Somehow, in spite of everything, the rhythmic coughing of the motor had become reassuring. The children had fallen asleep, squeezed against a parent or the back of a stranger. Nobody spoke. A few people dozed off, most stared ahead of them, in the darkness. She heard the soft murmur of the woman next to her, praying.
Suddenly, the motor stopped. Silence filled in, and with it dread and the finite possibilities of what was going to happen.
Abou, the one from Mauritania, was the first to react. He hailed a tall skinny boy on the other side of the rubber boat. All at once more voices shouted, people started fussing, the craft rocked, a child began to wail. There were a couple of wooden oars. The men at the front set them up on each side of the boat and started to paddle feverishly. Several men and women held their mobile phones up in the air, at arm’s length, towards the sky, hoping for a connection. But no signal came on their telephone screens. The sky remained silent; it had long forsaken them. After a while, the paddling ceased, too.
The moon was invisible, concealed behind the large shapes of the clouds. Faint rays of light filtered in through random slits and made the surface of the water shine. Around them, on all sides, they could see nothing but the murky mass of the sea, slowly heaving.
She had heard so many stories. Some good ones—boats that made it through, or their occupants rescued by one of those NGO ships that cruised the Mediterranean in search of migrants. Mostly bad ones—makeshift boats capsizing, caught in a storm, men and women drowning or dying from cold, hunger, dehydration. Children’s bodies carried by the tide and found lying face down on the beach, among coral dust and seaweeds. She had heard that the NGO ships could no longer run rescue operations, that their vessels were seized or blocked at ports by the authorities, that Europe was paying Libya to keep people from embarking on the sea and to catch those who tried. At the time she would not believe it, but after the months spent at Zawiyah camp she had learned that anything—especially the worst—was possible.
Lina was still sleeping, nestled in the curve of her arms. She felt the child’s breath, warm and humid, on the spot of skin between her chest and the base of her neck. Hours passed by. Out of exhaustion, she felt her lids close while the fragile craft and its passengers floated adrift.
She was jerked awake by the roaring of the patrol vessel, from far away. Even in the distance, it was much louder than the whir of their rubber boat. As it got nearer, the flashlight blinded their eyes that had gotten used to the darkness. A siren wailed. In the intermittent light she recognized the uniforms.
People inside the boat started to panic. She knew at once what to do. Lina had woken up and moaned feebly. Holding her tightly in her arms, she made her way to the side, pushing herself against the crowd, away from the approaching vessel and its maddening siren. When she reached the edge, she hugged the child, kissed her face, told her everything was going to be all right.
She inhaled, filling her lungs with air, filled them full. She plunged, holding Lina firmly with one arm. The water was so cold she felt a wave of shock passing through her limbs. She swam, as fast as she could, with her one free arm, pushing on her legs with all her strength. She felt stronger than she had ever felt. They slid through the water, it was so easy, going down. She never knew she could swim so well. Down and down. Deeper and deeper. Until her eardrum hurt and her head started buzzing, and she saw the light, felt its clarity through her eyelids, its warmth on her skin. All around her, the sea illuminated. Multi-colored fish swam through the branches of the cedar trees. She let herself float, still holding Lina’s thin body against her own, and she smiled, she and her daughter finally safe.
© 2022, Julia Thibord
