As I stand on the shores of Tunis and I look out across the Mediterranean Sea I wonder how many others have stood on these shores dreaming of the other side. From my spot I can see the rock island of Zembra National Park and miles beyond I know lay the shores of Sicily.
Tunis is a beautiful city – gritty, chaotic, noisy, overwhelming and hot. A day in the city and on its streets leaves you with the ring of car horns in your ears and the slightest layer of dust on everything that you own. And I love it.
But I’m different. I know I can leave tomorrow and stay gone. It’s even different for the Tunisians. France is both literally and figuratively close. But for the Sub-Saharan Africans that track through countries, across deserts and hurl themselves into the sea, the story is different.
So yes, as I stand on the shores of the private beach of the hotel I am staying in, I cannot help but feel the contrast between my hopes and dreams and those of my migrant counterparts and their hopes and dreams. It only goes to prove that even vacation destinations are all relative. My vacation is another person’s prison.