I’m standing on the shore outside Zuwarah city in Libya. The salty smell of the sand mixed with seawater is strong. I hear the sloshing of the waves. It’s July 2014. I am on my way to Italy and I wait, looking out at the huge anchored ship a few hundred meters off the coast. I wonder if it’s waiting for us? It´s big — bigger than anything I´ve ever seen. I take a deep breath – after two weeks of waiting, it is almost time . I look at the ship and forget all my pain, hunger, sadness, and broken pride. I could almost cry!
It´s the first time that Im facing the Mediterranean sea with the idea that I am going to cross it, in the middle of the night with hundreds of strangers.
We wait. Three hours pass. Then, at one o´clock that night, a twenty-meter fishing boat approaches the shore. It can’t be that we’re were going to Italy in this small boat. Impossible. Something’s wrong here. It must be a nightmare, or an illusion, or a silly joke. There are too many of us for this small strange old blue boat. We are 282 hope seekers.