We were eight men on a ship no one wanted.
The Captain Tarek sat in the port of Hodeidah, motionless like a rusty coffin. The war was everywhere. You could hear it in the distance, sometimes see it. Explosions, smoke, sparks on the horizon. We stopped listening.
The captain had been gone for months. No diesel, no supplies. We shared rice that tasted of salt and water that smelled of oil. The cook did his best, but it wasn’t much. No one spoke of tomorrow. There was no plan, just waiting.
Once, men came aboard. They carried guns, no uniforms. They asked for papers, laughed, and left. After that, it was quieter than before.
The nights were long. The sky black, the water still. Sometimes someone talked about home. “My son is seven now,” said the engineer from Syria. “The last time he saw me, he was five.” No one answered. There was nothing to say.
Then the ITF came. Two men with clipboards and questions. They brought water, some bread. They said they’d get us out. We nodded. Words didn’t mean much.
The war came closer. One day, a bomb hit the port. The ship shook, and we clung to the rails. Dust and smoke rose in columns around us. “We’re lucky,” someone said. No one nodded.
One day, the men said we could leave. They had papers. We got on a bus, then on a plane. No one spoke. Everyone thought of something else.
I landed in Cairo. The engineer went to Damascus. The cook flew to Mumbai. We scattered across the world like we’d never been together.
The Captain Tarek stayed behind, rusting in the sun. Sometimes I dream of her. Mostly, I don’t.