North to Paradise: A Memoir

 

North to Paradise: A Memoir

Umar, Ousman

When we started out , there were forty - six of us . Only six survived .

I always ate as much as I could because I knew it might be days before I’d have another meal .

I was a twelve - year - old kid living in a no - man’s - land between the port , the cement factory , and the fishing harbor .

“ They’ve found trucks in the desert with eighty bodies around them , ” I overheard as I watched them loading the convoys .

The smugglers ’ cruel business consisted of promising to bring people across the Sahara , collecting their fees , and then abandoning them in the middle of nowhere . Murder on a massive scale . Abandoned

At one point , we found a drinking well for goats : the water was contaminated with their excrement , but we drank it anyway . Considering the things we ate and drank , I don’t know how we never got sick .

The difference in temperature between day and night was brutal : we practically melted during the day , when it was over 120 degrees Fahrenheit , but at night , it dropped to around 50 , and we had to bury ourselves in the sand to keep warm . Walk ,

We had to drink our own urine , but we were so desperate we didn’t care . One man’s feet were badly swollen and his shoes were falling apart ; he had to use strings to hold them together .

The man with the swollen feet was the first to choose to die — he was the one who sat down in the sand , alone , waiting for the end . He couldn’t bring himself to walk any farther , and he gave up : his fatigue and despair had become so great that he preferred a slow , certain , agonizing death .

At the agreed - upon time , on the nineteenth day of our journey , we tried to jump him and beat him to death . But as soon as he detected the attack , he pulled out a knife and stabbed the first attacker . The man began bleeding heavily . After so much time in the desert , we were too weak to outmaneuver our guide , who screamed that he would kill anyone who came close .

I passed out before we got there . The last thing I remember was opening my mouth to cry out for help — to tell the others that I wasn’t going to make it — but no words coming out . The next thing I remember is water being poured over my head , trickling down my body , soaking me . It wasn’t a dream ; it was real . My five companions had carried me the rest of the way , saving my life .

Of the forty - six of us who had been abandoned in the desert , only six reached the village . The other forty had died in the sands of the Sahara . It was heartbreaking , excruciating . We cried our hearts out . We had traveled along the path through hell for three weeks .

I spent as much time outside of the house as possible : I woke up before sunrise , went to look for work , and didn’t return until midnight at the earliest . This was partly to increase my odds of finding work , but also because there were always pimps , smugglers , and gang members around , and I wanted to be away as much as possible .

“ Nobody . I left from Accra on my own and crossed the Sahara on foot . I’ve been working my way across Libya — I only just left Tripoli . ”

I got a lot of respect because I’d followed the route from Agadez across the desert and over the Hoggar Mountains , which are famously treacherous . Few people had taken my route , and fewer survived . “ You

I always tried to cultivate friendships with people who could help and protect me , so I would often fold Adeibi’s clothes or do his dishes . I slowly won him over . People laughed and said that Adeibi was my boss , but I didn’t mind . He would give me food , and we became good friends .

I didn’t want to carry that much money on me , but I couldn’t leave it where I slept either ( in case someone tried to steal it ) , so I buried it somewhere secret , like a treasure . In fact , it was all the treasure I had .

If you’re Black and stopped at a checkpoint in Libya , you’re in trouble . At any moment , for no reason , they might put you in jail , where you will rot until the end of your days .

At least I had some freedom . But in a country like Libya , where women must be accompanied in public by a male family member , it’s impossible for female migrants to find work , and they have no choice but to enter de facto slavery in the country’s forced prostitution networks .

If they had known how to swim , and in which direction , they could have easily saved themselves . Somewhere among the corpses was my friend Musa .

“ You have no choice , go in there and get all the way to the back , ” the smugglers told them . “ If you stay out here , they’ll see us ! ” The smugglers kept us there for several weeks ; that cave became our home . They said if we even stepped outside , someone might discover us . Every three days , they came to check on us and bring us a few loaves of bread . We had nothing to do all day . Just sleep on the ground . Wake up . Stretch . Talk a little . Eat some bread . Go back to sleep . Day after day . Night after night . Looking at each other .

I couldn’t help but imagine how frustrating that would have been : to spend five years on a torturous journey through Africa only to die literally crashing into Europe .

Talking to her made me nervous . Speaking with an older woman like Montse was one thing , but I was worried about what might happen if someone caught me talking to this young woman in tights and a miniskirt .

Given all the hardship I’ve experienced , it would be easy to think that the world is full of bad people , but I prefer to think that most people are good . It’s just that the good people make less noise .