Sounds of menace filled the air. Helicopters clattered through the sky, their searchlights piercing the darkness, seeking their prey. Military vehicles roared through the streets. Shouts and screams rent the neighbourhood. The authorities were rounding up their critics. Aisha trembled as she watched the mayhem below her hiding place. She knew that, as an activist supporting women’s rights, she would be on their ‘hit list’. She had put plans in place. The government, however, had struck much sooner than expected.
The anguished phone call from her colleague, Miriam, had alerted her to the current situation.
“Aisha! I’ve just fled the office! Soldiers are there. Ransacking the place! Emptying drawers and seizing computers.”
She felt the blood drain from her face and slid to the floor. Still, she was able to respond.
“Run! Hide! Save yourself.”
Tears of rage and frustration had followed. The team of women journalists she had collected and trained would now be dispersed. Powerless.
They had worked so hard over the years to expose corruption in the local administration and to campaign for the rights of women and girls to lead safe, productive lives. Sometimes, they won small victories, achieving positive outcomes; other times they had endured setbacks. Their work had been respected by major news outlets: both in their own country and outside. Yet it had also brought them much abuse and intimidation. Lately that had grown more threatening as the new government flexed its muscles. Sometimes she was afraid for them all, but still they had continued their work. Now it was finished and their lives at risk. Aisha had stared at the phone for a few moments before realisation of her own danger crashed over her. She took a last look at her much-loved home and fled to the hills.
With a start, she realised one of the helicopters was heading in her direction. Trembling, she drew back further into the tiny cave. She held her breath as the beam swept ever closer, hesitated, then moved on. Sweat poured down her face as she waited to see if any of the army jeeps were heading in her direction. The minutes ticked by slowly: nothing. The bright lights and terrifying noises gradually abated. Silence returned. She waited a few minutes more before creeping out of her hiding place.
She stretched her stiff limbs and, keeping a careful look out, headed off along the dusty track. In the distance she could see an ancient, twisted olive tree. She kept walking until she reached it; then paused and looked around. No-one could be seen. She let out a long sigh. Had she been let down? A long, low whistle carried on the night air. She responded cautiously.
A figure emerged from the shadows, pushing a motorcycle, and greeted her.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum." *
“Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,” * she replied, falling into step alongside him.
Together, they reached a narrow, tarmac road. He swung his leg over the motor bike and indicated to her to mount behind him. With some trepidation, she did as she was told. The machine roared into life, and they set off at great speed. Aisha wrapped her arms around his middle and desperately hung on. Words were impossible as the wind tore at her clothes, face, and hair. Mile after mile was soon eaten up. Before long, they were travelling through a dense forest.
There was a sudden lurch and she nearly fell off as he swung off the road and weaved his way between the trees. The driver screeched to a halt before cutting the engine. Silence enveloped them. The unknown helpmeet indicated she should dismount. She did as she was told, unsure of what was to follow. Headlights suddenly blazed into life, framing them in its stark light. Aisha froze. “Has the militia found me after all?” She wondered. “Is this how it will end? A shot in the dark and a shallow grave?”
“Greetings, auntie.” Relief sapped the strength from her legs, and she stumbled. Strong arms caught her, and a young voice reassured her. “This way. Quick!” She was led to the back of a covered truck and ushered inside. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realised that she was not alone. Numerous shapes shifted silently to make room for her to sit down. A sudden noise startled her. A wall of wooden crates was being built to shield them all from prying eyes. Then the doors were slammed shut and locks slid into place The engine started and, with a lurch, they headed off on the next stage of the road to freedom.
The journey was long and arduous. Soon the heat from so many bodies huddled together made Aisha feel faint. She cursed herself for not remembering to take water with her, but she had had to leave in such haste. She let out a low moan as the lorry jolted over yet another pothole. The woman next to turned and offered her a drink from her bottle. Gratefully, she took it and gulped fiercely.
“Enough!” the woman hissed.
Aisha felt her cheeks flush red. She returned the bottle hastily. “I’m so sorry,” she muttered. She lay her head down on her hunched-up knees and tried to rest. Exhaustion led her into a fitful sleep, punctuated by scenes from the last few days. The recent police raid on her office, the army searches, and the desperate motor bike ride. She was rudely awakened by the lorry jolting to a halt.
Aisha tensed. “What now?” she wondered. Men’s voices, heavy footsteps, and the metallic sound of the doors opening caused her heart to race. “Were these people friend or foe?” The disguising boxes were roughly shunted to one side and a torch beam probed the darkness, illuminating thirty exhausted faces and a little girl huddling close to her mother. A baby began to wail, despite attempts to calm him.
A curt command. “Everyone out. Now!”
There was a shuffling movement as, one by one the people stood up, many of them stiff after hours of close confinement, and headed for the open doorway. Aisha followed them and dropped from the lorry onto a bed of soft pine needles. She took a deep breath; a fresh saltiness hung in the air, mixing with the scent of the pines. She could hear waves breaking close by on an unseen shore. The next stage of her journey was about to begin.
The men in charge motioned for them all to move forward, over a line of sand dunes and onto a beach. There were murmurs from the group.
“Silence! Do you want the police to hear you.”
“Clearly,” thought Aisha, “we’re not out of danger yet.”
She looked around. The moon was absent from the sky. She could just make out the outline of a small rubber dingy bobbing on oily black waters. Piled up on the sand, was an assortment of orange lifejackets. She shivered. She could not swim. The prospect of entrusting her life to such a flimsy craft terrified her.
People started moving past her, clambering into the boat. She slowly followed. “Come on, hurry!” The smugglers voice cut across her thoughts. A woman turned and caught her hand, pulling her further into the sea. The waters lapped and sucked at her ankles. Aisha fought down a mounting terror. She knew she had no choice. She either risked her life at sea or faced almost certain death in her homeland. She climbed aboard. The engine fired into life and the tiny craft headed out the open sea. Aisha hung on to the side of the craft as it bobbed and bounced along. The journey seemed never ending.
At last, just as the sun was peeping over the horizon, they saw land. A ragged cheer went up. Someone near her uttered a prayer of thanksgiving, “Alhamdulillah.” ** As the boat drew closer to the shoreline, they could see small white houses, topped with terracotta tiles, gleaming on the hillside. Palm trees fringed a sandy shore on which wavelets, ebbing and flowing, sang a gentle song of welcome.
Relief, though, was soon compounded by sorrow. Aisha hung her head as the realisation fully hit her. She was an exile, separated from all that was dear to her: family, work, customs. A tear slid silently down her face, mingling with the sea-salt on her lips. She appeared to be physically safe, but what of the future? “How shall I manage - in a strange land amongst a strange people? Where can I live? Will I ever work again? What about my journalism?” The odds seemed stacked against her.
Then, high above her, she heard a skylark sing. Its’ clear notes broke through her misery. Aisha lifted her head and looked to the heavens. She could not see the tiny bird, but its song of joy lifted her spirits. “Just because I can’t see what the future holds, doesn’t mean that it is all bleak. As the saying goes, ‘Whilst there is life, there is hope.’ ”
The dinghy bumped to a halt. Aisha, whose name means “one who is alive” set her eyes to the horizon. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped resolutely into the warm waters of her future.
Footnotes.
*“As-Salaam-Alaikum” …….. "may peace be upon you".
* “Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,” ……. “and upon you be peace.”
** Alhamdulillah. …. "praise be to God”
Bio
Emmie Blake has always been “people-centred”: both professionally and personally. That work, with people on the fringes of society, has influenced much of her writing. She has had short stories and poems published in several anthologies: both online and in print. She enjoys her work as co- administrator of the online writing group ‘Aspiring Writers Society’ (AWS) and has recently joined their editorial team responsible for the E-zine. She relaxes by walking the hills of mid-Wales where she lives with her husband and dog.