Abu-Agela and I stood at the Mediterranean every day and he said the same thing every time: ‘It’s hard as hell to cross this sea.’
‘Look — this ship here? Where’s it off to? What do you think?’
‘Yes, look closely. Where to? Over there’s Italy and over there, Malta. And back there, Holland.’
‘But the police?’
Abu-Agela knew Izhaq and he joined us. We sat with our maps daily, planning our escape to Italy. The trip was to begin in Izhaq’s boat. We went to the harbour in the evening. It was Friday and, on public holidays, the town was like a desert. Hardly anyone in the streets or at the harbour. We got into the boat. From the sea, I looked back at Benghazi. Its lights disappeared slowly. Suddenly, it was no longer there.
The boat was drifting.
Though I was restless I fell asleep. When I woke up, I found Izhaq staring at me. ‘Man, you were asleep for six hours!’
Round us, a deathly hush, the only sound that of the waves splashing against our boat. Suddenly, Izhaq hissed, ‘There’s light over there!’
‘An Italian ship?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’m not a clairvoyant!’
‘Shit, it’s Libyan!’ said Izhaq.
We spent a few unbearable days in the Benghazi harbour prison. If it hadn’t been for Abu-Agela and his muscular body, who knows what might have happened! A cell reeking of damp and mould, more than twelve people squeezed in together. All with very special crimes to their names — murder, manslaughter, rape. . One of them, covered in tattoos, tried to hit on me and Izhaq. Abu-Agela flattened him, then planted himself in front of us like a giant. From then on, we were left in peace. They had their fun in the end, though. Found two other guys for their hot group-sex games. The pair seemed perfectly happy, so Abu-Agela held back and let them be.
In the end, the police magistrate believed our claim — that we had just wanted to go on a little boat trip round Benghazi. Nevertheless, we had to sign a bond that we would never hang around near the harbour. Izhaq lost his job. Following our release, he decided to go to South Africa, this time not by sea but on foot, across the desert. Also illegal, of course. Abu-Agela wanted to go to Tunisia and then onwards from there.
On the day of our release, I went to the beach in the evening and looked at the sky, the sea, the ships and the gulls. I closed my eyes and began to scream with all my heart and soul. I spread my arms like a pigeon would its wings and danced on the beach. Like a wave, or a pigeon that has just been killed. Like a raging camel. Whenever things went wrong, I danced and screamed. Though not exactly a good dancer, I danced with a passion. Like I was Zorba the Greek. I danced whenever I felt I had no paths, no dreams, no hope any more. Whenever emptiness engulfed the world round me. Afterwards, I felt free, new-born. Like a gull for which every route is open. Like an eagle floating in the sky. I danced on the beach of Benghazi, screaming. Then set out on my path home. Home? Where was that? A hole under the stairs of a building — ten square metres, maybe. The landlord allowed homeless people like me to live there for not much money. That night I slept well and woke up having decided to go to Tunisia with Abu-Agela.
‘God, save me from emptiness! God, save me from emptiness! God, save me from emptiness. .’
At the border between Libya and Tunisia, in Ras Ajdir, you encounter two different centuries simultaneously. On the Libyan side, you look into the eighteenth or nineteenth century; on the Tunisian, the twentieth. During the journey from Tripoli to Ras Ajdir, we looked out at the landscape through the window of our shared taxi — old cars, old houses, sand, the yellow colour of the country, the faces of sad men. Faceless women. Shrouded in garments, like walking mummies. The disorganized world, the government posters, the pictures of the president, the countless policemen and plastic bags, plastic bottles, tin cans, scraps of newspaper lying at the side of the road. Shortly before we reached Ras Ajdir, we noticed a poster that said ‘The yellow desert turned green.’
‘See anything green here?’ whispered Abu-Agela.
‘No.’
‘That’s Libyan logic for you. Lie, lie and lie again so that, in the end, the yellow desert starts looking green.’ The other side of the world, Tunisia, was completely different. The streets, clean. The women, with faces. And really green spots. Only a few pictures of the president, a few posters. ‘In Tunisia,’ the taxi-driver explained, ‘you can do anything you want except politics.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Abu-Agela.
‘Women, alcohol, whatever. But never criticize the government. You’ll get in real trouble if you do!’
‘Okay — thanks for the tip!’
In the capital city, we soon established how right the man was. A glance at the newspaper and you saw nothing but how wonderful the government was! A Tunisian in our old dirty one-dollar hotel told us that politicians or intellectuals who spoke out against the government were arrested in no time at all. ‘The same shit again!’ Abu-Agela groaned, ‘Just not in military uniform but in suit and tie.’
Well, the solution of these countries’ problems wasn’t the point of our trip. We had problems of our own. We were looking for just one way across the sea to Europe. Abu-Agela tried every day to get to the sea and find a people-smuggler. I stayed in town so as not to waste too much money on these trips. I spent my time on Avenue Habib Bourguiba, looking at women and trying to chat them up. Two weeks passed and we still hadn’t found a smuggler to take us to Europe. My visa, though, was valid for only two weeks and — as I was Iraqi — couldn’t be extended. Abu-Agela, being Libyan, had a permit for three months. Another two weeks and we still didn’t have a smuggler. One night, sitting with Abu-Agela in the hotel room, I heard them roaring. The police. The hotel owners must have tipped them off, told them my visa’d expired.
At the station, the police magistrate explained that I had two options — back to Iraq or back to Libya. Plus, a fine for being in Tunisia illegally. In my wallet, however, was only about sixty dollars. They did without the fine but I had to sign a document saying that I would never return to Tunisia. They wanted to send me back to Libya the next day. I spent the night in a small cell that was old and crawling with lice. My two cell-mates were refugees from Nigeria. We couldn’t understand a word of each other’s languages. They didn’t speak English either, only French. I didn’t know a word of French. So we were forced to use sign language. Clearly, they’d been in a boat when the police arrested them. They wanted to get to Italy too. That’s all I could understand. I slept and thought of my prayer but I had the feeling, somehow, that God couldn’t hear me. Or didn’t want to. ‘What’s wrong with Him?’
I prayed softly, nonetheless, ‘God, please, please save me! Save me from emptiness!’
The next day, we travelled with two policemen to Ras Ajdir. I got back only fifteen of my sixty dollars — the trip cost forty-five dollars for me and one of the policemen. The Africans had to pay for the other one as well as for the return journey of these two servants of the state.
They stamped ‘Entry Ban’ on my passport, loosened the fetters round my wrists and ordered me to ‘Disappear!’ I walked to the Libyan border post. The Africans were quicker and passed Libyan border control before me. I sat down between the two border posts. Looked to the left and to the right — into the twentieth and the eighteenth centuries. On both sides were a few pigeons. They were flying freely, now to the left, now to the right, wherever they wished. One always landed at the same place. Precisely where, on the left, the office was situated. There were children having fun too, travelling to the left or the right, with their families. The faces in the cars, both smiling and sad. I sat there for a long time. Thought about dancing and screaming but there were too many people. I got up and shuffled slowly over to the right, to the yellow desert that was supposed to be green.