At daybreak on November 17, 2012, Doaa and her family boarded a bus for the coast. They traveled down the length of Jordan along the border with Israel, past the Dead Sea, and finally to the port town of Aqaba, where ferries departed for Egypt.
Nervously they waited to board. Doaa shifted from foot to foot in the long line to get through customs. Hamudi clutched his mother’s arm, while Saja and Nawara sat on their suitcases, standing only to shuffle forward whenever the line moved. It felt as if every part of the journey were about waiting. Jordanian customs officials seemed to be singling out Syrians for security searches, and Doaa’s family was asked to come forward with their luggage, while a group of Egyptian travelers were waved through. Doaa lifted her suitcase onto the table in front of the customs officers. When they unzipped her luggage, she looked at what she had hastily selected in the overwhelmingly emotional last hours at home: two dresses, a couple of pairs of pants, two blazers, a few skirts, several veils, and a few accessories. She stared at the meager contents of her suitcase and thought of the books she had left behind because they were too heavy—one about dream interpretation, a few novels, poetry by Nizar Qabbani, and a workbook on English grammar. She pictured her small teddy bear that lit up and made a kissing sound when she squeezed it, and her fashion sketches of the clothes she dreamed of wearing in a future she no longer had.
She suddenly looked away from the open suitcase, blinking to keep herself from crying. She mourned silently to herself, I left my life back in Syria! Not wanting to burden her family with more of her sorrow, she remembered that her treasured belongings were now being stored at her grandfather’s house. She hoped that their presence there might protect her hometown and keep it safe for her while she was gone. If she left a part of herself in Daraa, surely she would someday return, she thought hopefully.
The ferry was delayed four hours by bad weather. Doaa sat waiting for the weather to change and dreading the next five-hour leg of her journey, which would take them across the Gulf of Aqaba. She had never overcome her fear of water and had never been on a boat. The waves were high, and they slapped against the sides of the vessel, making it rock back and forth at the dock. Though the ferry’s large size and stable appearance gave her some reassurance that they would have a safe journey, she was still frightened. Every time a wave pushed the ferry against the wooden dock, Doaa jumped a little at the harsh scraping sound it made. She had to call on all of her stubbornness and courage to force herself to step aboard the ship once the time came.
As her mother and Hamudi settled with all their bags on the lower level, Doaa and her sisters rushed to the top deck for the fresh air. But while Saja and Nawara moved to the side of the boat to look at the sea, Doaa stayed as far from the edge as possible. For the first hour of the trip, her sisters leaned excitedly over the railing taking in the view, while Doaa sat unmoving at the center of the deck, gripping the sides of the bench she sat on for balance as the shores of Jordan faded from sight. When her fingers cramped, she shifted her weight, but didn’t dare let go.
Saja turned back to look for Doaa. When she saw her face, she grew concerned. “Doaa, your face is sheer white!”
“It’s just that I can’t see the land anymore,” she explained, looking toward the shore she could no longer see, trying to be brave. Even though she couldn’t swim, the sight of land calmed her as she thought that she could make her way back to shore somehow if need be. As they drifted farther out to sea, Doaa finally admitted to her sisters, “I’m scared.” She asked them to help her down to join their mother and Hamudi on the lower deck. Saja and Nawara obliged and the family clustered together down below, sharing a small picnic.
Finally, they reached the port of Nuweiba on the Sinai Peninsula. When the Al Zamels stepped off the ferry into Egypt, Doaa was so exhausted that she felt as if she could sleep for a week. Smiling officials greeted them as they checked their passports without much scrutiny, stamped the documents, and explained that they had an automatic six-month residency, which could be renewed. Mohamed Morsi was president at the time, and his government had an open-door policy for all refugees arriving from Syria.
The family waited in the immigration line, watching as other passengers had their luggage weighed, and noticed that many of them were getting charged for excess baggage. Shokri looked uneasily at his own family’s luggage, worried that they would have to pay a fee, too, considering all they had brought with them. Doaa noticed the concern on his face and wished she had some way to comfort him. She knew they didn’t have enough money to pay any fees. The family hesitantly approached the customs agents.