Note: This was written several years before the refugee crisis became world news.

 

THE BOAT

 

 

 

The boat, yes, the boat will deliver us, Beloved

 

We will not speak

 

My treasure, of what is behind us, the dust and dysentery cramps

 

The tense stench in the lorry, three days from Asmara to Misrata

 

You remain the diamond of my life

 

Yes, I grieve the baby too

 

A baby girl will come to us in Italy

 

Abrihet, we will call her

 

Your feet, my darling, I will wash them

 

Soft and sweet again, soon, soon

 

We survived the camp in Misrata

 

The beatings

 

Gathering the Libyan land mines 

 

We earned our passage

 

You will have a quiet place to work

 

Indoors, safe, and regular

 

You will speak a new language quickly; you are gifted that way

 

Sunday nights we will gather with friends

 

Survivors, threshed, like us, from Amsara to Palermo

 

The boat is burning.

 

We, five hundred, plunged into the sea.

 

Hold my hand.

 

It is not far to the shore.

 

Hold my hand, my Almaz.

 

We are together.

 

Do not unclasp my hand.

 

Fear is behind you.

 

I am with you now.

_________

 

Today, a  boat, with five hundred refugees aboard, mostly Eritreans and Somalis, has burned and sunk  a half mile off the island of Lampedusa, on its way to Italy. At this writing, only 150 people have been pulled from the water alive. These people have risked their lives to escape the strangling desperation of a fallen country.

 

Also in the news today, a group in in the American Congress risks sinking a viable country into mayhem. The repugnant contrast in circumstance and views of what is vital to survival could not be more striking.

 

How do you pilot your boat? Will you let it sink in order to make some extra fares on this passage?

 

The business of transporting refugees is an ugly business. Captains,  of boats and governments: people are depending on you.

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Get your people to shore.

 

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