Yusra Mardini - Butterfly: From Refugee to Olympian--My Story of Rescue, Hope, and Triumph

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I dive into the glinting water.

Yusra! What the hell are you doing?

I ignore my sister and duck under the waves. The ocean roars over the drum beat of my pulse. The life jacket tugs upwards on my chest. I break the surface. Desperate prayers ring out from the boat above.

I grab the rope and glimpse the shore. Europe is in sight. The sun inches down towards the island. The wind is up. The passengers cry and shriek as the boat spins in the swell. The Afghan pulls desperately on the engine cord. It splutters but doesnt catch. The engine is dead. We are alone, at the mercy of the raging sea.

The boys face appears between the huddled passengers on the boat. He grins. Its a game. He knows nothing about all the desperate people who died here. Mothers and their babies, old men and women, strong young men. The thousands who never made it to shore, who battled for hours in vain until the sea took them. I screw my eyes shut and fight the rising panic. Swim. I can swim. I can save the boy.

I see my mother, my father, my little sister. A parade of half-remembered triumphs, defeats, and embarrassments. Things Id rather forget. Dad throws me into the water. A man hangs a medal around my neck. A tank takes aim. Glass shatters onto a pavement. A bomb rips through a roof.

My eyes flick open. Beside me, my sister stares grimly up at the next towering peak of angry water. The rope cuts into my palms. The sea drags and sucks at my clothes. My limbs ache under the weight. Just hold on. Stay alive.

Another wave rises, the dark water looms behind the boat. I brace as we rise and fall, drift and spin. The sea is not a swimming pool. There are no sides, no bottom. This water is unlimited, wild, and unknowable. The waves march on, relentless, an advancing army.

The sun sinks faster now down to meet the islands peaks. The shore looks further away than ever. The water glints dark purple, the waves crests shine creamy yellow in the dying light. How did it get this far? When did our lives become so cheap? Risking it all, paying a fortune to climb onto an overcrowded dinghy and take our chances on the sea. Is this really the only way out? The only way to escape the bombs at home?

The surf rolls and surges. Choppy peaks of water knock my head against the side of the boat. The salt water stings my eyes, fills my mouth, my nose. The wind whips my hair around my head. The cold creeps down my body, working into my feet, my calves, and my thigh muscles. I can feel my legs beginning to seize up.

Yusra! Get back on the boat.

I grip the rope more tightly. Im not letting my sister do this alone. No one is going to die on our watch. Were Mardinis. And we swim.

I swim before I can walk. My dad, Ezzat, a swimming coach, just puts me in the water. Im not yet big enough for armbands, so he removes the plastic grate from the gutter overflow at the pools edge and plonks me into the shallow water underneath.

Here, move your legs like this, says Dad.

He makes a paddling motion with his hands. I thrash my legs until I work out how to kick. Often, I tire myself out and the waters lapping warmth lulls me to sleep. Dad never notices. Hes too busy barking orders at my older sister, Sara. Neither of us chose to swim. We dont remember starting. We just swim, we always have.

Im a cute kid, with light skin, large brown eyes, long dark hair, and a small, neat frame. Im painfully shy and I rarely speak. Im only happy when Im with my mum, Mervat. If she goes to the bathroom, Ill wait outside until shes done. If other adults try to talk to me I gaze up at them in silence.

Most weekends we visit my grandparents in the city. My grandmother Yusra, who Im named after, is like a second mother. I hide behind the long folds of her abaya, a floor-length, fitted jacket, as my grandfather Abu-Bassam tries bribing me with sweets to get me to smile. I never fall for it, so he teases me and calls me a scaredy-cat.

Sara is three years older than me and the other extreme. No one can get her to stay quiet. Shes always talking to adults, even strangers in shops, babbling away in a made-up language. She likes to interrupt tea parties by standing on Grandmas sofa and talking nonsense, waving her arms as if shes making a speech. When Mum asks, Sara says shes speaking English.

Were a big family. Mum and Dad have eleven siblings between them. There are always cousins around. We live in Set Zaynab, a town south of Damascus, the capital of Syria. Dads older brother, Ghassan, lives in the building opposite us. His kids, our cousins, come over every day to play.

Swimming is the family passion and Dad expects us to share it. All Dads siblings trained when they were young. Dad swam for Syria when he was a teenager, but had to stop after being called up for compulsory military service. When Sara was born he returned to the pool as a coach. Dad has always been a passionate believer in his own skill. One day, before I was born, he threw baby Sara into the pool to prove how good a coach he was. He wanted to show the others he could even teach his baby daughter to swim. Mum looked on in silent horror as he fished Sara out again.

The winter Im four, Dad lands a job at the Tishreen Sports Complex in Damascus, home of the Syrian Olympic Committee. Dad signs me and Sara up for swimming training. He arranges for another coach to take me on while Dad concentrates on seven-year-old Sara. I train three times a week in the creepy Olympic pool. The main sources of light are long, low windows that run along three sides of the building. Above the glass, fixed metal blinds block out the glaring sunshine. Mounted on one of them, next to the scoreboard, hangs a large portrait of Syrian President Bashar Al-Assad.

Its always freezing in the pool. But I soon discover that being tiny, shy, and pretty has its advantages. Before long, my new coach is smitten. I have him wrapped around my little finger.

Im cold, I mumble, gazing up at the coach with wide, innocent eyes.

Whats that, little one? says the coach. Youre cold? Why dont you go and take your towel and sit outside in the sun for a little while? Whats that, habibti, my dear? Youre hungry too? Well then, lets get you some cake.

For the next blissful four months of spoiling, Im rarely in the pool. But I cant escape Dad. One day I pass him after training. The pool is empty, Dad is getting ready for his next session. Mum has come to pick us up as usual and is waiting quietly on a chair at the poolside. Dad spots me before I can reach her.

Yusra, he calls. Come here.

I pull my towel closer around my shoulders and hurry over to him. Once Im in grabbing distance he rips off the towel, lifts me up and launches me into the water. I battle to the surface and gasp for air. My arms and legs thrash around in panic. Four months lying in the sun and eating cake have left their mark. Theres no hiding it from Dad. Ive forgotten how to swim. His curses echo around the hall and ring in my ears. I struggle towards the edge and grab the side. I dont dare look up.