illegal

I was just dozing when the man next to me shrieked, “The bus is on fire!” Sure enough smoke was billowing around my feet. So we tumbled out into the Thracian countryside and it’s oppressive heat. Around us stalks of weeds crackled in their end of summer wilt. Thankfully, the bus was not burning, it had merely overheated signifigantly enough to stop us. The threat of fire abated, we sat or squatted in the merciless heat while the driver debated next steps. Sunflower fields bore heavy laden, sagging heads around us. Rosebushes drooped with hips. Only the stalwart chickweed bloomed on. Mothers with babies sought shade around bushes with little success. High heeled ladies complained about misfortune. The driver cursed darkly.

The eventual replacement bus is a wonder from a bygone era. The double paned glass holds moldy water which careens merrily in various shapes depending on the ruts in the road. Flies crawling on the backs of seats seem stunned at the interruption to their schedule.  Wires hang colorfully out of the screenless TV box in the ceiling. This is an improvement over the striptease rap song we had to ask them to turn off on the last bus. We’re thankful. There is air, and it’s not pouring rain in mid February. Neither was it midnight. We’ve had rides like those before and feel quite blessed to only have smoke billow up from under our seats.

Mold works its way loose in the window as the water sloshes against it. Beyond the panes the fields are crisp and browning. Harvest ready blackened sunflower heads are the only color contrast.  In the bus the people submit to the rigors of the inferior bus without much complaint. Only the nervous clicking of prayer beads gives away their inner tensions.

I ponder the words of Nance. Her trip involved being laid on metal flooring in a freighter and having another level of floor boards screwed in place above her, concealing her whereabouts. Smuggled thus, she escaped a war that was raping all it’s women. Tadele went over the Red Sea in a little rowboat and was dumped in dark waters offshore. Many around her didn’t make it. Tashmig’s husband and children have been in jail for months now for attempting such a trip and being caught. Cloti was with a group which had fire thrown after them. Sara escaped by night through rivers that had quicksand. She was the only one who made it through. These women set out on pilgrimage from war and rape, seeking hope and refuge. Instead they have been labeled, persecuted, and are now considered “illegal.”

The replacement bus grinds to a halt. Dust and the feathers of scattered chickens settle again. Unscathed, we continue our pilgrimage. Our little hiccups are but a chalk mark on the board of memories. We can go on into our tomorrows and forget, or chuckle, or tell friends. Meanwhile, the Nances, Tadeles, and Saras carry wounds that journeys should not create.

Branded, they are “no man” in a land which has no “no man’s land.” With Eli Weisel I can only ponder, “How can a human being be called ‘illegal’? That is a contradiction in terms. Human beings can be beautiful or more beautiful, they can be fat or skinny, they can be right or wrong, but illegal? How can a human being be illegal?”