I often think about that evening, still wondering how we could entrust our lives to this guy who was completely off his face and was meant to be driving us for 250 kilometers. I think it says a lot about the depths of our despair and our ability to ignore alarm bells. We’d already confronted so many fears, so much pain and sickness on our journey, and we’d been forced to override them in order to get anywhere, so our instinctive radars had stopped working.
The car has only been going a few minutes when the driver suddenly stops at a gas station, asks us to get out…and drives off! Unable to accept that he’s abandoned us like this, we wait all night for him. By dawn it’s obvious he won’t come back. Mayada tells my father we must call Zena to let her know what’s going on, but my father is beside himself, struggling to come to terms with this latest scam. His face has yellowed overnight, his eyes are bloodshot, and he’s stopped talking. So Mimo calls Zena herself and tells her about this new disaster. My poor sister, who’s doing everything she can to help us from France, is devastated. And I feel so guilty…after all, I was the one who found this contact, and what we paid him has cleaned us out, we have nothing left to pay for the trip with another smuggler.
Still, we pull ourselves together quickly. The people smuggler will just have to pay us back, that’s all there is to it! This becomes an obsession: We harass him on social media and post messages describing what happened to us so no more refugees will use him until he gives us our money back.
In the end, he agrees to meet us. Of course, he shows up with two huge men built like tanks and these thugs stand on either side of him while he talks to my father. Samer and I think they’re going to beat up my father. We edge closer, ready to pounce, two skinny, sickly seventeen-year-olds who’ve only ever fought other schoolboys.
My father asks for his money but the smuggler says he won’t pay us back.
“I’ll organize another ride for you but with a good driver this time. There’s no way I’ll give you your money back so you can go give it to another dealer, that would be an insult to me!”
It’s now clear that the man’s only concern is his reputation. If we go to another smuggler, word would quickly get around about how he treated us and that would put off other customers. Luckily, we’ve heard that the small town of Sopron, close to the Austro-Hungarian border, is a good place for relatively easy border crossings without a people smuggler. So my father gamely says that we need the money back because we’re going to undertake the journey alone, via Sopron, rather than giving it to another dealer. This lie is our last hope but, unbelievably, it works: The man returns all the money to my father!
Back to square one: We now need to find a good people smuggler to get us out of this wretched country. We get in touch with all our contacts, even down to people we met in Greece, and finally—finally—we find the right person. So right, in fact, that we have to wait till he has room for us, but in the end the rendezvous is set up in the same Turkish restaurant where we met the other man. After checking that our crook won’t be there this evening, we sit down for our last meal in Hungary: rice with kidney beans followed by rice pudding with raspberries and lots of sugar. As she finishes this delicious desert, Mayada gives a big smile.
“That was so good it’s bound to bring us luck tonight!” she says.
Our smuggler arrives. Dark hair, long beard, and uncovered head; he’s under thirty and wearing a Batman T-shirt. He doesn’t talk much but counts out the money that my father hands him in an envelope: 2,500 euros. His face lights up.
“Perfect, you’re leaving right now. I’ll take you to the car.”
We can’t believe our eyes when we get there. In fact, there are two cars, because our smuggler wants no more than four passengers per vehicle, one in the front passenger seat and three in the back. They’re both big, brand-new German sedans, a Mercedes and a BMW. I immediately feel safe…but there are five of us: one of us will have to travel in the other car with three men we don’t know. My father turns to Samer.
“You will travel in the other car,” he says.
“But I’m frightened, I don’t want to.”
“Don’t worry, Samer,” I say. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
“I don’t know…”
“Listen, it’s ok, I’ll go instead of you, you can stay with my parents and Mimo.”
“Really? Well then, no, if you really trust them, I’ll go.”
The driver of the car I get into with my parents is very attentive. He introduces himself, says that he’s Hungarian and a Muslim, and attaches a strand of Misbaha prayer beads to the rearview mirror. He reassures us that Samer will be fine, saying that the BMW will follow right behind us, especially because the other driver doesn’t know the minor roads as well as he does, and that’s the route to take to avoid being spotted. He even offers us a glass of orange juice and says he’ll stop along the way as soon as anyone needs a break.
He’s not just obliging, he’s also very clever. We’re hurtling along a little-used road when we spot flashing blue lights up ahead: There’s been an accident and the emergency services are on the scene. Our driver doesn’t miss a beat. He tells us to huddle on the floor of the car so we can’t be seen and stops very close to the accident. He gets out and walks right over to the police. We hold our breaths as we watch him talk to them briefly—were we right to trust him?—then he runs back to the car and we set off again with the BMW still behind us.
“I asked if there was anything I could do to help, so they just told me to get out of the way,” he says, winking at me in the rearview mirror.
A couple of hours later he suddenly says, “You see over there, that’s the Austrian police. I won’t go any farther, but if you head left here, you’ll find taxis. Out you get, and run!”
He’s absolutely right, the GPS on our phones confirms that we’ve reached Austria. And then there really are taxis less than a kilometer away. We set off for Vienna with a driver who doesn’t ask us a single question.
After the strain of the last few weeks, we don’t want to waste another second. It’s still the dead of night but we head for the main train station in Vienna, where huge Red Cross banners lead us to a reception area under a white tent. Two kindly and very smiley men greet us when we walk in. They’re wearing Red Cross vests and tell us that they’re Egyptian and they’re here to help refugees like us. I don’t know if this is what they expected, but we tell them everything from when we left Damascus to arriving here, often all talking at once. They listen attentively, never asking us to cut things short. When we finally stop talking, we’re breathless.
“There are no trains at this time of night,” they tell us. “You can’t leave until the morning.”
“But we hardly have any money left, we can’t go to a hotel here, it’ll be too expensive.”
“Don’t worry, we can take care of you, we have a big center nearby.”
We have a brief discussion and decide to trust them, and one of them takes us to the Red Cross center. It starts really badly: A group of volunteers makes a note of our names and gives us wristbands with numbers on them, telling us that we must wear them the whole time we’re in the center. I brace myself, I have such vivid memories of the exact same sort of wristband that was forced onto me in Hungary. I tell the volunteers how I’m feeling and they reassure me, very gently and kindly. We’re given a few provisions: water, apples, sardines, tuna—and none of it out of date! Then we settle down for the night in this center, which is a little like a hospital with rows of beds lining long corridors as far as the eye can see.
The next morning we meet the two Egyptians outside the station. They’re surrounded by a crowd of refugees.
“Listen up, everyone! Special trains have been chartered for refugees, you can travel to Germany for free.”
This announcement is greeted with whoops of joy. The five of us fall into one another’s arms. Our destination i
s getting closer at last, and fast! My mother and sister embark on happy, animated conversations with other Syrians around us, describing our experiences and listening to theirs. Most of the other refugees will end their journey in Germany, that’s where they intend to ask for asylum. Others will continue to the Netherlands. We are the only group wanting to settle in France.
When we reach Munich station, I gaze in disbelief at the surreal scene before me. Hundreds of Germans are waving placards with the word “Welcome!” in German and Arabic. Some have teddy bears to give to refugee children, but even this can’t bring a smile to my face because I’ve noticed that there are also policemen on the platform, dozens of them. And that surely can’t be a good sign. But this isn’t Hungary and I realize that the policemen treat us with respect, asking if anyone needs any kind of urgent help, before showing us to a line of buses waiting by the station. One of them uses a megaphone to make an announcement in several languages.
“We will take you to a camp near Berlin and you will spend a week or two there. Then you will be brought for immediate trial and if you want to leave Germany, you must explain that you’re not seeking asylum here but in another country. Then you’ll be free to travel to your chosen destination.”
I climb onto the bus alongside my family with a heavy heart—going to Berlin takes us farther from Paris, and I definitely don’t want to spend two more weeks in a migrant camp. During the journey, my father comes to see each of us individually and whispers something in our ears…and as soon as we’ve retrieved our baggage from the hold when we reach the camp, we run away as quickly as we can.
We’re terrified that we’ll be followed but no one sets off on in pursuit. Once we’re a reasonable distance from the camp, we stop to catch our breaths and assess the situation. A few minutes’ research on our phones is all it takes to work out that it should be quite easy to get to France: There’s a high-speed train from Berlin to Luxembourg and another from Luxembourg to the Gare de l’Est in Paris. We hurry through the freezing cold city of Berlin to the main station. It’s September 6, but the ground even feels icy in places. We have only summer clothes, and not a single sweater between us. I’m not as cold as the rest of my family because of my fever, which still won’t drop. When we reach the station, my father takes us into a pharmacy where the pharmacist—moved by the state that I’m in and by my mother’s swollen, bruised arm—agrees to sell us a powerful painkiller, tramadol, without a prescription.
We board the InterCity Express train for Luxembourg and I find myself sitting opposite an older lady who smiles at me with genuine kindness. The time comes for the train to leave but we don’t move and after a few minutes there’s an announcement in several languages saying that, due to a technical problem, our train cannot leave and we will have to catch the next one.
“That’s incredible!” the lady says in English. “I’ve been taking this train regularly for fifteen years and I’ve never known it to have a problem.”
In the delirium of fever, these simple words throw me into a state of absolute torment. I must bring bad luck, it’s my fault the train’s not going…But an hour later we’re on a moving train at last and I succumb to fitful sleep punctuated by jolts of wakefulness when I go over and over the idea that I don’t want to die before seeing my sisters Zena and Manal again, so I must keep going.
And then out of nowhere Mayada is shaking me, saying, “Anas, we’re here, we’re in Paris!”
I’m completely dazed and realize I have no recollection of changing trains in Luxembourg.
Manal and Khaled are waiting for us at the end of the platform. They hug us so tightly I think I might break, but it’s wonderful. Manal takes a step back and looks me up and down. My weight has dropped to 136 pounds, my beard has grown because I had no way to shave, and I’m ashen from the fever. She starts to cry, and so do I. All those days filled with anxiety, all those sleepless nights of terror, the abuse, the hours in the rain or scorching sun with no shelter—it’s all over.
We’re home and dry at last. We have shelter at last. In France at last. Safe.
I’m happy in France now. I go to school here, I have friends and life’s treating me well. There’s only one thing that makes me sad: I can never go back to Syria, ever. Because as a political refugee, I can travel anywhere in the world except my native country, even for a few days. My grandmother will die, and I won’t have seen her again, I know that. She’ll be buried without us. And that hurts.
* See the appendices for an explanation
10.
(Re)united
It’s Sunday September 6, 2015, and—as we often do on a Sunday—we’re having lunch with Stéphan’s parents. Julia is on my lap, picking at the food on my plate. She’s already had her own lunch, but she is only two, after all! I’m not hungry, though, and she’s the one savoring the roast potatoes my mother-in-law has served me. This is a special day: I know that my parents, my brother and sister, and Samer are on a train, on their way from Berlin. They’ve kept me up-to-date on an almost hourly basis. I’m feverish with excitement. Conversation buzzes around me: Stéphan and his parents are talking about my family’s arrival. Everyone’s happy, but I’m withdrawn, almost silent. The journey that my family has been on since they left Damascus has involved countless obstacles, so much suffering, and so many dead ends…I can’t possibly celebrate until I’m sure they’re safely on French soil.
My phone rings at last. It’s Mimo.
“We did it! I’m not lying to you, Zena, our train’s pulling into the station, we’re in France! We’re in Paris!”
I burst out laughing and crying in the same breath. At last! After this journey of constant ordeals, they made it! When I hang up I don’t need to explain what’s going on: Everyone knows. My father-in-law, Claude, stands up.
“I’m going to get some champagne, I think that’s what’s needed!”
I hug my daughter to me, overwhelmed with emotion, kissing her little head and getting lost in the smell of her. To think I was worried this moment of relief might never come. We’re finally done with the years of anxiety when we knew they were in danger in a war zone, and the weeks of terror, worrying that the worst has happened to them as they tried to get away. I have an irrepressible urge to jump up and set off to Paris to fetch them immediately. But I know that my sister Manal is there to greet them, and she’ll take care of them until Stéphan and I go to pick them up next weekend.
Stéphan comes over and puts his arms around Julia and me. That’s when I truly succumb to my tears, and he holds me all the more tightly. After this moment shared between the three of us, I look up and smile at Marianne and Claude; he is now filling our champagne flutes and is clearly very moved himself. After all the tension and fear, it means a lot to me that I’m sharing this boundless joy with my parents-in-law.
Manal waits till everyone is in bed before calling me.
“So, how are they?” I ask.
“Well, it was high time they got here, they’re exhausted. They hardly ate anything, even the boys, they just wanted to wash and go to bed, so I didn’t insist.”
“Apart from being tired, though, are they ok?”
“They need to see a doctor, especially Mom with her arm, obviously. I’ll take them to the emergency room first thing in the morning.”
“Keep me in the loop, won’t you?”
“Of course I will. But I warn you, Zena, they’ve really changed, you’ll have a shock when you see them on Saturday.”
“I know. I’m so happy that they’re with you, thank God. Take good care of them.”
The very next morning, Manal and Khaled take my parents, Mimo, Anas, and Samer to the emergency room at a hospital in Orléans. But, because they have no form of ID or any insurance, it’s a real obstacle course. The care they get is determined by the goodwill of the hospital staff. Manal assures me that all the health-care workers they meet are attentive and kind
. But only my mother is seen to immediately, and this is due to her urgent need for treatment. Once she has been x-rayed, her arm is finally put in plaster. Despite their requests, there are no examinations or treatments offered to my father, my sister, Samer, or Anas: Their problems are not sufficiently visible. Manal buys over-the-counter drugs to alleviate Samer and Mayada’s pain, bring down Anas’s temperature, and tend to my father’s cuts and abrasions. Of course, sleeping in a real bed every night and sharing in happy family meals will also help them recuperate.
Stéphan hasn’t taken any time off work so we must wait till the weekend to join them. In the meantime, I call them one at a time every day. Just to hear their voices, to ask my father what he’s had to eat, and my mother whether she slept well. And although I still miss them, I’m finally recovering my appetite, my own ability to sleep, and my smile. I almost can’t believe it: I’ve stopped worrying every time the phone rings that it will bring news of some crisis, and I’m even getting back into the habit of switching it off when I go to bed—I don’t think I’ve done that for three years. It’s as if I’ve finally put down a backpack full of concrete blocks that I’ve been carrying around for months…
To kill the time I finally allow myself to get everything ready for them at home. Out of superstition, I didn’t want to do much shopping or make too many arrangements until they were in France. Ever since my father’s decision to leave Syria, it’s been agreed that they would all come to live with us. As it stands, there are just three of us in our four-bedroom house in Albi, whereas Manal and Khaled have four children and less space. And so, the following Saturday, Stéphan and I settle little Julia into the minibus we’ve hired for the occasion and we set off for Orléans. I’ve tried my best to explain to her what’s going on. I’m not sure she fully understands but she’s very aware that Stéphan and I have been filled with euphoria and incredulous excitement the last few days. “Something wonderful’s going to happen to Mommy and Daddy. I don’t exactly know what, but it looks like it’s gonna be amazing!”
I Just Wanted to Save My Family Page 7