An Action-Packed escape
Welcome to Lily Finch Six Writes' showcase of a thrilling short story designed to leave you on the edge of your seat. Prepare for a captivating read filled with action and suspense. If you enjoy fiction stories with a gripping narrative, you're in the right place. Dive in and experience an unforgettable escape!
Escape from Morocco
Escape From Morocco
It was unimaginable—me being imprisoned in Morocco for refusing to allow a man to control me! Ignoring his advances was a big mistake, too! Who knew Moroccans punished women who were disobedient to their men with imprisonment? My research showed Moroccans were more open-minded towards North American women tourists than other North African countries. I learned. I learned this lesson the hard way. I learned the hard way not to get involved with a local while on a tour of Morocco.
In the streets of Marrakech, the souks, known as markets, were ideal places to pick up an ornate rug, some Argan oil, or a pair of Babouche slippers. But even if buying such things did not capture one’s eye during a visit, the culture and tradition made the market's hustle and bustle of the everyday Moroccan lifestyle evident. Three of the most charming markets in the Red City were close to my home. It was here that I fell in love with the city.
But now, in my prison cell, I find myself far removed from that. The authorities jailed me for disobedience. The man I had been dating for six weeks complained to the authorities about me. We had just been discussing my moving to another country.
“Hazem, I cannot stay. I worked in Baghdad. The job starts next week. I need to go and set up my interviews with locals and get a taste of the city.”
“This is unacceptable. I will not allow you to leave the country like this. You cannot just pick up and leave during our romance!” He raised his voice at me, something he had never done before.
“Look! I am sorry, Hazem. If I could change it or if there were any other way, I would find it, but what brought me to Morocco is not what is pulling me to Baghdad. It’s nothing personal. That’s the life of a news correspondent in the field. We go where the story is.”
“Personal. Is it nothing personal? You say this to me like I am a piece of sh*t under your feet. Is that what you think of me? You American women are all alike. Come here and feign interest in getting your news stories, and then pack up and leave without caring for the people you get involved with and leave them behind.”
“I hear that you want me to stay. I do. But I have decided and am trying to end the relationship on a positive note, Hazem.” But he wouldn’t stop arguing. I finally told him the relationship was over, and I was leaving tomorrow evening.
I knew I hurt him; worse, it infuriated him to see me leave against his wishes. He must have returned to his home, written a formal complaint, filed it as a police report, or dealt with it in person.
The next thing I knew, on the following day, was that the police took me from my temporary quarters while Hazem watched smugly. Some trumped-up charges from an influential, wealthy man did not help me with my wish to leave the country.
I was an American woman who knew nothing about Moroccan law, and no one in Morocco. And that’s how I landed in prison.
Hazem must’ve kept tabs on me while I was there, and I imagined he had something to do with my laundry assignment, but who knows? That could've just been wishful thinking on my part.
Either way, I realized it was far from Djemaa el-Fna, the largest square in Medina and the city's most-visited tourist attraction—the central marketplace in the old town. That place is my favourite in Morocco, and as I closed my eyes to think about it, Adjura and I bumped into one another in the laundry area.
That’s when we discussed the various goods and products that arrived in the marketplace from other parts of the province, loaded with vibrant reds, purples, leopard prints, and sea blue tapestries.
“I especially loved seeing the many spices for sale among the street food stalls ripe with kebabs, snails, pastries, and other small snacks. Other fine establishments existed where one could sit and enjoy a tajine or tangia, our famous stew made with many spices such as turmeric, saffron, cinnamon, ginger, and cumin, boasting a protein of lamb, beef, fish, or chicken.” Adjura’s eyes lit up when she talked of the markets and her love of spices.
“I loved the plentiful orange juice vendors around the lively Djemaa el-Fna,” I told her. After that conversation, we became quick and trustworthy friends. I made friends quickly, was brilliant, and, more importantly, was resilient, so I needed excellent friends to help me with my plan.
Adjura was the first person I shared my escape plan with; she knew someone who could help. She had a woman who could work my laundry shift so I could hightail it to the Strait of Gibraltar to swim the Strait.
Adjura always said, “Jenny, you need to sleep at night to get your rest. How do you expect to swim the Strait if you aren't well-rested?”
“I refused to allow Hazem and his guards to break me,” I told her. “I always take what they give me without wavering.” But Adjura had a point.
At night, I did my sit-ups and push-ups when I was supposed to be sleeping and when I wasn't on the midnight laundry shift so that no one would know what I was up to. I ran on the spot while doing the laundry until I thought I would drop.
“I do all this with my master plan in mind, Adjura. I have an endgame. I am going to swim the Strait of Gibraltar to my freedom.” I told her with wide eyes.
We both knew the guards were lax. That’s how we knew they would never dream of anyone attempting to flee on a bicycle to the Strait of Gibraltar and then swim the entire Strait.
Adjura reminded me of my grandmother, who said, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” They appealed to me tonight, giving me the courage to take that chance and swim the Strait. I was the essential risk-taker tonight, with no choice but to go for it.
The last call came: “Lights Out, Ladies, in 5 minutes! Social time is over. Make your way back to your cells.” It was always the same guard (Kamel) and the same message over and over, like a broken record.
“Oh, how I wanted to smash that record!” I told Adjura. “But tonight, I had other records on my mind. My record would be swimming across the Strait of Gibraltar to my freedom!”
Adjura and I devised a strategy whereby she would ensure my egress from this location by any means necessary. Adjura came to help me in the laundry because the guards thought I needed some help. Adura and I became close quickly.
I put myself in harm's way by sharing and trusting her with my plan to escape. Somehow, she had arranged for a friend to take my place in the laundry in my absence. It was risky, but there was no choice for me now. Making my way, we locked eyes, and I said goodbye.
The last words she said to me were, “Get out of here; be free! You have your whole life to live, but it's not here in a Moroccan jail for something so frivolous. Don’t take your fate the wrong way, but I hope I never see you again!” Adjura smiled and went on her way to her cell.
My heart began to thump as the saliva in my mouth dried up; it was pasty. This was it! The reason all that training is necessary now is clear.
My shift in the laundry was about to start, and I had to split. The guards all know me and allow me to move around the jail alone, especially in times like these. I said, “Guard Aamara, sir, I have laundry duty. Can you please buzz me through?” My tongue was so thick now that I could barely get the words out.
“Yeah, sure, hold on.” He radioed, “Inmate Smith needs to go to the laundry area; let her through. Thanks. OK, you are all set!”
“Thanks.” I didn’t dare look at him, as I thought what I would do was written all over my forehead.
I ducked my head low and started on my way.
He must have been following me with his gaze because he asked, “Hey, Smith, what’s wrong with you? Are you not feeling well? Maybe you should stop at the infirmary?” He changed his plans and radioed again. Ahh! Thanks. I thought.
I was moving toward the infirmary quickly now that I was out of sight. I moved like a jackrabbit, as this stop was unexpected and might interfere with my plan.
At the infirmary, a nurse and psychologist were on duty. The nurse took my blood pressure and then asked why I was there. Despite my blood pressure being a little high, she said I was fine otherwise.
I explained, “Guard Aamara wanted me to report here, as he thought I needed medical attention.”
Desperate measures
She asked, “Well, how do you feel now? " Can I wait a bit and retake your blood pressure?”
“No thanks,” I said. “I feel fine. My blood pressure is always high.” I hoped she would buy that and let me go to the laundry now.
The psychologist saw my uneasiness and said, “Inmate Smith, I would like to schedule a psychological assessment with you on my next shift.”
“OK,” I responded, my pulse beating so fast I thought my heart would jump out of my chest. “Can you take me to the laundry, please?” I asked.
“Certainly,” she replied.
Walking to the laundry, I didn’t say a word. I wondered if my window of opportunity to escape was disappearing.
Guard Hassan in the laundry barked, “You’re late, so you better have a—“ He froze and stopped talking when he saw Dr. Aloui.
“The young lady was with me. Is that going to be a problem? Guard Hassan?”
“No, no, ma'am, Dr. Aloui. No problem at all!”
Dr. Aloui was entitled to ask for psychological evaluations of anyone on staff; anything in that alarming evaluation would have to be reported, so most guards feared her. That was my cue to get to work. Hopefully, Adjura's friend Jasmine snuck out to pass for me tonight until morning came. She would appear in the laundry room once I had left, armed with the key I had stolen from Dr. Aloui last month. I got to the back, where I would exit the jail.
I was walking on tiptoe towards the exit. This escape has been on my mind for months now, and from the day I began plotting, I could just feel my endorphins and adrenaline rush and spike in my body. I was well-prepared for my escape, and the high I experienced stemmed from my anticipation.
Making my way to the exterior of the laundry area, I walked just a little further and parked a bike conveniently outside one of the local taverns.
I spotted this all-too-relaxing street scenario a few weeks prior, during my first days moving laundry in and out of prison.
The moon rose against the white walls of the homes and other buildings, which supported stucco roofs among the arches and enormous domes of Moroccan structures. Moroccans can monitor each moon's movement as it sweeps across the sky like early morning swimmers ushering in the sun. This was the scene, Adjura, where the water would have to be at a proper temperature. The swim across was about four to five hours long, including when I dodged freighters in the strait.
The road to freedom
I ditched the bike as I dipped my toe into the surf. The air temperature was around 35°C. I would have no problems swimming since my adrenaline and endorphins were at their peak.
After the heat of my escape, the water’s temperature felt calm and comforting. Once I began my swim, I found my stride and kept on moving at a steady pace. The waves in the Strait were larger than I anticipated, and I struggled to keep my stride. However, I remained resolute and never considered the possibility of failure.
I swam with the dolphins for a time, allowing the moonlight to guide me along the wavy waterway. I felt like a dolphin, and by the end of the swim, I wished I was one because I was so tired.
I imagined them cheering me on to continue—elated and in constant motion. I did not seem to lose any adrenaline, but my strokes suffered.
The strokes varied from freestyle to backstroke, breaststroke, butterfly, and then back to freestyle. I had found my groove. But I saw an ocean liner from the east, which unnerved me.
Thinking of past accomplishments and risking it all to escape, my deceased grandmother, who had attended all my swim meets, cheered me on to success. I drew on her spirit to guide me to the shore on fumes.
Not as I had planned, but miraculously, I put my foot on the sandy beach of Spain four and a half hours after entering the waters on the Moroccan side of the Strait of Gibraltar. My goal was complete; I was a free woman!
But not before did I experience a swollen tongue since the salt had accumulated there and caused it to swell. I constantly adapted my technique to move with the least possible effort. I got to a point where I barely kicked my legs and used just a rotation in my upper body so I was floating efficiently. I also acquired the skill of reading the tides, which significantly aided in navigating to my new destination.
Celebrating freedom, I found a smooth rock that had washed up on shore and pocketed it—my first acquisition as a freed American woman.
Nervously, I called the US Embassy. Once in contact with them, I explained my situation, and they sent a car to pick me up. They had a lovely hotel room ready for me. The five-star plus service at this luxury hotel was exceptional, and the staff gave me the utmost personal care. I was supposed to fly home when they issued my official passport. They provided me with a temporary one, valid only for land travel within Spain, and they even gave me some pocket money.
I never felt so great as when I spoke with my parents on the phone later that day from Spain. They had been "worried about me since they had not spoken with me in about eight weeks or so," said my mom. They had imprisoned me for exactly 58 days; I made it through thinking of my grandmother.
Once I returned to the States, I took the rock I found as my first symbol of freedom to her grave. I placed the freedom stone I had picked up in Spain on her gravestone at her gravesite. After all, she was my inspiration for freedom and remained my rock; she helped me escape when I needed it most.