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Fiction

The Crossing toward Hope

By Nassuf Djailani
Translated from French by Nicole Ball & David Ball
Nassuf Djailani’s story vividly evokes the boat people who risk their lives to escape military coups in the Comoros.

1997. Day breaks under a raging downpour.

It’s raining buckets.

Raining screams.

Raining mothers’ screams that drown out the thunder of the bullets raining down on their sons.

It’s raining bullets over Mutsamudu.

The Kalashnikovs fire away and stop.  Soldiers on the other side fall, fire back, run away. A rebel screams and falls. A bullet has lodged in his right leg and the blood is spurting out. The blood of independence, say the local media. The blood of separatism, chant the Moroni media. Two discourses, two visions, two sides. The Federal State, centralizing by its very nature, and an island eager to go it alone.

Three colonels storm public radio and defy Moroni’s authority.

“We, Colonels Abeid, Sima, and Abderehman, declare the independence of the island of Anjouan.”

President Taki’s army lands soon afterward, at dawn. And the machineguns begin to rattle. The streets empty out. Not a soul, not even a chicken. A desert. And then, over there at the end, in ambush behind a capsized truck, the soldiers of the regular army fire on independentist rebels holed up in the huge room at the entrance to their barracks. Inside our mud-brick houses, the racket of the bullets makes us jump. And then suddenly, boom! It pulverizes part of a corrugated iron shack near our neighborhood.

Father, wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of jeans, leaps out of bed and grabs our hands, Mother’s and mine. We climb over the backyard fence and disappear into the forest.

We’ve been walking through total darkness for several hours now. Far off we can hear the thundering AK-47s unleashed on the flesh of our poor, wounded island.

The operation is baptized “Reestablishing the sovereignty of the State,” one nation, not so indivisible.

The noise of a jeep moving. Orders shouted to the soldiers.

“Free-fire zone! Nariwaule maâdui wawo! Kill the enemy!”

Insults are heaped on the rebels:

Zinkwendze zanyu!” “Up yours!”

Mother can’t take it any more. Her feet hurt, her flip-flops have broken. She is lagging behind. She is eight months pregnant. Father grabs her before she faints. We stop under some thickly leaved trees. Father sits Mother and me down, puts her head  in my lap, and quickly climbs  a coconut tree. He rips off some green coconuts with his big hands and then slides back down along the trunk.

Far off, the clattering of the bullets intensifies. The civilians are leaving their villages with bundles on their heads. Father’s old transistor radio is glued to my ear.  Radio France Internationale  is reporting the events live. The din of the bullets resounds over the Hertzian waves.

Just over there, Father breaks the green coconut’s fiber on a rock below, makes a hole in it with a stem, and suggests that Mother take a few gulps. The sweet drink gives her back a little strength; she stands up and cracks open the shell. And using the coconut fiber as a spoon, she savors the juicy pulp before we start out again.

After two hours of walking, we can see the village of Koki in the distance. The bleating of goats and sheep competes with the gunshots a few hundred meters ahead of us. Father makes a tour of the village and confers with the village leaders. He learns there’s a vehicle leaving early in the morning to flee the area around Mutsamudu.

By the first gleam of dawn we’re up, ready to board. The village soon begins to stir, and then empties out, leaving not a single soul behind. Aboard the small truck, we drive to Bambao, where other shuttles are to take us to Domoni. Soon Mother  becomes nauseous from the jolts of the bumpy roads; she throws up everything in her on the surrounding grass. Father holds her up; five minutes later they return and the trip continues.

Domoni, 5 AM.

The faithful bend down to put on their shoes at the exit of the mosque, then disappear into the narrow little streets. From the jetty, we can see dawn beginning to break over the horizon.

Down below on the beach, gathered around their makeshift kwasa-kwasa, the smugglers have just about finished counting the take. The smell of sand mixes with the stench of gas. The big crossing is finally going to begin. Suddenly:

“Everybody take shelter!”

The lookout signals the presence of the Coast Guard, making their rounds at the Domoni jetty.

The officer comes over to get his piece of the pie.

“Day starting out OK, Chief?”

“Nothing to report, Sir,” slipping a few bills into the officer’s hand as he shakes it. Quick as a wink, nothing asked, nothing told.

The passengers come on board one by one with their belongings; the boat is turning in all directions under the waves beating down on the beach.

When the sailor starts his Yamaha engine everybody starts muttering a prayer.

He’s the only one with an orange life-preserver around his neck. Nobody’s bothered by this. Our minds are elsewhere. To flee, like hunted animals. To flee the rain of bullets, as if you could avoid a bullet. To slalom over the angry ocean waves that make the hull of the kwasa-kwasa groan.

At the slightest bump, everybody hangs on to his neighbor with one hand and grips the edge of the boat with the other.

Here we are in the middle of nowhere. Domoni has disappeared with the fall of night. In front of us, a few gleams from the oil lamps of the fishermen who’ve come to round off their catch off the coast on their hollowed-out wooden boat—a tropical almond tree they carve with all their strength and a sharp ax. A light breeze goes through our spines.

Mother can’t take the bumping any more. Father comforts her as best he can. The sailor is beginning to lose his temper. The two of them are getting hot under the collar:

“Why didn’t you stay on the dock, if you’re so sick?”

Father gives him a withering look, biting his lips, all swollen from the salt air. His piercing eyes shut the fair-weather sailor up. He stammers a few excuses and puts on a silly smile. As if to say I’m the master of this ship, so cool it.

The waves are getting meaner and meaner. The wind, too, is beginning to howl in the gray sky empty of stars and moons. Then a lady who can’t feel her limbs any more sheds a tear and proposes a prayer:

Al fâtiha.

With cupped hands people answer her requests with “Amin, amin.

Heaven does not seem convinced by our pleas. There is an incredible hubbub as all the adults begin to recite the Koran. The sailor loses his haughty air and imitates his passengers. Still no sign of appeasement from the heavens.

“I need something else,” a voice from the depths of the ocean seems to be saying, “One of you has to jump overboard!”

All the sailor wants is to get rid of the one he calls that hysterical old woman.

“We still have a long way to go, and we’re overloaded,” he calls out, before adding, amid the general astonishment. “It would be a pity if we all died.”

As if losing patience, the waves come crashing against the boat, threatening to capsize it. Father turns to me, then to the sailor, who quickly looks away. The same old lady speaks up again.

“Leave me here, I’m an old woman and the only future I have is the grave. Help me jump.”

And splash, her mass plunges limply down into the middle of nothing. Bubbles are whirling around the surface when a black triangle splits the water as fast as the blink of an eye, turning around and around our boat. And then nothing. A few seconds later, a purple pool comes up from the depths of the abyss and changes the blue of the sea. Everybody is in tears, and prayers grow louder. Nobody dares to look at the sailor strapped into his life-preserver, his hands gripping the handle of the Yamaha engine.

We start chanting “Ash’hadu allâ ilâha llâhu.

“Muhammadu rasûli llahi,” concludes the smugggler.

The sounds of motors are growing nearer and nearer. Then orders reach us through a megaphone, causing panic on board. A man jumps into the water crying “I’d sooner die than go back there.”

In the general confusion, the smuggler tries to get away and the Coast Guard gives chase. Surrounded by the maritime authorities, impossible to go any further. Our race will end right here. Of the thirty people who started out from Domoni, only a dozen remain, children for the most part.

Father envelops us in his big arms. Mother is beginning to lose blood; she’s shivering. The Coast Guards take her on board their boat and then dash off to the Mamoudzou jetty. We can hear ambulance sirens, covered now by the noise of a helicopter circling over our heads. The men who jumped into the water grab life-preservers that rain down from the flying bird. The Coast Guards handcuff the smuggler before delivering him up to the gendarmes who have come to join them.

A crowd of onlookers greets us on the dock, each one with his comment.

WaNdzuani nawalawe! Anjouanese, out!”

In these circumstances you quickly realize that racism is a universal human trait. They put us on board the blue truck of the gendarmes, handcuffed to each other. Where are they taking us? Radio silence. We all lower our heads in shame as we are jeered by the onlookers.

After a half-hour crossing from Grande Terre to Petite Terre, the barge’s horns honk loudly to signal it’s about to dock. The navy blue truck leaves the barge first, then pours out its human tide onto the Ballou dock. Ten minutes later, we’re in the yard of the detention center for illegal immigrants. The white officers are accompanied by interpreters:

“After notifying the Comorian authorities, we’re going to send you back where you came from.”

A hubbub in the crowd, but no voice is raised in protest. The cold has condemned us to silence. One by one, they have us identify ourselves while an officer enters us into a computer. In the vast yard of the military camp, a huge table has been set up the whole length of the yard. Amid the general cacophony, we are treated to a hot meal.

A huge net prolongs the yard, no doubt to prevent us from running away. A guard walks around whistling the “Marseillaise,” a German shepherd at his side.

“We sure are under good guard here, while bullets are tearing apart the tender skin of our wounded Ndzuani,” Father says, with a tear in his eye.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him cry. So, he loves his country so much he’s shedding tears for it. Has he given in to fatigue? Because of all the tragedies we encountered during the crossing? Mother was taken to the emergency room: is it her condition that is making him so sad? Or all these things at once?

 

They herd us into the big hall where we’re probably going to spend the night. A TV set on the wall finally tells us something about what’s happening on this island we have dreamed about for so long.

8 PM, announces the clock. The eight o’clock ritual of the Mayotte TV news hour has just sounded.

Images are coming in from Domoni. A sign whipping around in the wind. Blue, white, and red. And then these slogans, awakening the old demons:

“We want to be French ‘again,’” they read.  

Another story on the arrest of the sailor, who was immediately tried in Mamoudzou. The man is leaving the court smiling broadly, between two gendarmes. He’s been sentenced to six years in prison with a twenty-thousand-franc fine.

After that, the journalist thinks he has to ask people on the streets of the capital for their opinions.

A poker-faced gentleman is saying loudly:

“Didn’t we tell them over and over! We don’t want their lousy independence.”

A little giggle, and he adds:

Karivendze! WaNdzuani nawalawe . . .

 A hubbub in the hall; these unfriendly words make insults fly.

Another grabs the mike and takes on his interlocutor:

“Don’t you dare swear by the French, by the ‘country of the Rights of Man,’ you Français la madzi. fucking Frenchman. The day will come when the eternal Comoros Islands will be reunified!”

In the highly charged atmosphere of the hall, this is greeted with delight.

The policeman jumps on the remote control and ends this surge of exaltation.

“Long live the free Comoros!” we are shouting.

“Silence!” says a fat man, covered with military braid.

A deathly silence reigns in the hall. It’s hard to go to sleep because of our anxiety about the next day.

The policeman turns on the TV again. Spotlight on the maternity ward of Mamoudzou. The reporter has gone to Mother’s bedside. A sweet little baby is sleeping next to her. Father is in seventh heaven; he squeezes me so hard he almost smothers me.

Chants outside tear us from our sleep. 

“Free the hostages!” chant the demonstrators. Human rights activists are demanding to meet with us. A categorical refusal from the camp authorities.

Everything is ready for our expulsion from the national territory, as the officials like to say to us.

“What territory are they talking about, for God’s sake?” mutters Father to a friend. “They violate our sovereignty and threaten to expel us from our land, my God, it’s the world upside down.”

Father was a fervent activist in the revolutionary youth movement in his high school years. That was under the regime of Ali Soilihi. A first-rate nationalist who ardently believes in the reunification of the islands of the moon.

Father’s timid protests have done nothing to stop our transport to the Tratringa, the boat connecting Anjouan to Mayotte, docked at the Ballou quay.

We can’t hear ourselves talk, what with the barge’s horn announcing its docking, the noise of taxi engines, the taxi barkers—it’s enough to make you go deaf.

The local police inspects the crew and pretends to believe they’re genuine sailors. And then we climb on board.

Mother won’t be with us on the trip. I’m overcome by sadness, but Father reassures me:

“It’s a half-victory, comrade, don’t worry. The baby’s been born on the territory, he’ll be able to get the right documents, and that will allow us to return,” he says, with a broad smile.

Chiconi, Marseille, Bordeaux, Clermont-Ferrand, 1999–2004

© Nasuf Djailani. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2012 by David Ball and Nicole Ball. All rights reserved.

English French (Original)

1997. Day breaks under a raging downpour.

It’s raining buckets.

Raining screams.

Raining mothers’ screams that drown out the thunder of the bullets raining down on their sons.

It’s raining bullets over Mutsamudu.

The Kalashnikovs fire away and stop.  Soldiers on the other side fall, fire back, run away. A rebel screams and falls. A bullet has lodged in his right leg and the blood is spurting out. The blood of independence, say the local media. The blood of separatism, chant the Moroni media. Two discourses, two visions, two sides. The Federal State, centralizing by its very nature, and an island eager to go it alone.

Three colonels storm public radio and defy Moroni’s authority.

“We, Colonels Abeid, Sima, and Abderehman, declare the independence of the island of Anjouan.”

President Taki’s army lands soon afterward, at dawn. And the machineguns begin to rattle. The streets empty out. Not a soul, not even a chicken. A desert. And then, over there at the end, in ambush behind a capsized truck, the soldiers of the regular army fire on independentist rebels holed up in the huge room at the entrance to their barracks. Inside our mud-brick houses, the racket of the bullets makes us jump. And then suddenly, boom! It pulverizes part of a corrugated iron shack near our neighborhood.

Father, wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of jeans, leaps out of bed and grabs our hands, Mother’s and mine. We climb over the backyard fence and disappear into the forest.

We’ve been walking through total darkness for several hours now. Far off we can hear the thundering AK-47s unleashed on the flesh of our poor, wounded island.

The operation is baptized “Reestablishing the sovereignty of the State,” one nation, not so indivisible.

The noise of a jeep moving. Orders shouted to the soldiers.

“Free-fire zone! Nariwaule maâdui wawo! Kill the enemy!”

Insults are heaped on the rebels:

Zinkwendze zanyu!” “Up yours!”

Mother can’t take it any more. Her feet hurt, her flip-flops have broken. She is lagging behind. She is eight months pregnant. Father grabs her before she faints. We stop under some thickly leaved trees. Father sits Mother and me down, puts her head  in my lap, and quickly climbs  a coconut tree. He rips off some green coconuts with his big hands and then slides back down along the trunk.

Far off, the clattering of the bullets intensifies. The civilians are leaving their villages with bundles on their heads. Father’s old transistor radio is glued to my ear.  Radio France Internationale  is reporting the events live. The din of the bullets resounds over the Hertzian waves.

Just over there, Father breaks the green coconut’s fiber on a rock below, makes a hole in it with a stem, and suggests that Mother take a few gulps. The sweet drink gives her back a little strength; she stands up and cracks open the shell. And using the coconut fiber as a spoon, she savors the juicy pulp before we start out again.

After two hours of walking, we can see the village of Koki in the distance. The bleating of goats and sheep competes with the gunshots a few hundred meters ahead of us. Father makes a tour of the village and confers with the village leaders. He learns there’s a vehicle leaving early in the morning to flee the area around Mutsamudu.

By the first gleam of dawn we’re up, ready to board. The village soon begins to stir, and then empties out, leaving not a single soul behind. Aboard the small truck, we drive to Bambao, where other shuttles are to take us to Domoni. Soon Mother  becomes nauseous from the jolts of the bumpy roads; she throws up everything in her on the surrounding grass. Father holds her up; five minutes later they return and the trip continues.

Domoni, 5 AM.

The faithful bend down to put on their shoes at the exit of the mosque, then disappear into the narrow little streets. From the jetty, we can see dawn beginning to break over the horizon.

Down below on the beach, gathered around their makeshift kwasa-kwasa, the smugglers have just about finished counting the take. The smell of sand mixes with the stench of gas. The big crossing is finally going to begin. Suddenly:

“Everybody take shelter!”

The lookout signals the presence of the Coast Guard, making their rounds at the Domoni jetty.

The officer comes over to get his piece of the pie.

“Day starting out OK, Chief?”

“Nothing to report, Sir,” slipping a few bills into the officer’s hand as he shakes it. Quick as a wink, nothing asked, nothing told.

The passengers come on board one by one with their belongings; the boat is turning in all directions under the waves beating down on the beach.

When the sailor starts his Yamaha engine everybody starts muttering a prayer.

He’s the only one with an orange life-preserver around his neck. Nobody’s bothered by this. Our minds are elsewhere. To flee, like hunted animals. To flee the rain of bullets, as if you could avoid a bullet. To slalom over the angry ocean waves that make the hull of the kwasa-kwasa groan.

At the slightest bump, everybody hangs on to his neighbor with one hand and grips the edge of the boat with the other.

Here we are in the middle of nowhere. Domoni has disappeared with the fall of night. In front of us, a few gleams from the oil lamps of the fishermen who’ve come to round off their catch off the coast on their hollowed-out wooden boat—a tropical almond tree they carve with all their strength and a sharp ax. A light breeze goes through our spines.

Mother can’t take the bumping any more. Father comforts her as best he can. The sailor is beginning to lose his temper. The two of them are getting hot under the collar:

“Why didn’t you stay on the dock, if you’re so sick?”

Father gives him a withering look, biting his lips, all swollen from the salt air. His piercing eyes shut the fair-weather sailor up. He stammers a few excuses and puts on a silly smile. As if to say I’m the master of this ship, so cool it.

The waves are getting meaner and meaner. The wind, too, is beginning to howl in the gray sky empty of stars and moons. Then a lady who can’t feel her limbs any more sheds a tear and proposes a prayer:

Al fâtiha.

With cupped hands people answer her requests with “Amin, amin.

Heaven does not seem convinced by our pleas. There is an incredible hubbub as all the adults begin to recite the Koran. The sailor loses his haughty air and imitates his passengers. Still no sign of appeasement from the heavens.

“I need something else,” a voice from the depths of the ocean seems to be saying, “One of you has to jump overboard!”

All the sailor wants is to get rid of the one he calls that hysterical old woman.

“We still have a long way to go, and we’re overloaded,” he calls out, before adding, amid the general astonishment. “It would be a pity if we all died.”

As if losing patience, the waves come crashing against the boat, threatening to capsize it. Father turns to me, then to the sailor, who quickly looks away. The same old lady speaks up again.

“Leave me here, I’m an old woman and the only future I have is the grave. Help me jump.”

And splash, her mass plunges limply down into the middle of nothing. Bubbles are whirling around the surface when a black triangle splits the water as fast as the blink of an eye, turning around and around our boat. And then nothing. A few seconds later, a purple pool comes up from the depths of the abyss and changes the blue of the sea. Everybody is in tears, and prayers grow louder. Nobody dares to look at the sailor strapped into his life-preserver, his hands gripping the handle of the Yamaha engine.

We start chanting “Ash’hadu allâ ilâha llâhu.

“Muhammadu rasûli llahi,” concludes the smugggler.

The sounds of motors are growing nearer and nearer. Then orders reach us through a megaphone, causing panic on board. A man jumps into the water crying “I’d sooner die than go back there.”

In the general confusion, the smuggler tries to get away and the Coast Guard gives chase. Surrounded by the maritime authorities, impossible to go any further. Our race will end right here. Of the thirty people who started out from Domoni, only a dozen remain, children for the most part.

Father envelops us in his big arms. Mother is beginning to lose blood; she’s shivering. The Coast Guards take her on board their boat and then dash off to the Mamoudzou jetty. We can hear ambulance sirens, covered now by the noise of a helicopter circling over our heads. The men who jumped into the water grab life-preservers that rain down from the flying bird. The Coast Guards handcuff the smuggler before delivering him up to the gendarmes who have come to join them.

A crowd of onlookers greets us on the dock, each one with his comment.

WaNdzuani nawalawe! Anjouanese, out!”

In these circumstances you quickly realize that racism is a universal human trait. They put us on board the blue truck of the gendarmes, handcuffed to each other. Where are they taking us? Radio silence. We all lower our heads in shame as we are jeered by the onlookers.

After a half-hour crossing from Grande Terre to Petite Terre, the barge’s horns honk loudly to signal it’s about to dock. The navy blue truck leaves the barge first, then pours out its human tide onto the Ballou dock. Ten minutes later, we’re in the yard of the detention center for illegal immigrants. The white officers are accompanied by interpreters:

“After notifying the Comorian authorities, we’re going to send you back where you came from.”

A hubbub in the crowd, but no voice is raised in protest. The cold has condemned us to silence. One by one, they have us identify ourselves while an officer enters us into a computer. In the vast yard of the military camp, a huge table has been set up the whole length of the yard. Amid the general cacophony, we are treated to a hot meal.

A huge net prolongs the yard, no doubt to prevent us from running away. A guard walks around whistling the “Marseillaise,” a German shepherd at his side.

“We sure are under good guard here, while bullets are tearing apart the tender skin of our wounded Ndzuani,” Father says, with a tear in his eye.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him cry. So, he loves his country so much he’s shedding tears for it. Has he given in to fatigue? Because of all the tragedies we encountered during the crossing? Mother was taken to the emergency room: is it her condition that is making him so sad? Or all these things at once?

 

They herd us into the big hall where we’re probably going to spend the night. A TV set on the wall finally tells us something about what’s happening on this island we have dreamed about for so long.

8 PM, announces the clock. The eight o’clock ritual of the Mayotte TV news hour has just sounded.

Images are coming in from Domoni. A sign whipping around in the wind. Blue, white, and red. And then these slogans, awakening the old demons:

“We want to be French ‘again,’” they read.  

Another story on the arrest of the sailor, who was immediately tried in Mamoudzou. The man is leaving the court smiling broadly, between two gendarmes. He’s been sentenced to six years in prison with a twenty-thousand-franc fine.

After that, the journalist thinks he has to ask people on the streets of the capital for their opinions.

A poker-faced gentleman is saying loudly:

“Didn’t we tell them over and over! We don’t want their lousy independence.”

A little giggle, and he adds:

Karivendze! WaNdzuani nawalawe . . .

 A hubbub in the hall; these unfriendly words make insults fly.

Another grabs the mike and takes on his interlocutor:

“Don’t you dare swear by the French, by the ‘country of the Rights of Man,’ you Français la madzi. fucking Frenchman. The day will come when the eternal Comoros Islands will be reunified!”

In the highly charged atmosphere of the hall, this is greeted with delight.

The policeman jumps on the remote control and ends this surge of exaltation.

“Long live the free Comoros!” we are shouting.

“Silence!” says a fat man, covered with military braid.

A deathly silence reigns in the hall. It’s hard to go to sleep because of our anxiety about the next day.

The policeman turns on the TV again. Spotlight on the maternity ward of Mamoudzou. The reporter has gone to Mother’s bedside. A sweet little baby is sleeping next to her. Father is in seventh heaven; he squeezes me so hard he almost smothers me.

Chants outside tear us from our sleep. 

“Free the hostages!” chant the demonstrators. Human rights activists are demanding to meet with us. A categorical refusal from the camp authorities.

Everything is ready for our expulsion from the national territory, as the officials like to say to us.

“What territory are they talking about, for God’s sake?” mutters Father to a friend. “They violate our sovereignty and threaten to expel us from our land, my God, it’s the world upside down.”

Father was a fervent activist in the revolutionary youth movement in his high school years. That was under the regime of Ali Soilihi. A first-rate nationalist who ardently believes in the reunification of the islands of the moon.

Father’s timid protests have done nothing to stop our transport to the Tratringa, the boat connecting Anjouan to Mayotte, docked at the Ballou quay.

We can’t hear ourselves talk, what with the barge’s horn announcing its docking, the noise of taxi engines, the taxi barkers—it’s enough to make you go deaf.

The local police inspects the crew and pretends to believe they’re genuine sailors. And then we climb on board.

Mother won’t be with us on the trip. I’m overcome by sadness, but Father reassures me:

“It’s a half-victory, comrade, don’t worry. The baby’s been born on the territory, he’ll be able to get the right documents, and that will allow us to return,” he says, with a broad smile.

Chiconi, Marseille, Bordeaux, Clermont-Ferrand, 1999–2004

La traversée de l’espoir

1997, le jour se lève avec une pluie déchaînée.

Il pleut averse.

Il pleut des cris.

Il pleut des cris de mères qui couvrent les tonnerres de balles qui s’abattent sur leurs fils.

Il pleut des balles sur Mutsamudu.

Les kalashnikovs mitraillent et cessent. Des soldats en face tombent, ripostent, fuient. Un rebelle crie et tombe. Une balle vient se loger dans sa jambe droite faisant gicler le sang. Le sang de l’indépendance disent les médias locaux.

Le sang du séparatisme scandent les médias de Moroni. Deux discours, deux visions, deux camps. Le camp de l’Etat fédéral, par vocation centralisateur, et une île pressée de faire cavalier seul.

Trois colonels prennent d’assaut la radio publique et défient l’autorité de Moroni.

—Nous colonels Abeid, Sima et Abdérémane, déclarons l’indépendance de l’île d’Anjouan.

L’armée du président Taki est aussitôt débarquée dans l’avant-jour. Et les balles des mitraillettes commencent à crépiter. Les rues se vident. Pas un chat, pas une poule. Le désert complet. Et puis, là-bas au fond, en embuscade derrière un camion renversé, les soldats de l’armée régulière, tirent sur les rebelles indépendantistes calfeutrés dans le vaste local à l’entrée de leur caserne. Un tintatamare de balles nous fait sursauter dans nos maisons en torchis.

Quand tout à coup un boom pulvérisa une partie de la case en tôle ondulée à proximité de notre quartier.

Père, vêtu d’un tee-shirt blanc et d’un bluejean, bondit de son lit, attrape nos mains, à maman et à moi. Par derrière nous escaladons la cour avant de disparaître dans la forêt. Plusieurs heures que nous marchons dans le noir le plus total. Au loin on entend les tonnerres des AK-47 qui se déchainent sur la chair de notre île déchirée.

L’opération est baptisée : rétablir la souveraineté de l’Etat, une et si divisée.

Des bruits de jeep qui se déplacent. Des ordres criés aux soldats.

—Feu à volonté ! Nariwaule maâdui

Wawo (1).

Des giclées d’insultes se déversent sur les rebelles :

—Zinkwendze zanyu(2) !

Mère n’en pouvait plus. Elle avait mal aux pieds, ses tongs sont cassés. Elle traîne. Elle est enceinte de huit mois. Père la rattrape avant qu’elle ne s’évanouisse. Nous faisons une halte sous des arbres touffus. Père pose la tête de sa femme sur mes genoux et s’empresse de grimper sur un cocotier. Il arrache des cocos verts de ses larges mains, avant de se laisser glisser le long du tronc.

Au loin, le vacarme des balles redouble d’intensité.

Les civils quittent leurs villages, balluchons sur la tête. J’ai scotché à mon oreille le vieux transistor de père. La voix du correspondant de RFI commente les événements en direct. Le tintamare des balles résonne sur les ondes hertziennes.

Là-bas, père fracasse la fibre de la noix de coco verte sur un rocher en contrebas, la troue à l’aide d’une tige et propose à mère de glouglouter quelques gorgées. La boisson sucrée lui redonne un peu de force, elle se met sur pieds et casse la coque. Et d’un coup de cuillère-fibre de noix de coco, elle savoure la pulpe moelleuse, avant de reprendre la route.

Après deux heures de marche, nous apercevons le village de Koki au loin. Des bêlements de cabris, et de mouton rivalisent avec les éclats de balles à quelques centaines de mètres de nous. Au village, père fait le tour, se concerte avec les notables, apprenant qu’il y a un véhicule qui part tôt dans la matinée pour fuir les alentours de Mutsamudu.

Dès les premières lueurs du jour, nous étions debout, prêts à embarquer. Le village ne tarda pas à s’animer, se vidant de toute âme qui vive. A bord de la camionnette nous nous dirigeons vers la ville de Bambao où d’autres navettes doivent nous amener vers Domoni.

Sous les à-coups des routes cahoteuses, mère ne tarde pas à faire un malaise rendant tripes et boyaux aux herbes alentour. Père la maintient debout, cinq minutes après ils reviennent et le périple continue.

Domoni, 5 h du matin.

Les fidèles se courbent pour se chausser à la sortie de la mosquée et puis disparaissent dans les ruelles étroites. De la jetée on aperçoit l’aube qui commence à poindre à l’horizon.

En bas sur la plage, attroupés autour de leur kwasa kwasa (3), les passeurs finissent de compter les recettes. L’odeur de sable se mélange à des remugles d’essence. La grande traversée va enfin pouvoir commencer. Soudain,

—Tout le monde à l’abri !

Le guet signale la présence des Gardes-Côtes qui font leur ronde dans la jetée de Domoni.

L’agent vient chercher sa part du gâteau.

—La journée commence bien chef ?

—R.A.S, mon commandant ! en lui remettant quelques billets dans la main serrant celle de l’agent. Vite fait, bien fait, ni vu ni connu.

Les passagers munis de leurs paquetages montaient à bord, un à un, le bateau tourne dans tous les sens sous l’effet des vagues qui viennent s’abattre sur le rivage.

Lorsque le matelot démarre son moteur Yamaha, tout le monde se met à murmurer une prière.

L’homme est le seul à avoir une bouée orange autour du cou. Personne ne s’en émeut.

Notre esprit est ailleurs. Fuir, comme des bêtes traqués. Fuir la pluie de balles, comme si l’on pouvait éviter une balle. Slalomer sur l’océan déchaîné par des vagues en colère, qui font couiner la coque du kwasa kwasa.

A la moindre secousse, tout le monde s’agrippe à son voisin, l’autre main maintenant solidement le bord de la barque.

Nous voilà au milieu de rien, Domoni a disparu avec la chute du jour. Devant, quelques lueurs des lampes à pétroles des pêcheurs venus faire leurs emplettes au large à bord de leur bois fouillé. Un badamier qu’ils creusent à la force de leur bras, à l’aide de la hache saillante.

Une légère brise nous traversa l’échine.

Mère n’en pouvait plus des secousses. Père la réconforte comme il peut. Le matelot commence à s’énerver. Les esprits s’échauffent:

—Vous n’aviez qu’à rester à quai, si vous êtes vraiment malade.

Père le fusille du regard en se mordillant les lèvres bouffés par l’air salin. Tout était dans ses yeux perçants qui clouent le bec au marin d’eau douce. Il bredouille quelques excuses avant d’arborer un sourire niais. L’air de dire, je suis le seul maître à bord, ce n’est pas la peine de la ramener.

Les vagues se firent de plus en plus méchantes.

Le vent aussi se mit à gronder dans le ciel gris désert d’étoiles et de lunes. Lorsqu’une dame ne sentant plus ses membres lâche une larme.

Elle propose une prière :

—Al fâtiha

Les mains en coupe, on répondait à ses demandes par des :

—Amin, amin

Le ciel ne semble pas convaincu de nos implorations.

Tous les adultes se mettent à réciter le Coran dans le brouhaha le plus total. Le matelot perd son air hautain, pour emboîter le pas à ses passagers. Toujours aucun signe d’apaisement de la part du ciel.

—C’est d’autre chose que j’ai besoin, semble dire une voix des entrailles de l’océan :

—Que l’un de vous se jette à l’eau !

Le matelot n’a qu’une seule envie c’est de se débarrasser de ce qu’il appelle la vieille hystérique.

—La route est encore longue, et l’on est trop chargé, lance-t-il dans l’étonnement général.

Avant de poursuivre, ce serait dommage que l’on y reste tous.

Comme impatiente, les vagues viennent s’abattre sur l’embarcation la faisant chavirer presque. Père se tourne vers moi, puis vers le matelot qui regarde aussitôt ailleurs. Lorsque la vieille dame, de tout à l’heure revient à la charge :

—Laissez-moi ici, de toute façon je suis vieille, je n’ai plus d’avenir que celui du tombeau, aidez-moi à sauter.

Et gloup, sa masse plonge flasque au milieu de rien. Des bulles tourbillonnent à la surface, lorsqu’un triangle noir fend l’eau à la vitesse d’un cillement, tournoyant autour de notre embarcation.

Et puis plus rien. Quelques secondes plus tard, des profondeurs du néant une mare pourpre change le bleu de la mer. Tout le monde est en larmes, lorsque des prières redoublent d’intensité. Personne n’ose regarder le matelot sanglé dans sa bouée, les mains fixées au poignet du moteur Yamaha.

—Ash’hadu all¯a il¯aha illa ll¯ahu, entonnons-nous.

—Muhammadu ras¯ulu ll¯ahi, conclut le passeur.

Au loin, des bruits de moteurs s’approchent de plus en plus. Et puis des ordres nous parviennent dans un porte-voix, provoquant la panique à bord. Un homme saute à l’eau en lançant :

—Plutôt mourir que de retourner là-bas.

Les Gardes-Côtes se lancent dans une course poursuite avec le passeur qui tente de s’enfuir dans la confusion générale. Encerclé par les autorités maritimes, impossible d’aller plus loin. Notre course s’arrêtera-là. Des trente personnes au départ de Domoni, il n’en reste plus qu’une dizaine à bord, des enfants pour la plupart.

Père nous enveloppe dans ses larges mains.

Mère commence à perdre son sang, elle était grelottante. Les Gardes-Côtes la mettent à bord de leur embarcation avant de foncer vers la jetée de Mamoudzou. Des sirènes d’ambulance se font entendre, couvertes par le bruit d’un hélicoptère qui fait des rondes au-dessus de nos têtes. Ceux qui se sont jetés à l’eau s’emparent des bouées qui pleuvent de l’oiseau volant.

Les Gardes-Côtes mettent les menottes aux poignets du passeur avant de le livrer aux gendarmes venus se joindre à eux.

Un attroupement de curieux nous accueille à quai, chacun y va de son commentaire.

—WaNdzuani nawalawe(4) !

En ces circonstances, on se rend vite bien compte que le racisme est la chose la mieux partagée. On nous fait monter à bord du camion bleu des gendarmes. Menotés les uns aux autres, où nous amenait-on ? Silence radio.

Chacun avait la tête baissée, couvert de honte sous les huées des badauds.

Après une demi-heure de traversée de la Grande Terre vers la Petite Terre, les klaxons de la barge vrombissent, annonçant son accostage.

Le camion bleu marine quitte la barge en premier, avant de déverser sa marée humaine sur le quai Ballou. Dix minutes plus tard, nous voilà dans la cour de détention des immigrés clandestins. Les officiers blancs sont accompagnés d’interprètes :

—Après en avoir avisé l’autorité comorienne, nous allons vous renvoyer chez vous.

Brouhaha dans l’assistance, aucune voix ne proteste. Le froid nous a condamnés au mutisme.

Un à un, on nous fait décliner notre identité pendant qu’un officier la saisit sur informatique.

Dans la vaste cour du camp militaire, une immense table se dresse sur toute la longueur.

Dans la cacophonie générale, nous nous restaurons du repas chaud qu’on nous sert.

Un immense filet prolonge la cour, sans doute pour nous empêcher de nous enfuir. Un maître chien promène son berger allemand en sifflotant la marseillaise.

—Nous sommes bien gardés ici, à l’abri des balles qui déchirent la peau tendre de Ndzuani(5) meurtrie, lança père laissant perler une larme.

C’est la première fois que je le vis pleurer. Ainsi, il était amoureux de son pays au point de verser une larme. Avait-il cédé à la fatigue ?

A tous les drames rencontrés au cours de la traversée ? Etait-ce le mauvais état de mère, hospitalisée d’urgence qui le chagrinait ? Le tout à la fois ?

Regroupés dans la grande salle où nous allions sans doute passer la nuit, une télé murale nous ouvre enfin sur le quotidien de cette île tant rêvée.

20 h 00 annonce l’horloge. La messe du 20 heures de Télé Mayotte a sonné.

Des images proviennent de Domoni. Une pancarte virvoltant au gré du vent. Colorié bleu, blanc, rouge. Et puis ces mots d’ordre, qui réveillent les vieux démons.

“Nous voulons « re » devenir Français”, pouvait-on y lire.

Un autre reportage sur l’arrestation du matelot qui passait en comparution immédiate au Palais de Justice de Mamoudzou. Condamné à six ans de prison ferme avec vingt mille francs d’amende, l’homme quitte tout sourire le tribunal entouré de deux gendarmes.

Et puis le journaliste a jugé important de donner la parole aux gens de la rue de la capitale.

Et un monsieur un pince sans rire d’y aller de toutes les cordes de sa voix :

—Que ne leur avons pas dit ! L’indépendance à la con nous n’en voulons pas.

Après un gloussement de rire, il ajoute :

—Karivendze ! WaNdzuani nawalawe…

Un brouhaha dans la salle, des insultes fusent contre ces propos inamicaux.

Un autre de s’emparer du micro et de reprendre son interlocuteur :

—Et vous osez vous réclamer du pays des droits de l’Homme, de Français, Français la madzi (6), un jour viendra où les Comores éternelles seront réunifiées !

On boit du petit lait dans la salle bouillonnante.

L’agent saute sur la télécommande et met fin à cette éclat d’exaltation.

—Vive les Comores libres ! entonnions-nous.

—Silence ! fit un homme gras, bardé de galons.

Un silence de cimetière règne dans la salle où le sommeil peine à venir dans l’angoisse du lendemain.

L’agent rallume la télé. Projecteur sur la maternité de Mamoudzou. Le journaliste s’est rendu au chevet de mère. Un petit bout de chou dort à côté d’elle. Père est aux anges, il me serre tellement fort contre lui qu’il achève presque de m’étouffer.

Des chants dehors nous arrachent de notre sommeil.

—Libérez les otages ! scandent des manifestants.

Des militants des droits de l’Homme demandent à nous rencontrer. Refus catégorique de la direction du camp.

Tout est paré pour notre renvoi hors du territoire national comme aiment à nous lancer les officiers.

—De quel territoire nous parlent-ils, foutre ? murmure père à un ami. Ils violent notre souveraineté et nous menacent de nous expulser de notre terre, fichtre, c’est le monde à l’envers, pardi.

Père était un fervent militant de la jeunesse révolutionnaire lors de ses années lycée. C’était sous le régime d’Ali Soilihi. Un nationaliste de première qui croit ardemment à la réunification des îles de la lune. Ses timides protestations ne freinaient en rien notre acheminement vers le Tratringa(7) à quai sur le quai Ballou.

On ne s’entend plus parler, entre le klaxon de la barge qui annonce son accostage, les bruits de moteurs des taxis, les aboyeurs de taxis, c’est à vous rendre sourd.

La police locale inspecte l’équipage, fait semblant de croire que ces derniers sont bien matelots. Et puis on embarque.

Mère ne sera pas du voyage. La tristesse me gagna, mais père me rassura :

—C’est une demi-victoire camarade, ne t’en fais pas. Le petit est né sur le territoire, il pourra avoir les papiers, ce qui nous permettra de revenir, lâche-t-il arborant un large sourire.

 

Chiconi, Marseille, Bordeaux,

Clermont-ferrand, de 1999 à 2004

 

1. Tuons-les, ces ennemis !

2. Vos couilles !

3. Barque de fortune dont les passeurs se servent pour la traversée.

4. Dehors les Anjouanais !

5. Le nom comorien de l’île d’Anjouan.

6. Insulte (Français de merde).

7. Bateau reliant Anjouan à Mayotte.

 

 

 

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