest stop. For a moment, as they left their seats and were allowed to enter the shop to buy refreshments and to use the toilet, they felt giddy, grateful for the brief respite, even if it was just to buy a snack. But when the signal came for them to board the bus again, with no information about where they were headed or how long it would take, and no trust in their guides, the gamble they were taking with their lives returned to sharp focus. Bassem wanted to stay at the rest stop, but Doaa was afraid that the smugglers, who were hitting and shoving people who were moving too slowly as they reboarded, would hurt them if they tried. So they returned to the bus, their destiny no longer in their own hands.

  It was past 9:00 p.m. when the bus set off again. It took them through back roads past abandoned or half-constructed buildings. The smugglers walked the aisles carrying sticks and waving them menacingly, and occasionally smacking anyone whose children cried too loudly or who dared to ask where they were going. Doaa looked out the window and recognized a sign for Khamastashar Mayo—a section of Damietta’s beach. “We are close to home!” she said to Bassem. “We came to this beach with our family!” The smugglers had obviously chosen a different departure point from the one near Alexandria and had driven them down the coast toward Doaa’s place in Gamasa, which was now just a few kilometers away. Her phone’s battery was dead so she asked a man seated close to her if she could use his mobile to call her mother. “We are leaving now! Pray for us. We will call you when we arrive.”

  “Look after yourself, hayati, be careful,” Hanaa replied. “May God protect you.”

  At 11:00 p.m. they came to a halt about half a kilometer from a barren, sandy beach. “Get out and run to the shore!” the smugglers shouted. The passengers filed out and noticed other buses already parked there, and hundreds of people ahead of and behind them. Those ahead of them were wading through the shallow waves. Bassem kicked off his flip-flops, took Doaa’s hand, and they sprinted toward the water. He thought they would be safer somehow if they got ahead of the crowd. He led her to the edge of the sea, passing families with children that were slower than them. As they reached the shore, Doaa pleaded with him to wait before stepping into the swell. “I need to gain my courage,” she said.

  “Trust in God’s will, Doaa, and be brave, this is our only chance,” he replied, gripping her hand as he charged into the shallow water. Doaa felt the waves swallow her calves, then her knees. It was soon up to her waist, and she feared she would be swept away. She felt as if she were moving through her worst nightmare.

  One of two outboard wooden dinghies, painted in light blue and about three and a half meters long, was moving toward them, but to reach it, they had to struggle through breaking waves until the water was up to Bassem’s shoulders. It would have been over Doaa’s head, but her thin life jacket, along with her tight grip on Bassem, just barely kept her afloat. The vest rose to the surface and circled her face, keeping just her chin above water. She realized that the beach shop that had sold them the vests for $50 apiece had scammed them; these were fakes. A new industry produced life jackets to exploit the refugee trade. Some of the vests’ fillings were cheap absorbent material. Or, in Doaa’s case it seemed, thin sheets of foam that provided only the slightest buoyancy. She did her best to keep her face above the water and the vest from floating over her head. They reached the dinghy, and Bassem pulled himself over its side while a smuggler lifted Doaa in. People were hauled into the boat until at least twenty people were crowded on board. Everyone was ordered to sit still, shoulder to shoulder, as a man pulled the cord to start the motor to take them to a larger boat waiting on the horizon.

  An Egyptian man, obviously another smuggler, stood in the center of the dinghy and demanded, “Hand over your Egyptian money and your phone SIM cards now! You won’t have any use for them in Europe.” He barked when the people closest to him hesitated. The people in the dinghy had no choice but to hand over their money and phones. Doaa pulled out the wallet from inside her tank top and slipped it down between her knees, where she could discreetly peel off one hundred Egyptian pounds, pass it to Bassem, and conceal the rest of the money again. She kept their mobile phone hidden under the strap of her tank top. When they neared the ship that was to take them across the sea, Doaa felt a chill of panic. She and Bassem had never quite believed that the ship that would take them to Europe would look like the cruise liners that were advertised on some of the smugglers’ Facebook pages, or the “four-star ship” their front man had described to them over the phone. But this boat’s decrepit state was far below their expectations. Its blue paint was peeling and its rims had turned to rust. The apparatus on board for hauling nets made it clear that the boat was a fishing trawler, not a passenger ship. Still, Doaa thought, relieved, We finally made it through the first phase of our journey, and once I’m on board, I won’t have to get in the water again.

  Hundreds of people were already on the boat when Doaa and Bassem climbed on deck, pushed from below and pulled from above by the passengers. They soon learned that a good number of these weary-looking travelers had already been on the boat for days, drifting at sea and impatiently waiting for Doaa and Bassem’s group to join them so they could fill every square inch of the trawler. The more people the smugglers could pack in, the more profit they would make. Bassem estimated at least five hundred refugees were on board when they finally set off. If each passenger had paid $2,500 as they had, the smugglers would be collecting $1 million for this journey. Even more if they charged for the children. At least one hundred kids were on board.

  It was already so crammed on their boat that when Doaa looked around, she wondered how the others in the buses behind them would squeeze themselves into the remaining millimeters. Suddenly, she heard someone shout, “Police! Police!”—and then the sound of bullets hitting the side of the boat.

  “Heads down!” the smugglers yelled, as the engine roared and the boat sped away. People began to dive for the deck, praying aloud that they wouldn’t be shot. Doaa held tight t
o the edge of the boat as she lowered her head to her knees, terrified that she could be swept over the edge as the boat sped over the choppy waves. Only when they were out of range of the bullets did she dare to lift her head. She peered over the edge and realized that she could no longer see the shore through the darkness.

  Doaa was frightened as she gripped the edge of the boat because she and Bassem had been separated. When she had first climbed on board, she had been directed to sit on the floor of the women’s section on the covered middle deck, while Bassem had been sent to the top deck, where the men were sitting. Doaa sat sandwiched between two women, knees to her chest, trembling and alone. Families were told to find places on the other side of the boat or belowdecks. The ship smelled of fish, and a nasty stench came from the toilets, making everyone on board feel sick. Several of the people around her were vomiting from the choppy waves and the stench.

  The passengers began introducing themselves to each other in desperate whispers, trying to find some sense of community in the midst of their misery and fear. Most of the passengers were Syrians, but twenty-seven Palestinian families had come from Gaza and about twenty-five Africans from Sudan and Somalia, along with about ten Egyptian minors. Only about half of the passengers had life jackets, and Doaa suspected that many of them were no better than hers. One teenaged boy that Doaa met wore a child’s-size life vest that came only about halfway down his chest. She began to pray for everyone’s safety.

  At dawn on Sunday, after a sleepless night for everyone on board, the boat cut its engine as another fishing trawler approached. The smugglers ordered the refugees to switch boats. Doaa couldn’t understand the logic of moving to another boat, but had heard that this was a recurring procedure for such clandestine journeys. Different fishing boats had licenses to operate in different areas of the sea, somehow making the smuggling of human cargo even less conspicuous to patrols. The two trawlers pulled alongside each other and, although they were tied together, kept drifting apart then smacking up against each other again. Doaa struggled to her feet and tried to keep her balance as she jumped from one dilapidated boat to the other, reluctantly taking the hand that a smuggler offered her to pull her onto deck of the second boat as another one pushed her toward him.

  This time, passengers were allowed to choose where they wanted to sit. Bassem and Doaa reunited on the new ship, and he led her to a space on the deck where they could lean their backs against the side of the boat. They sat on their life jackets and huddled together. With no space to lie down, Doaa leaned her head on Bassem’s shoulder, and his head rested on hers.

  Once they set off, the crew, in a pathetic attempt to show benevolence, walked the deck handing out tins of expired and rotten processed meat. Bassem settled for some of the dates that they had brought with them, but Doaa couldn’t eat at all. When the ship moved, everything in the toilets shifted as well, stirring up a terrible stench that caught in Doaa’s nostrils, making it difficult even to breathe. Just three more days of this, then we will be rescued by the Italians and this nightmare will be over, she told herself again and again. When the sea was calm, the seasickness temporarily abated, and passengers pulled out the snacks they had packed—cookies, dried fruit, and small boxes of juice, sharing with each other. For a few brief moments, spirits would rise and people would trade tales of their dreams for the future.

  Doaa observed the people around her, wondering what had brought them there. She had always been interested in the situation of the Palestinians and had had a few friends who’d lived in the Palestinian neighborhood in Daraa. She was outraged at the injustice of their lives in Gaza when she watched the news. Now she learned that many refugee families on the boat had fled from the latest Israeli offensive. Others were coming from Syria, once a haven for Palestinians and now a place where the government no longer protected them, and where they were being targeted either for their association with the Assad government or their unwillingness to take up arms on either side. Doaa spotted one family of four seated close by. She and the mother in the family started to chat. They were from the Yarmouk Camp for Palestinians in Damascus, and she and her husband, Imad, were trying their best to comfort their two little girls, Sandra, six, and Masa, eighteen months, who were restless and crying. Doaa asked where they were headed. The mother said their destination was Sweden, where her brother-in-law had traveled a year before with their eldest daughter, Sidra, who was eight. They had thought that if they sent their daughter ahead, chances were better that at least some of the family would survive. The mother asked Doaa to hold little Masa, then got to her feet and asked Doaa to pass Masa up to her so she could take her to the toilet. Doaa squeezed the warm little body close to her chest for just a moment, then handed her up to her mother.

  Everyone on this boat must have a sad story to tell, Doaa thought, as she watched Masa and her mother make their way across the deck, but she noticed that few people would mention their past. Their talk was instead focused on the future, getting through the ordeal of these miserable days at sea and starting new lives. As the days stretched forward, a kind of solidarity formed among the passengers. People especially reached out to help the children—entertaining them with stories, offering them sips of water, or peeling open rolls of cookies to offer small treats. There was no sectarian, religious, or ethnic division here, just people trying to help each other get through the day.

  Doaa longed for the Quran that she had brought to Egypt with her from Syria, her most precious possession. Since her early teens, she had read from it every evening before bed, and at random times during the day when she needed some comforting words to give her peace of mind. After reading from it, Doaa would slip it back into its hard case, which was embossed with a pink-and-white geometric pattern. Her Quran would have soothed her now, she thought, but her thoughts soon turned to anger as she remembered that it was in the black duffel bag that had been confiscated during her first arrest. She was suddenly overcome with hatred for the smugglers and anger at the police and everyone who tried to profit from the desperation of refugees such as herself.

  A few moments later, a smuggler approached their section of the boat with a book in his hand. “Someone has dropped this Quran. Does anybody want it?” He was the first of the smugglers who had spoken to them with any kindness. Bassem was chatting with a Palestinian man next to him named Walid who accepted the book, but then, not wanting to appear selfish, Walid turned to Bassem and Doaa and offered it to them. Doaa whispered to Bassem, “I do really want that Quran.” Walid smiled kindly and handed it to her. Taking hold of the small holy book, she felt energy and relief return to her body. Just the feel of the soft leather in her hands comforted her. She kissed the cover and opened the book anxiously, reading the words of God inside, and feeling as if she held an object of protection. As she flipped through the pages, she found small slips of paper with handwritten prayers. When she finished reading them, she closed the book carefully, making sure not to lose the notes, and slipped it under her T-shirt close to her heart.

  Sometimes the other women sitting close by would join Doaa when she took the Quran out; they would recite prayers alongside her and ask God to guide the ship safely to Italy. The woman sitting directly to her left struck up a conversation, telling Doaa about her difficult life in one of the Palestinian refugee camps in Lebanon. She asked Doaa what drove her from Syria and where she was going. When she learned about Doaa and Bassem’s engagement in Egypt and their plans to seal their marriage in Europe, the young woman, who called herself Um Khalil, “mother of Khalil,” her two-year-old teething son, was delighted. “You’re a bride!” she exclaimed. “We will make you a lovely wedding when we get to Europe! We will sing and dance all night!” Doaa was touched. The other woman seated beside her, a middle-aged Syrian Palestinian, chimed in, “When we arrive in Italy, we will buy you the nicest dress and have two big parties—one for your wedding and one to celebrate that we have arrived!”

  “You are so lucky with Bassem,” Um Khalil told Doaa
, catching Bassem’s eye and smiling at him. At this, Doaa felt suddenly possessive and turned toward Bassem, and away from Um Khalil.

  Bassem immediately recognized the insecure expression of jealousy on Doaa’s face. “You should keep chatting with her, she’s nice!” he whispered in Doaa’s ear.

  “What do you mean by that?” Doaa asked, taken aback. Was he using her to get close to the other woman? she wondered.

  Bassem grinned at her. “Are you jealous?” he teased. Then, seeing that she was truly distressed, he reassured her, “I only have eyes for you, my love.” Hearing this, Doaa curled up against him and took his hand in hers. “In just two days, we will be in Italian waters,” he predicted. “Then we’ll make our way to Sweden and be married and have our family.” He’d heard from friends who had made it to Europe that once they got to Italy, the smugglers would send out a distress signal, alerting the coast guard to their location using GPS. Sometimes, the smugglers would get picked up by collaborators before the rescue ship arrived, leaving the refugees without a captain or crew, Bassem explained. If not, they pretended to be refugees themselves to avoid being arrested, getting the passengers to vow to not disclose their identities, then the first chance they got, they would abscond from the group.