Everyone had a cavernous bag filled with hope; we were hopeful that we would cross the water, the barriers, and border guards, that we would make it to that place where the lights shined. We harbored no doubt that when we got to the other side we would find jobs. We would work and earn money, some of which we would send home. We were hopeful that one day soon we would return home in triumph. We carried our few belongings in a tiny backpack, dark from passing through fire, hailstone, and brimstone, and more.
One of us had the picture of his brother, who lived where the lights shone. They were not actually brothers but distant cousins. They were not even cousins, they were from the same village and that was good enough. In the picture, his brother was everything that he hoped to be: big, brawny, strong, smiling, well dressed. He stood beside a car fringed by a huge pile of snow. The snow did not appear to bother this brother of his. He looked happy standing beside the car. Was the car his? Who knows? However, the way he stood beside the car seemed to establish its ownership. He wore a blue baseball cap that had two letters that looked like raised arms.
We all had prayers in our hearts, but it was not enough. We also had prayer beads and rosaries. Some of us wore our rosaries to sleep. While we slept, the rosary glowed in the dark, casting what we hoped was a halo of protection around us. Some of us had our prayer beads wrapped around our wrists when we were not counting them with our fingers. We rarely missed the call to prayer.
One of us had an old copy of Complete Football magazine with him. Though he must have read that magazine cover to cover over a hundred times, each time he had a quiet moment he would peer into the magazine, perhaps hoping to discover some undiscovered hidden message.
We all had exercise books filled with telephone numbers—numbers of those we left at home—fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, aunts, cousins, friends, those who worried about us and were anxious to know if we had reached our destinations, those who could not wait for us to get to our destinations so we could begin sending money home through Western Union and his younger brother Money-Gram. A few of us were lucky to have the telephone numbers of the people that we knew over there. I had my Bro’s number, but it was not written on a piece of paper; I had memorized it. Even if you woke me up at midnight, I could recite his number with my eyes closed.
We all had images in our minds of what we assumed the other side looked like—clean streets, beautiful people, smiling faces, shops and supermarkets crammed and jammed with food and goodies. We harbored images of houses that were taller than palm trees, and images of trains that ran faster than bullets. We saw ourselves walking in these spotless streets, dressed to keep the cold out, strolling and laughing, carrying shopping bags and stepping with a spring and a swagger like we owned the streets.
In another part of our minds, we also had images of our return home. We flew back. Yes, we no longer needed to travel via this route of pain. We would be welcomed just as our cars pulled up to houses that had been freshly painted in preparation for our arrival. There would be music, food, electricity, and joy in the air. We returned, dressed, as we had pictured ourselves those many years ago. We had both arms raised, acknowledging cheers as we entered our houses to the sound of, Welcome, welcome, great traveler, home at last, home at last.
We still had thoughts about the girls that we loved and thoughts of the girls who loved us. We remembered the girls who had scorned us, and wondered if they would still scorn us on our return. We wondered if by the time we returned, we would still consider them as beautiful. We did not let this bother us for long because, in the mental picture preserved in our minds, they neither changed nor grew old.
We all had our phones. Phones with single SIM cards. Phones with double SIM cards. Phones with which we could browse. Phones with Opera Mini browsers. It was important that we remained connected, that we remained in touch.
We all brought along stories, stories of how our journeys began, of the things that our eyes had seen but our mouths could never say. We had stories about those we had met on the way. Some of whom we left on the way. We had stories that we shared to sustain ourselves, stories that we kept for later, so that we could tell others. We had long stories, short stories, stories we made up, stories we did not make up, stories we could no longer recall whether we made them up or not, because these stories had lived with us and had followed us on this long journey.
Though it was difficult, we still had the ability to make each other laugh. We gave each other nicknames. We mimicked the ways the other spoke. We made fun of each other’s clothes and remembered that even in the heat and dryness of the desert, laughter could stretch out its cool hands and somehow soothe our brows.
We had memories. Memories from childhood. Memories from before and after. This was how we told our memories apart going forward. Through our lives, all that had happened and would happen would be separated by this experience under the giant signpost chiseled with the words before and after.
We still had our memories of things that happened in the sky. Like when an airplane flew past, and left a curly pillar of white smoke behind it, we had looked up and imagined the lives of the people sitting inside it. People eating and drinking up there in the sky. What manner of pleasure could be higher? Who were they? What did they do to be placed higher than those of us at the bottom? Would our feet ever get a chance to leave the earth’s red soil and be suspended between sky and earth?
We despised the lack that had dogged our lives. We knew the unwritten words of the song called “Never Enough.”
Never enough clothes. Sleeves too short to cover our hands even when it was cold.
Never enough cream in the jar. Using the middle finger to coax the little left in tight corners. Even when that was gone, pouring a little water into the empty jar and making do.
We had memories of drinking Coca Cola on special days, sharing the prized bottle with one friend, no, two friends, and sometimes even three.
We also had memories of the things that money could not buy: the smell of the red earth after the rain; the sweet song the rain bird sang when the weather was so dry that rubbing two blades of grass together could spark a fire; the aroma from cooking pots in the evening; the water from the rock, so pure, so clean, it washed off thirst and made you think you would never be thirsty again. We had memories of sitting by the fireside and eating roasted corn, of sleeping while it rained, dreaming of rain while we slept, and waking up to the sound of rain on the tin roof.
Memories so sweet.
Memories in Technicolor.
Memories so alive, so close, we could touch them if we stretched out our hands.
We had our memories of journeys. In our memories, journeys were the exclusive preserve of grown-ups. Usually, mothers went on journeys. Fathers went as well, but rarely and only for something very important. We remembered journeys as things to look forward to, not because we traveled but because our hopes traveled with the grown-ups when they left. Why the journeys of our mothers? Because they always returned with something nice.
We had hope. We knew fully well that to travel was to hope; hope that at journey’s end was a rainbow, not a coiled serpent. We had hope in humankind.
We also had an unstoppable eagerness: an eagerness to see new people, smell new things and eat new food. An eagerness for our tongues to learn to curl seamlessly around languages that were foreign to us.
We had the wisdom and stubbornness of the he-goat who was reported to have said that traveling is indeed a wonderful thing; how else would he have found out that his father wasn’t the only goat who had a beard?
We had a ringing in our heads, the wisdom from our long-departed ancestors about travels, traveling and the traveler. Their words of wisdom such as, The traveler cannot afford to make enemies. The traveler who asks questions will never miss his way. Travel gives one the wisdom of the grayhead. Finally, the one, we were taught in school: Traveling is part of education.
There were also the things that we did not have. We had no fears about the present, no fears about the future. As far as we could tell the future held only prospects of all that was good, bright, and beautiful.
Some things we left behind. Some things we tossed out. Some things we put off for later to avoid distraction. Some things we swallowed, with plans to bring them up later.
We carried, in plain sight on our foreheads, dreams so bright and dazzling that you could see them from miles away.
Our nightmares were a different matter altogether. We had a lot of these. As we slept, tossed, and turned at night, screams emerged from our different throats. Colorful nightmares, we all had them.
We drowned in our nightmares. When we opened our mouths to scream we gulped down bucketfuls of water, yes, water. There were other times that we drowned in sand and saw ourselves choking on mouthfuls of sand.
At daybreak, the harsh sun emerged to clear our nightmares, and we suddenly became ourselves again. We refused to be fragile from the nightmares. We steeled our faces.
“How was your night?” we asked each other.
“My night was great. I slept well. I slept soundly. It was the brightness of the sun that woke me up.”
We never mentioned our nightmares.
Occasionally, one of us said, “You know, I had a dream last night.”
We drew closer. Was he going to man up and talk about the nightmares in the day?
“What was your dream about?” we asked.
“It was beautiful. In the dream we had crossed over to the other side and we were all well settled. We looked fresh and healthy and were glowing.”
“Who else was in the dream?”
“You and you and you and you …”
And every single one of us raised our hands to ask if we were among those who glowed in the dream.
We wanted to be in that beautiful dream badly. We completely forgot that no one screams in beautiful dreams. Perhaps, we did not forget. Perhaps, we preferred the sweet lie to the bitter truth.
Then, the few things we did not have, we harbored no anger or regrets over.
None.