Deportation

That is what this journey is – deportation. Not the modern kind, a quick flight to Baghdad to be robbed, beaten and probably later killed, but the old kind: four or five months chained in darkness and despair crossing rough seas, and the chance (if not dead on arrival) to carve a new life in a savage landscape. Carve some kind of a life, while shackled and equipped only with ragged fingernails and broken spirit. In an untamed land that just might be studded with jewel-bright birds and sparkling with waterfalls. Or might, again, be full of treacherous chasms and Black Widows.

But I have more time in my hammock yet before we touch land; pass another weevil-ridden biscuit.

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