I was holding my breath.
The 11 Syrian journalists I had escorted to the airport were lined up at the Passport Control office in the Istanbul airport. This was the last step, the last hurdle, before they could board a plane to Madrid, to safety, to freedom. But I knew not to get too excited. The sleepless nights, the endless misunderstandings and miscommunications, and the never-ending discussions with Turkish migration officials had taught me better. And the plane was leaving in 15 minutes.
One at a time, I watched as each journalist left the office. And then I got a text message: Everyone was on the plane!