They were nameless men who had made the treacherous journey from North Africa to the supposed safety and good life awaiting them in Europe. A meeting with smugglers, a trip across water, huddled on the banks of a sea line in a new world, mumbled words of advice, and the goodbye on some lonely road leading to nowhere. Two men, strangers in a strange land, knowing a few people but uncertain exactly how to reach them. Somehow, they made i to Belgium and tried finding work, but, they were rounded up by a police dragnet and swept into a building in a place called, “internment center.”
Weeks passed, sitting on a cot, eating food at certain hours of the day, listening to the sounds of children weeping or laughing, and exchanging hopeful dreams with other men. Summer, it was hot, the place reeked of smells that invariably occur when hundreds are thrust into something called an “internment camp.”
One day, the two nameless men could take no more. They scrambled to the top of a building and threatened to fling themselves down. The police arrived and a man who spoke their tongue quietly exchanged soothing words of hope. They came down. They could hear the sounds of people below them shouting, screaming, smashing windows and furniture.
It was just another day in an internment camp. No one died. The two nameless men sat on their cots– waiting for Godot.