HOPE
I’ve been watching a few films and documentaries on the refugee crisis. It reminded me of my time translating between refugees and doctors in Lesbos, Greece and I thought I would share an excerpt of a project I never finished. This crisis is certainly not over, and will worsen as wars, led by egos and the hunger for power, continue to destroy lives. If you have a chance, you should watch The Swimmers on Netflix. It talks about two Syrian refugee sisters’ journey into Europe. I also watched Citizen of Moria, a story filmed by an Afghani refugee and film maker. Their stories are very hard, yet they are the luckier ones.
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HOPE
I felt nothing. My fingers, my toes, my noes frozen from the cool wind that blew indiscriminately against us, from the dampness of the sea and the splashes that drowned us. I felt nothing as each new drop filling our boat merged the sea and us closer to one. I felt nothing as I watched my mom and dad masking their unmasked fright as death seemed near. I felt nothing as I watched all my fellow refugees, equally frightened, pray to their respective God. I felt nothing because nothing was worse than what I was feeling. I felt nothing as I felt too much.
This journey wasn’t beginning, nor would it be over unless this crossing sunk us. I hoped not. We were only a few kilometers away from Europe, a few kilometers away from a fresh and bright future.
It started several years ago, in 2011, when war broke out in my country. I was 11, young enough to feel protected by my parents, old enough to realize that this war was a big deal. At first though, everyone thought it would be quick in passing, perhaps an uprising like that in some of our neighbouring countries. Egypt went through a revolution and came out winners overthrowing a 30-year dictatorship. We the Syrian people would come out winners as well. But as the years passed, as the bombs intensified, as the deaths increased, as new terrorist groups emerged and gained strength, our beliefs were dimming.
Here I was, 17 years old, displaced from my home, from what I knew, from what I loved, from what I was forced to let go, all to survive. Here I was on a flimsy boat heading from Turkey to the Greek island of Lesbos during a cool night of November, blinded by the darkness of the sky and the deepness of the sea, surrounded by many, each with their stories, each with their pains, and all holding to one thing: hope.
