I Just Wanted to Save My Family

by Stéphan Pélissier

  What I do know is that the war over there is forcing thousands of Syrians to take any risk in the hope of finding somewhere where they can at least survive. How many fathers lead their families onto those cockleshell boats? How many tragedies are there behind the horrific images we’ve seen on social media since we’ve been tracking our family’s progress—overturned boats, backpacks and empty life jackets drifting at sea…

  While Zena negotiates with her father, I start researching the laws about helping migrants. It’s impossible to glean any information for Greece, because all the results that come up are in Greek and I’d prefer not to put my trust in machine translation for something like this—I speak Greek, but I can’t read it. I have no trouble finding the French regulations, and soon establish that you are not punished for helping undocumented immigrants with travel and accommodations if they are your relations. Greece is in Europe so it can’t be all that different.

  * * *

  —

  I managed to persuade my father to go to Athens to find a people smuggler. That will take up just enough time for Stéphan to arrange to get there. I feel relieved and guilty in equal measure. I should be holding my husband back, I should be stopping him from leaving, but I can’t, I want him to go. Persuading him against it would be like condemning my family to death. My mind’s going around in circles, jumping from one thought to another, it feels like my head’s about to explode. Luckily, Julia will wake soon, and Stéphan and I will be busy arranging his trip.

  * * *

  —

  I must leave tomorrow at the latest. I don’t want to run the risk of Saif Eddine finding a people smuggler before I’m on my way and Zena can tell them I’m coming. We have very little time, it’s a long way to Ancona.

  While we drink our coffee, I show Zena the first bits of research I’ve done into helping foreigners come into the country. She reacts instantly: “You’ll need our family record book, Stéphan. Everything’s recorded in there, including my parents’ names. It’s proof that they’re your family.” She puts it into my bag with my phone charger and various forms of ID.

  Mayada told Zena they lost almost all their belongings because the boat sank, so my wife will spend part of the day buying new clothes for Anas, nonprescription painkillers for their injuries, and anything else she can find that might be useful.

  I, meanwhile, must contact my boss to explain why I need more time off. Because, yes, I used my official vacation time in July. I tell him it’s a family matter and luckily my standing within the company means it’s not a problem.

  I go to the bank to take out as much cash as I can—I don’t want to end up stuck over there because I’ve reached the spending limit on my bank card. Then I sit down at the computer to study the timetable for ferries from Ancona. Crossings to Greece are overnight and, because it’s the tourist season, there are departures every evening. But it’s impossible for one person to drive from Albi to Ancona without a break. And anyway, I wouldn’t get there in time for the ferry tonight…so I’ll stop off in Genoa. I reserve a B&B for the night.

  Zena and I keep up our research on social media as well as government websites to try to evaluate the risks I’m taking. Despite our efforts, I can’t get a clear idea of the situation. Either way, I won’t go back on my decision.

  5.

  Reunited in Patras

  Just before midday on August 20, 2015, I kiss my wife and daughter goodbye, sit behind the wheel of my car and drive to Genoa. It’s not until four hundred kilometers later, when I stop to fill the tank with gas, that I notice I didn’t think to take out Julia’s car seat. I think that says a lot about the rushed, improvised nature of my decision to go. Before crossing the border to Italy, I realize I should contact my parents—I haven’t yet told them anything about this undertaking. I decide to call my mother. I explain the situation and tell her what Zena’s parents would risk if I don’t go. I can tell she’s frightened, but she doesn’t make a single negative comment and does her best to disguise her concern.

  “Will you let dad know, please?” I ask before hanging up.

  In the past—particularly when I was a teenager and in my early days as an independent young man—she often acted as a mediator between my father and me. I’m not afraid of confrontation, or of his criticizing my plan or being hostile to it, but I want to focus on the action itself and keep up the energy that’s taking me to Greece: I can’t let anyone sow seeds of doubt or inspire an inkling of fear in my mind. True, with hindsight I feel maybe I should have discussed it with him, he could have given me advice. But for now I’ll leave my mother to explain my plan.

  I reach Genoa at nine in the evening. The driving has exhausted me and I’m glad I chose this simple, pretty place where I can have something to eat and, crucially, get to bed early. Until I reached the border, I called Zena every couple of hours, but once in Italy I stopped calling—too expensive. Before going to bed I call for news and I can sense all the anxiety and tiredness in her voice that she doesn’t want me to hear…

  I’m tired too when I wake in the morning. I spent more time visualizing a succession of catastrophic scenarios than sleeping. And my whole body is stiff from driving the day before. But I must set off again, the ferry leaves Ancona at five this afternoon and it won’t wait for me. The journey is an ordeal: the roads are clogged with vacationers—to be expected at this time of year—and, with each passing kilometer, I start to doubt my chances of succeeding. I have to shake myself regularly to stop from falling asleep or descending into overwhelming pessimism. Zena and I talk on the phone for a few minutes every couple of hours and, despite our fears, we manage to support each other somehow, especially because I can always hear Julia babbling in the background, which does me good.

  At last I drive onto the ferry in Ancona. It feels slightly surreal. I’m struggling to take in the fact that I’m here on this boat, the same one that I hope to catch on the way back in two days’ time with my wife’s family. There are crowds of people around me, mostly tourists, couples, families on vacation, a few Greeks heading home. A lot of happiness and laughter, children running around, overexcited by what must be their first ferry crossing. And here am I carting around my fears and loneliness. I do what I can to concentrate on how happy I’ll be when I see Saif, Wafaa, and the others, and the contentment that will be restored once everyone is safely in France.

  My cabin is tiny but all I need is a cool shower and a bed. Exhausted by driving and my sleepless night in Genoa, I fall asleep just after we set sail.

  I wake before dawn the next morning and the ferry arrives in the port of Patras a few hours later. I’m fidgety with impatience, but I’ll have to wait to be reunited with my Syrian family: It takes more than two hours to disembark all the vehicles in the already crushing heat. Then, as I leave the port, I realize that my phone contract won’t let me use the GPS outside of France. Most of the road signs are written in Greek, and I have trouble finding my way. I can’t read Greek but, thank goodness, I speak it very well because Granny Voula lived with my family for ten years. She raised me when my parents were away: My policeman father traveled a lot for his work and my assistant-nurse mother often worked nights and weekends. My grandmother never learned more than a few words of French and only ever spoke to us in Greek. After she died, my mother reestablished contact with her family in Crete and I kept up my Greek by speaking with my uncle and cousins, but I never would have guessed that I would use the language as I am today, asking passersby how to get to Athens!

  It takes me nearly four hours to get to the hotel in the Pasalimani neighborhood of Athens where Zena tells me her family is staying. She’s given me Anas’s phone number, and I’ve been talking to him as I drive toward the city. When I reach the hotel, he’s out on the sidewalk waiting for me—he particularly wanted to be there when I arrived. I take him in my arms and hug him for a long time, lost for words. He leads me inside to see the rest of the family.
They almost can’t believe I’m there, jumping to their feet and hugging me, all of us filled with inexpressible emotion. We laugh and cry at the same time and when I call Zena we all talk at once, fizzing with happiness. I can reassure her because I think they all look to be in pretty good shape. My only concern is for my mother-in-law, whose arm is very swollen and bruised. But Anas tells me that ever since they lost most of their clothes when the boat went down, she’s the one who—every evening and without a word of complaint—takes pride in washing the things they need for the next day.

  We have a very simple dinner in Athens: The two boys take responsibility for going out and buying some souvlaki, Greek sandwiches of pita bread and skewer-grilled meat served with sliced tomato, onion, tzatziki, and fries. Saif has reserved two rooms for the six of us: Mayada will sleep with her parents and I’ll be with Samer and Anas. We all eat together in Zena’s parents’ room. During the meal Saif describes their journey from Damascus and Anas does his best to translate in a combination of French and English that only he and I understand. It’s strange, but we have no desire to leave our rooms this evening; we’re together, packed in close—nothing can happen to us, we’re invincible! Once we’ve moved into our own room, Samer, Anas, and I have a real boys’ evening of music and videos on our phones…and a lot of laughter.

  We all meet very early for breakfast the next morning. Mayada and Wafaa look gorgeous, having spent time and attention on their hair and makeup, and wearing the clothes that Zena bought for them. They haven’t covered their hair: For our ferry crossing later, the intention is to pass ourselves off as a group of Europeans. We load everything into the trunk of my Dacia and set off for Patras just before eight o’clock. I try to think of everything without looking worried, but I have no idea we’re about to have the longest day of our lives.

  6.

  Arrest

  I fell asleep very quickly last night, soothed by the happiness I’d heard in the muddle of voices coming from my husband, parents, brother, and sister. But I woke at two in the morning in a bed soaked with sweat. What if it doesn’t work? What if they’re stopped? What if…what if…I couldn’t get back to sleep.

  I have my first ordeal this morning. Stéphan made an arrangement with his mother when he called to tell her he was going to Greece: She and Claude are going to lend us a mattress for the double bed we bought in anticipation of my family moving in with us. My sister-in-law, Sandra, has texted me to let me know that she and her parents are coming over this morning to bring it to me, with the help of an uncle—it’s Sunday so everyone is free. I’m dreading their visit because I know what Stéphan’s father is like, and I figure he won’t be at all happy that his son didn’t consult him or even warn him before he set off.

  My father-in-law has hardly set foot through the door before he starts talking to me as he never has before, extremely aggressively.

  “Why didn’t he call me? It’s completely idiotic, and I’ll tell him myself, he’ll know what I think when he gets back! Do you have any idea of the risks he’s taking?”

  His voice gets louder with each sentence and he doesn’t give me a chance to reply. My mother-in-law is embarrassed, staring at her shoes in silence. Meanwhile, exhausted and overwhelmed, I dissolve into tears.

  Looking back, I can understand my father-in-law’s reaction: As a former policeman he had no trouble imagining all the problems his son would encounter, and he was frightened for his safety, for his life…

  Luckily, the telephone rings and it’s Stéphan. My mother-in-law is still gentle and kind to me, and I show her where the mattress needs to go before finding somewhere private to talk to my husband.

  * * *

  —

  On the way from Athens to Patras, we talk a lot about strategy and come up with what we think is a good plan. As we see it, the key moment will be buying the ferry tickets. Of course it will be, because it’s an international journey so it must be like flying and our documents will be checked before we’re given the tickets. Well, documents…I’m the only one who can provide any because my Syrian family lost all of theirs before they reached Greece. So we’ll have to find a way to prove our credentials, and this task will be achieved by Mayada and me: We’re going to play the part of the perfect couple! My pretty sister-in-law has fair skin and could easily pass for a Westerner, and I have shaved carefully and I’m wearing a jacket for the occasion. At the ticket office I hand over my nice, polite Frenchman’s passport and—in Greek—ask for six adult tickets. With the supplement for my car this comes to just over a thousand euros. The saleswoman doesn’t ask for any supporting documents, not even the names of my fellow passengers. I pay in cash and leave with Mayada, a smile on my lips.

  I don’t want to show my feelings while we’re still near the ticket office, but, as far as I can see, we did it! These tickets mean we’ll definitely make the crossing. I just need to call Zena and give her the good news. With hindsight, I’m staggered by my own naivety. My wife sounds strained on the phone, and explains that my parents are there—I guess that my father has made it clear to her how displeased he is. I can’t bear knowing how low she’s feeling because we’re euphoric on our end. It’s nearly midday and we now need to wait until the boat sails at three. We find a table at a café opposite the huge steel gate at the entrance to the port’s boarding area. The six of us are so happy, snapping photos of one another while we wait for our kebabs. When Anas pours me a glass of wine he accidentally spills the carafe over himself and ends up shirtless, which makes Mayada, Samer, and me laugh uproariously.

  * * *

  —

  Alone at last! And I’ve managed to have a nice lunch with my little girl. Before they all left I took the time to explain why Stéphan went and to outline the plan he’s concocted to bring everyone back to France safely. I’m not sure I convinced any of them but just trying made me feel better.

  * * *

  —

  It’s not yet three o’clock but more and more cars are waiting to board outside the huge metal gate that opens and closes for every car. We can’t see the ferry from here, it’s a few hundred meters beyond the gate. Not wanting to worry my traveling companions, I don’t show my concern as I watch the succession of cars slipping through the gate one at a time…and start to realize that we greatly underestimated the checking system for departures. I can see that showing tickets isn’t enough: Car trunks are inspected by a team of men in civilian dress working in relays along the line. This is invariable, every trunk is searched, but that doesn’t trouble me much—we have nothing to hide in the trunk of my Dacia. What I’m much more concerned about is the fact that these men checking cars are definitely not employed by the ferry company. As I reach this conclusion, I notice that the car currently waiting outside the gate is, in fact, being subjected to a more in-depth search: It looks as if the driver is handing over documents and passports. I see him rifling through further documents in a bag and gesticulating wildly at the man checking his paperwork. A cold shiver runs down my spine. They’re policemen, clearly. The police. How could I think there wouldn’t be police checks when we boarded? I make a superhuman effort to control my emotions and keep watching. Several minutes later I feel sure that the police are checking documents for approximately one in ten cars. That’s a lot but it still gives us nine chances to get through, doesn’t it? The others around me are still just as happy so I mustn’t give any hint of my anxieties. Anyway, it’s time we got into the car and started waiting in line. I call Zena.

  “We did it, darling, we’re going to catch the ferry! I’ll call you back in ten minutes when we’ve been through the boarding gate.”

  “You be careful, ok? And call me as soon as you can.”

  * * *

  —

  Now I must just wait for Stéphan to call me back. He sounded confident just now. There’s nothing I can do from here, anyway. It feels terrible but that’s just the way it is. Julia’s sitti
ng on the carpet in the living room laughing as she plays with her musical instruments—a xylophone, a tambourine…I usually come up with another idea pretty quickly because the cacophony is difficult to bear but the noise is welcome today, drowning out my thoughts.

  * * *

  —

  While the car crawls toward the port, I give my passengers a few instructions.

  “Be natural, ok, everyone smile! And we could have some music. Go ahead, Anas, find something on YouTube.”

  My young brother-in-law is delighted that he’s allowed to fill the car with the latest hits from Avicii, DJ Snake, and Major Lazer.

  Mayada is sitting next to me, flouting the usual rules of propriety because we’re still playing the squeaky clean couple, and I’ve rolled down our windows so the police can see us clearly. On the other hand, having four passengers in the back—and three of them grown men—is a bit much. Despite the suffocating late August heat, I’ve asked my backseat passengers to keep their windows closed.

  * * *

  —

  Julia turns to look at me every now and then, amazed that I’m not complaining. She tries even harder, thumping her xylophone with all her might. I can’t really hear it. I’m fully focused on the screen of my phone. Waiting.