As we enter the cabin, there is low scream emanating from the back of the plane; just about audible over the singsong piano jingle. As I move towards it; it becomes a yowl; one long howl in pain. There are words in there but they're lost in the scream. "Eye jigh wolf" he screams.
I look to the back of the plane and a man is being held down, initially it seems like he is having a fit. I notice the men on either side of him forcing him down into his seat with the sound of metal against metal jangling in the air.
I take my seat and a man in a fluorescent green jacket politely stands besides us and says weakly, "I'm sorry for the inconvenience; the gentleman at the back of the plane is being escorted back to Rome as he is here illegally and he has a case open in Italy." The asinine politeness is noxious. "Where is he from?" I ask "oh, I should really know this." "Eritrea I think."
The shouting becomes harsher, more guttural as his vocal chords tense; "Hopefully he'll run out of breath soon." He smiles and says. I look him in his milky blue eyes "That's not funny." The scream becomes a wail, "My family is dead. My family is all dead." You cannot not hear these words.
"No" he screams "no." On the airline speakers, the Italian Figaro song is played over the top of this. The low horn mixing with his shout. "This is a terrible end to the holiday" says a fat woman shaking her head and tutting. The normalcy of this terrifies me. As if he was a flight delay or other small burden. He bashes the seat tray and yells "please, wait."
In the time I have been sitting here, there has been no let up; just one long wail and deep down in the pit of me is a crushing sadness. It's like you slowly move inside the scream, follow it back to the hurt place. The words have disappeared as we take off. "Oh" he moans, "Please, wait." My vision swims with tears, I have to close my eyes and I feel the choke in my chest. People plug their iPhones in. Others ruffle their newspapers. I can hardly understand it. It is not the kind of thing you can hide with headphones. Of course you could, but it is still there; this is the reality of the world. This is happening. No amount of music or entertainment could hide or block the crushing weight of his voice. Outside of politics, outside of law; there is only this - a man is screaming like he might save himself the louder and longer he screams.
In the air, his voice becomes a low moan - whether from overuse or the realisation of the futility of his predicament; the mechanics of his departure are now in operation. I hear the steward offering him a glass of water and for the first time, he stops. It's then horribly quiet for the rest of the journey save for an infrequent whimpering.
I pass the man and his 2 escorts as we disembark. The two fluorescent green men are smiling and nodding to us; the passengers, silently apologising. My stomach turns. The man has his head in his hands and is slowly rocking. He is black and dressed in a blue shirt. From his build, he looks about my age.
