The Crossing

It was dawn by the time we made it to the red sea coast. The desert road was a long and painful journey. The reality that there were only a couple of hundred people lifted up my hopes.

Couple of hundred

I know that seems like a big number, but normally thousands was common. We all wanted and searched for the same thing, the same ticket to be smuggled to the West. A gamble for a better life as my uncle once put it.

The sounds of birds filled Bossaso Port. Smugglers were the authority around here, dressed in their army uniform. The fact that there was no government opened up avenues for them to sell drugs and fire arms. I personally did not care what they dealt in, as long as I was on one of them small fishing boats, I was happy.

50 dollars

I remember 50 dollars per person was what the smuggler shouted. Reasonable amount I thought in comparison to how much my uncle told me he spent on shopping at Wal Mart: which was 40 dollars. It’s a bargain. My uncle, he left Somalia just before the civil war, and took residence in the United States. The next step of my journey took us across the sea to Yemen.

Now, I take back what I said about it being a bargain. Just the day before my journey, a boat carrying a family had fondled. It would be a good time to replace the mere word bargain to tragedy. The family was rescued out in the sea by a US vessel and they thanked America for being so close to their seas. While in another part of Somalia, a group of sea pirates were dreading the truth that US ships were just off their coast.

Despite the risks, desperate people are willing to pay smugglers to help them escape violence and poverty. Let’s end this cruel trade of people smuggling.