A Hope More Powerful Than the Sea(40)
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 told 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.