PROMISED LAND
Many in our village listened
to the seductive whispers about the journey that promised peace, and after the
mosque was bombed Father handed his savings to a stranger in exchange for hope.
Our poorer neighbours wished us luck with their mouths while their eyes swept
covetously over our home, marking what they would grab when we left.
Crammed into the truck with
us were common tradesmen, and farmers still smelling of the soil. At first Mother
sat among them rigid with distaste, but it’s hard to stay remote when a
child vomits on your skirts. Besides, when we were too far from home to return,
they robbed us of everything and we were all suddenly equal.
Time blurred. First my
sister – the pretty one – disappeared. Then came the boat – Mahmoud fell overboard and Father drowned
rescuing him. After we reached land again we walked, and when Grandmother fell they shot her
– Mother hasn’t spoken a word since.
Now we are here, huddled in
a freezing tent, queuing long hours in ankle-deep mud for food, and the
promised land is still beyond our reach. Mahmoud says he is going to hide in a
lorry tonight. He wants me to go too, but I can’t leave Mother and my remaining sister unprotected, so I will stay.
So sad.
ReplyDeleteYes, migration is too often a one way journey to misery.
DeleteSadly a story that could be set in any era including the present.
ReplyDeleteThat's the tragedy of it.
Delete