The Tale of The Mediterranean
People love that word. Illegal. Illegal immigrant. Illegal border. Illegal boat. They say it with clean mouths, in clean rooms, over clean water. Nobody says illegal hunger. Nobody says illegal poverty. Nobody says illegal childhood without food.
The sea doesn’t care about any of that. It just swallows.
Salt water burns my throat. Behind me, a child is choking—crying, maybe praying. It smells like vomit and sweat and fear. The sky is too beautiful tonight. Stars everywhere, silent, far away. The sea glitters even while it kills. I hate how beautiful it looks.
The stars make me think of her.
I’m back in that government hospital. Stained walls. A fan creaking like it might fall. Patients, nurses, pain. Then she cried, and none of it mattered. I held her like she was glass. I promised her safety. I had no right to promise that. She wrapped her fingers around mine and I felt ashamed. When she smiled the first time, I thought I’d seen heaven.
I took the bracelet home from the hospital. It’s been in my wallet since. It’s wet now. I keep touching it.
After she was born, I worked and counted money. Somehow it was never enough. Her clothes grew smaller, and I kept telling myself things would get better. They didn’t. I sold my land. I sold my mother’s jewelry. I can still see the empty box. I sold my dignity piece by piece until all I had left was this journey. I paid for a seat on a boat that shouldn’t be floating. It’s full of men like me. Not criminals. Not monsters. Just fathers who ran out of options.
The world loves a sacrifice story. Noble. Beautiful. Make a movie about it. But when we actually do it—when we actually risk our lives—they call us illegal. They want our sacrifice to stay poetic. Not real.
The boat rocks. Someone screams. Someone prays. Someone throws up. The smell of death gets stronger. Like death is already here, sitting with us, waiting.
I count my days. Maybe hours. I keep thinking about her face. I can’t remember the exact sound of her laugh anymore. That scares me more than the waves. I’m scared I’ll die without remembering her right. I’m scared my love won’t be enough to keep her safe. I’m scared I’ll get to Europe and still fail her.
The sea doesn’t answer that either.
If I live, maybe she’ll grow up where she doesn’t know hunger. She’ll learn a language I can’t speak. Wear clothes I can’t afford. Laugh at things I’ll never understand. And maybe one day she’ll forget me. Let her. If she sleeps warm, if she eats, if she grows up without fear, I won’t ask for anything more.
Another wave hits.
I close my eyes. I see her. Her fingers around mine. Her first smile. The warmth of her against my chest. I wish I could hold her one more time. The water rises. I try to hear her laugh, but all I hear is the sea.
Will she remember me?
Then it goes dark.
The tale of the Mediterranean will go on... I just hope she knows I tried.
