The Red Dust

Day 1

It’s done. I’ve made my choice. We left the house today. I tried to delay my decision. There were rumors. Rumors of slaughter carried out by militias. We thought it would pass. It always does.

Last night, we heard gunshots in the distance. All the blinds were closed, but we heard screaming outside. Was someone hurt? I couldn’t get out to check. To help. As the gunshots got closer, my eldest broke down. I’ve never seen her like that since her father disappeared three years ago. She was trembling in my arms.

At dawn, we grabbed everything we could. Mostly food and water. Despite the urgency, I couldn’t say no to my son. He took his teddy bear and, as we left, he hugged it like it was the most precious thing in his life. My two daughters and my son walked in front of me, schoolbags on their backs. It made me feel like I was accompanying them to school. My middle daughter asked me when she could go back. She said she missed her friends.

The street was deserted. We passed near the hospital. It had been closed for a long time. All the windows were broken, and people had taken everything useful. There was no reason to stop. At best, we would be attacked by squatters. The whole city had become a no man’s land.

After several hours, we turned left down the road. We passed the sign with the name of our beloved city. I didn’t tell them, but they knew we wouldn’t come back.

Day 2

When we left our hiding place on the second day, we were still tired from the day before. But we didn’t have a choice.

My whole body was in pain. I didn’t say anything to the kids. They needed to think I was indestructible. That I could protect them no matter what.

My youngest started complaining. He was tired and couldn’t hold his teddy bear anymore. He was holding it by one arm, dragging it in the dust. He told me he was worried that when their dad came back, he wouldn’t find us.

At the request of my eldest, I reminded him that I had left a note on the kitchen table: “We are going west.” That way, he could find us.

No one told me what became of my husband. He could be dead, for all I know. But I left the note. I needed hope too.

The heat was already rising again. It was near noon. I decided we should take a break. We didn’t have much water, so it was better if we tried to sweat less. The sky was bright. No planes anymore. We used to imagine where they were going.

After an hour’s break, we left. We had to keep moving.

The sun was harsh. I started thinking we should walk at night and hide during the day. We heard gunshots again. They were far, but they reminded us we had to keep moving.

After sunset, I decided we would walk a few hours more. The moonlight was strong enough, and our eyes got used to the dark very quickly. Around midnight, we stopped and hid to sleep in a thicket. I watched all three of them huddled together. They no longer fought each other.

Day 3

Tonight, we passed a group. Probably a family. There were two kids. One of the adults, perhaps the father, was hurt. They asked us if we had any medical supplies.

I stared at his injury. His legs were covered in dust, and his scalp was bleeding. I said we didn’t have any supplies. I lied. Between my children and theirs, I chose mine. I knew what I was choosing. We would never see this family again.

We kept walking until first light. Then we stopped. This time, we slept near a large flat stone that could hide us from the road. The dust was starting to turn red.

Day 4

Now everything was red. The dust was everywhere. It smelled like iron, like something that shouldn’t be in the air, and dried our throats, making every step harder.

My kids started to worry. They asked me if it was safe. I didn’t know. So I told them it had fallen from the sky, that it was sprinkled by shooting stars. I distracted them by asking if they could see one. They lifted their eyes to the sky and started searching.

I had already heard stories about this red dust, but this was the first time I saw it. It was sticky and covered our shoes completely. We didn’t find shelter until late in the morning. We really needed to hide to sleep. I had already started eating less. I hoped we would have rain. The last bottle was nearly empty.

Day 5

We kept walking. We didn’t have any water left.

Day 6

Hope and fear. That’s what I felt when we saw the town. Let’s be honest—it was more of a village than a town. Houses were built from parts of the road. We had run out of water, so I didn’t have a choice.

I told my kids to stay on the road and to run away if anything happened to me. I told them I would be fine. Yes, I lied again. As I approached an old tank under a gutter, I was attacked. I didn’t have time to react. They dragged me inside an old house and blindfolded me. It was when I heard my son crying that I understood they had taken them too. Deprived of light, I could hear them sobbing far in the dark.

I think our kidnappers were arguing. I couldn’t make out the words. What would they do to my daughters after they killed me? Would they take my son and make him join a militia? Some kids never came back in our neighborhood.

After several minutes of arguing, a woman removed the blindfold, soaked with my tears. She didn’t say a word. She just gave me water. Then they escorted us to the edge of the village. They gave us water and food, and we left. I didn’t understand. I didn’t ask. We didn’t turn our backs.

After a few kilometers, I noticed my son had lost his teddy bear. He didn’t even complain about it.

Day 7

Thanks to the help we received, we might be able to finish our journey. I thought we were close to our destination. We saw more and more groups on the road. Sometimes families. Sometimes groups of men. I told my kids not to approach any of them. We didn’t know who they were, and we didn’t speak. I caught myself scanning every group for the family we met days ago. Hoping. Dreading.

Day 8

Here we were. At a crossroads. From there, we could see dust rising from vehicles. Some of them still had cars. Gas.

We didn’t know if we should go straight or take a detour. A man from near our hometown told us there was a checkpoint. We had to go a few kilometers south, then turn west again.

I didn’t even notice when I turned my head to check behind us. When a helicopter flew over us, we hid. I held my breath until it was gone. The pilot probably wouldn’t care, but we didn’t want to take the risk.

Another road turned west. There were so many of us on the road now. But at last, we were getting closer.

Day 9

It felt like we had been on the road forever. The scenery hadn’t changed much. It was around half past twelve. The sun was almost directly overhead, hammering down on us. Some stunted trees stood along the road, offering almost no shade. Some had been cut and burned for cooking. I had reduced the food for everyone.

My youngest approached a woman. She was cooking. We didn’t understand what she was saying, but she clearly didn’t want to share. I understood. I had done the same. She had children too.

We kept walking.

Day 10

The road was like a giant camp, with improvised shelters along it. A man was trying to fix an old radio. It only gave static.

We were less afraid to sleep at night now. I kept our last bag of food under my head when I slept. It was the last thing that could be stolen.

Day 11

We were woken early. We quickly realized there was a food distribution. We got in line.

While we were waiting for our turn, a group arrived. It turned into chaos. People were thrown to the ground. We were violently pushed aside. I couldn’t breathe for a moment. Alone with three children, how could I resist?

I pulled my middle child back before she could fall. The other two followed me. Resigned. In the line, the strongest had taken the place of the weakest. We ate quickly what was left in the bag. I threw it away. It was empty, but it still felt too heavy.

As we walked toward the border, we heard screams. A child was crying.

Day 12

At last, we found a group able to help us. I couldn’t believe it when, in this environment full of languages I couldn’t understand, we finally heard something familiar.

They offered to go together to the border and pass the last checkpoint. It would be safe then. It took the whole day, but before twilight, we crossed it.

In this new country full of promises and hope, something came back. I found myself looking for the family I had refused to help at the beginning of our journey. Of course, I couldn’t find them.

Now that we were safe, the question that had haunted me since that day returned: Would I ever be able to forget what I chose?

We had finally reached our destination.

But the last thing we still carried was the red dust, clinging to our shoes. It wouldn’t go away. I looked at the sky, to the west. A plane crossed above us.

***

At last, the turbulence had stopped. The click of the belts being unbuckled could be heard.

Orange juice was poured into a clean, immaculate glass.

A delay, someone said. We had to go around again.

People sighed.