One of two outboard wooden dinghies, painted in light blue and about three and a half meters long, was moving toward them, but to reach it, they had to struggle through breaking waves until the water was up to Bassem’s shoulders. It would have been over Doaa’s head, but her thin life jacket, along with her tight grip on Bassem, just barely kept her afloat. The vest rose to the surface and circled her face, keeping just her chin above water. She realized that the beach shop that had sold them the vests for $50 apiece had scammed them; these were fakes. A new industry produced life jackets to exploit the refugee trade. Some of the vests’ fillings were cheap absorbent material. Or, in Doaa’s case it seemed, thin sheets of foam that provided only the slightest buoyancy. She did her best to keep her face above the water and the vest from floating over her head. They reached the dinghy, and Bassem pulled himself over its side while a smuggler lifted Doaa in. People were hauled into the boat until at least twenty people were crowded on board. Everyone was ordered to sit still, shoulder to shoulder, as a man pulled the cord to start the motor to take them to a larger boat waiting on the horizon.
An Egyptian man, obviously another smuggler, stood in the center of the dinghy and demanded, “Hand over your Egyptian money and your phone SIM cards now! You won’t have any use for them in Europe.” He barked when the people closest to him hesitated. The people in the dinghy had no choice but to hand over their money and phones. Doaa pulled out the wallet from inside her tank top and slipped it down between her knees, where she could discreetly peel off one hundred Egyptian pounds, pass it to Bassem, and conceal the rest of the money again. She kept their mobile phone hidden under the strap of her tank top. When they neared the ship that was to take them across the sea, Doaa felt a chill of panic. She and Bassem had never quite believed that the ship that would take them to Europe would look like the cruise liners that were advertised on some of the smugglers’ Facebook pages, or the “four-star ship” their front man had described to them over the phone. But this boat’s decrepit state was far below their expectations. Its blue paint was peeling and its rims had turned to rust. The apparatus on board for hauling nets made it clear that the boat was a fishing trawler, not a passenger ship. Still, Doaa thought, relieved, We finally made it through the first phase of our journey, and once I’m on board, I won’t have to get in the water again.
Hundreds of people were already on the boat when Doaa and Bassem climbed on deck, pushed from below and pulled from above by the passengers. They soon learned that a good number of these weary-looking travelers had already been on the boat for days, drifting at sea and impatiently waiting for Doaa and Bassem’s group to join them so they could fill every square inch of the trawler. The more people the smugglers could pack in, the more profit they would make. Bassem estimated at least five hundred refugees were on board when they finally set off. If each passenger had paid $2,500 as they had, the smugglers would be collecting $1 million for this journey. Even more if they charged for the children. At least one hundred kids were on board.
It was already so crammed on their boat that when Doaa looked around, she wondered how the others in the buses behind them would squeeze themselves into the remaining millimeters. Suddenly, she heard someone shout, “Police! Police!”—and then the sound of bullets hitting the side of the boat.
“Heads down!” the smugglers yelled, as the engine roared and the boat sped away. People began to dive for the deck, praying aloud that they wouldn’t be shot. Doaa held tight to the edge of the boat as she lowered her head to her knees, terrified that she could be swept over the edge as the boat sped over the choppy waves. Only when they were out of range of the bullets did she dare to lift her head. She peered over the edge and realized that she could no longer see the shore through the darkness.
Doaa was frightened as she gripped the edge of the boat because she and Bassem had been separated. When she had first climbed on board, she had been directed to sit on the floor of the women’s section on the covered middle deck, while Bassem had been sent to the top deck, where the men were sitting. Doaa sat sandwiched between two women, knees to her chest, trembling and alone. Families were told to find places on the other side of the boat or belowdecks. The ship smelled of fish, and a nasty stench came from the toilets, making everyone on board feel sick. Several of the people around her were vomiting from the choppy waves and the stench.
The passengers began introducing themselves to each other in desperate whispers, trying to find some sense of community in the midst of their misery and fear. Most of the passengers were Syrians, but twenty-seven Palestinian families had come from Gaza and about twenty-five Africans from Sudan and Somalia, along with about ten Egyptian minors. Only about half of the passengers had life jackets, and Doaa suspected that many of them were no better than hers. One teenaged boy that Doaa met wore a child’s-size life vest that came only about halfway down his chest. She began to pray for everyone’s safety.