A Journalist’s Escape from Eritrea

‘Even though I had undertaken all possible preparations to protect myself, I was shaking.’ An excerpt from ‘Geographies of the Heart.’During the few last hours before my departure, I went through my wardrobe and chose what to wear to best camouflage my appearance. I decided to dress in my mom’s traditional clothes so I wouldn’t be recognized making my way out of the neighbourhood where I was born and had grown up. My tired eyes were itching and red from lack of sleep. It was time to start the long journey into the unknown — to face my reality, to face my fear.

I left my home unnoticed. It was eight thirty on a Saturday morning and the roads were crowded with people coming to the markets. Ali, a person whom I had not met in person and had only communicated with through a middleman, had chosen this day based on his experience with helping others escape from the guards. Plenty of people came from all corners of the country to exchange goods. Compared to regular days, traffic was heavy and all transportation was crowded.

Even though I had undertaken all possible preparations to protect myself, I was shaking. It felt like every sound around me was calling my name. As if every face was watching me. I approached the first checkpoint with a heavy breath in my throat. Eritrean soldiers had shoot-to-kill orders for those 

attempting to flee the country.

A soldier was concentrating on the young men in front of the line-up where I was standing, awaiting my turn. I presumed they were looking for illegal goods that black market dealers imported untaxed from Sudan. Fortunately, the soldiers paid no attention to women dressed in traditional clothing going in the opposite direction of the market.

After I left the bus, I started looking left and right for Ali. For a moment I panicked, not seeing or recognizing him. What if ... my mind went, and tears came. Fortunately, Ali surprised me by coming up from behind. I wouldn’t have trusted him if I hadn’t seen him barefoot, holding his plastic sandals in his hand. This was our pre-arranged signal — we had never met before. It was easy for him to identify me. Despite the crowd in the bus station, I was the only barefoot person carrying plastic sandals.

I hesitated for a moment, staring at him. I didn’t have any option but to trust the sign we had agreed upon to recognize each other. Ali tried to reassure me. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, then hurried toward me. As if hugging me, Ali whispered in my left ear, “You don’t have a passport, right?” I nodded. Ali backed away and looked around again before signalling to follow him.

Never-ending plains

At dawn, we started the long march. I remember that after two or three hours, I heard the chirping of morning birds. It felt as if they were assuring me that everything would be fine.

The trip through the lowlands of Eritrea was long and arduous, the vast arid plains never-ending. With the sun burning down mercilessly during the day, it looked as if the earth was connected to the sky, the steam in the distance resembling a boiling pot. Normally it takes a day by car. We walked for four days. My body suffered from hunger and thirst, but I had no desire for food. Sometimes I swear I could smell water, but it was just my imagination.

Finally, I reached my next destination — a coffee shop in Sudan. It was a relief to know it was over, at least for this stretch. I had made it out of Eritrea.

I felt exhilarated when the waiter of the café handed me a large oil can full of fresh drinking water, all for me, nobody to share it with.

The passport

From now on, I knew I needed that document, the “passport.” How else could I leave? But I did not have one, nor did I have any other identification on me.

I stayed in Khartoum for three long months, never leaving the tiny straw-covered tin hut where fellow Eritreans offered me shelter and hospitality. The darkness in the hut mirrored the sadness in my heart.

My days here were all the same. I slept, ate very little, and rested. Not once did I leave my little den, though I was desperate to. During those three months many unsuccessful attempts were made to arrange for a fake passport, so I could leave Sudan. My close relatives and siblings — all of whom were refugees around the world in Europe, America, and Asia — tried all possible ways to get me out of Sudan.

Nothing worked. I was beginning to lose hope.

At last, one afternoon I received a telephone call from my younger sister in Europe. I listened carefully. She told me that she had found a solution, and that I would get a message soon. I didn’t press her for more details; I knew my loved ones were as worried as I was. I decided to be patient and trust.

A few days later I received mail from my sister. I rushed to open it, full of expectation. I couldn’t believe my eyes at what I saw. It was a passport!

I opened it and realized that she had sent me her own passport. I didn’t know what to feel. What if I got caught and wound up putting her life in danger as well? I wanted to talk to her right away, and after a few tries, I was able to get through. My beloved sister wasn’t going to listen to any of my “ifs” or “buts.” She already made her decision. “I couldn’t live with myself if something bad happened to you unless I tried everything in my hand,” she said.

A few hours later, I was holding a plane ticket. My quarantine was going to end with the blink of an eye, just because I had this document called a passport now. But would it work? The anxiety returned.

I left behind some little things I had brought with me, things that connected me to my home, like my mom’s dress, which I departed in on that first day of my journey. I felt protected when I held it, traces of my mother’s scent giving me comfort on dark days. Whenever I felt melancholic, desperate, or nostalgic, I opened the plastic bag where I kept the dress and inhaled deeply. This time I took two pairs of pants and a few donated T-shirts for another journey into the unknown.

My legs felt weak when I stepped out of the taxi at the airport. The driver saw how weak I was and, growing concerned, called another traveller my way and begged her to help me. I debated whether to go with the woman, but I didn’t have time to worry. I couldn’t delay. I followed the woman by looking down at her feet.

We found the check-in and got into the queue. I started trembling. I felt a tightness in my stomach, and my voice was beginning to crack. My turn arrived.

“Passport, please?” asked a scary voice from behind the counter. I collected myself and handed over my sister’s passport. I held my breath, watching his eyes as he examined the passport.

He closed my passport and checked my ticket. My heart was pounding like crazy. I closed my eyes and heard the voice pronounce, “Thank you ma’am. Go this way to find your gate.” I couldn’t believe what I had heard. Without turning my face or saying a word, I followed his direction.