January 25th 2024.
The memories of that harrowing journey still haunt me to this day. It's been a whole decade since I fled my home country of Syria with my three young children - then aged four, seven, and nine. I can still vividly recall standing on the shoreline, gazing out at the turbulent sea before me, and then turning to face the small, rickety vessel that we were about to board.
Despite the countless stories I had heard about the dangers of crossing the sea in boats, my family and I had no other choice. We had already traveled hundreds of miles on foot, and we still had a long and arduous journey ahead of us. It was a journey that would leave us tired, hungry, and scarred in more ways than one.
As we set sail, I couldn't shake off the feeling of dread that consumed me. The memories of that terrifying journey still haunt me in my nightmares. It's why every time I hear about the Government's Rwanda plan or the migrant barge or the 'invasion' of the south coast, I feel equal parts angry and frustrated. No one wants to leave their home and embark on such a dangerous journey, only to face discrimination and isolation in a foreign land. People only take such drastic action when they are fearing for their lives.
In 2013, the conflict in Syria escalated, and my village was not spared. Bombs rained down, destroying buildings and leaving the streets covered in rubble. And then, on that fateful day of October 8th, a bomb destroyed our village and took my husband's life. I was left to grieve and care for my children, knowing that we had to leave if we were to have any chance of survival.
I had no idea what to do or where to go, but a group of people my neighbor knew came to see me and offered to help us escape. They warned me of the dangers and the possibility of not making it alive, but what choice did I have? We couldn't stay in a war-torn country. So, with a heavy heart, I gave them everything I had - which wasn't much - and we set off on our journey, with nothing but a few clothes to our name.
Our journey covered a distance of 2,500 miles. We traveled in a small group, navigating through checkpoints and evading hostile forces. The person leading our way was paying off people to look the other way so we could continue. We moved mostly in darkness, every step filled with fear and uncertainty.
Once we crossed the first border, we were able to rest for a few days and were given food and water. But even in this moment of respite, the safety of my young daughter was threatened when I was asked multiple times by some of the men managing our journey if I wanted to sell her. I didn't understand why they wanted her, but they promised it would help my other children. I could feel their eyes on us, so I kept my children close.
We eventually reached the shores of Turkey, and as I looked out at the vast sea, I couldn't help but wonder if this was the direction towards death or safety. I prayed that we would survive, even if it meant sacrificing my own life.
The journey across the sea was a nightmare I will never forget. The boat was overcrowded, with 20 people crammed inside. Everyone was scared, and the waves crashing against the boat only added to our fear. We were all hungry, but the thought of eating made us nauseous, given the rough seas. We held onto each other for dear life, even strangers, united by our shared desperation.
I don't remember how long the journey lasted, but we eventually arrived in Greece. We were tired, weak, and grateful to have made it this far. But our relief was short-lived as we faced the daunting task of continuing our journey to the UK.
We had to travel by truck, but there was only enough space for my children. I had to hide in the area above the retracted tire, exposed to the elements. But I didn't mind. As long as my children were safe, that was all that mattered.
Looking back on that journey, I can't believe we made it. The memories still bring tears to my eyes. The Government must do everything they can to help people who are fleeing for their lives. No one should have to endure such a treacherous journey, filled with fear and uncertainty.
The memories of that harrowing journey still haunt me to this day. Standing on the shoreline, I couldn't help but feel a sense of dread as I looked out at the turbulent sea and the small, rickety boat that we were about to board. I had heard countless stories about the dangers of crossing in boats, and it filled me with fear.
But we had no other choice. We had already traveled hundreds of miles on foot, and there was no turning back. As a mother, I knew I had to do whatever it takes to keep my children safe, even if it meant embarking on this treacherous journey that would leave us tired, hungry, and scarred in more ways than one.
It's hard to believe that it's been 10 years since we fled our home country of Syria. My children were only four, seven, and nine years old at the time. The memories of that journey still haunt me, and I can vividly remember every detail. That's why when I hear about the government's plans to relocate refugees or the controversies surrounding migrant boats, I can't help but feel a mix of anger and frustration.
No one wants to leave their home or get on those ships. People only take such drastic actions when they are fearing for their lives. And that's exactly how we felt back in 2013 when the conflict in Syria escalated. Bombs were raining down, destroying everything in their path. And on October 8th, a bomb destroyed our village and took my husband's life.
I was left with no choice but to flee with my children. I didn't know where to go or what to do, but some people my neighbor knew came to see me and offered to help us leave. They warned me of the dangers of the journey, but what choice did I have? I couldn't stay there and risk losing my children.
So, I gave them everything I had and we began our 2,500-mile journey with a small group of people. We had to navigate checkpoints and evade hostile forces, relying on the leader of our group who paid people to look the other way. We traveled mostly in darkness, fearing for our lives every step of the way.
When we crossed the first border, we were able to rest for a few days and were given food and water. But even then, my daughter, who was only nine at the time, was constantly being asked by some of the men managing our journey if I wanted to sell her. I didn't know what they wanted with her, but they said it would help my other children. I kept my children close, feeling the constant gaze of strangers upon us.
Eventually, we reached the shores of Turkey. I tried my best to comfort my children, but I couldn't shake off the feeling of uncertainty as we looked out at the sea. Was this the direction towards death or safety? I prayed that my children would survive, even if it meant I wouldn't make it.
The journey across the sea was a nightmare. The boat was cramped and crowded, with 20 people on board. Everyone was terrified, and we were all silently praying for our own survival. The boat swayed, and water crashed in, making me fear that we would sink. We were all hungry, but I was glad that we didn't have heavy meals as the boat was causing nausea.
We clung onto each other, strangers united by our shared desperation. I can't even remember how long it took, but we finally arrived in Greece. We were tired, weak, and grateful to have made it this far. However, our relief was short-lived as we faced the daunting task of continuing our journey to the UK.
We were supposed to complete our journey on a truck, but when we got there, there was only space for my children. I had to hide in the area above the retracted tire, exposed to the elements. It was a small price to pay for the safety of my children.
The government must do everything in their power to help people who are fleeing for their lives. No one should have to go through what my family and I went through. We were lucky to have made it to safety, but there are so many others who are still facing similar struggles. It's time for us to show compassion and help those in need, instead of turning a blind eye or labeling them as invaders.
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