by Ben Dosso
“You must be strong up here, the rocks hurt the feet and the cold can kill easily. Go under the shelter if you are freezing. This journey is not for kids like you guys,” said the shelter mate.
“Has someone died up here before yesterday?” said Samba Diallo.
“Yes, and many people have died here, but you don’t need to think about them. You should be focusing first on how to cross this border. Sorry for them. The dead are already dead, and they no longer care about what’s happening behind them, likewise this perilous eternal journey. But from the temporary homes on Gurugu Mountain, the goal is so close; just below, you could see the lights of Melilla,” said the shelter mate.
“When we will cross the border then?” said Samba Diallo.
“I have no idea. Someday, I hope so. Just wait patiently for the day of chance,” said the shelter mate.
“How long have you been living up here?” said Samba Diallo.
“Almost two years and a half. I had boza (crossed the border) twice, climbing the razor wire but I have always been sent back here by Guardia Civils,” said the shelter mate.
“Really! Why they sent you back here?” said Samba Diallo.
“I don’t know. But this way in this journey to cross the border is a matter of chance and a matter of life and death,” said the shelter mate.
However, the summertime was coming up slowly. And the spring was pushing winter out with its cocktail of cold. The winter supremacy used to collapse under the heat pressure that was coming up without ever giving any chance to the skiers to exercise their passion and make it pleasurable for the public. And people were weaving links with the beaches, swimmers were challenging themselves under the watchful eye of lifeguards. The sailboats were guided by the waves and the wind. But the drug barons were freely evacuating their cargoes in all safety to the same old Europe that was refusing to welcome the refugees. It was enough to pay the navy and the soldiers posted all along the shore to pass cannabis. On the other side of the strait on the literal shore, the houses of the drug leaders were at the beginning of the beaches in order to have easy access to the sea and strategize for the departure of the cannabis cargoes from Morocco to Europe. Everyone, from hashish traffickers to the coast soldiers, were usually corrupt. All the negotiations were done in the dark. There would be zodiacs filled with smuggled travelers and they would pass through the European channels unnoticed in the dark; the coast guards would show complete indifference to such illicit activities.
On the other hand, on the same Mediterranean Sea, the fishing boats and zodiacs overloaded with children used to multiply. Almost all these small boats used to get lost in the middle of the unlimited salty water of Mediterranean Sea. However, on the other side of the sea, the big strong boats with all the upper technology were coming from the powerful countries for the rescue of humans from the mouth of death. But the rescuers were oftentimes coming just after the shipwrecks. Most migrant boats used to capsize. Some humanitarian boats used to save a few people. Many nameless children were dying by asphyxiation in this salty water of the sea. And the entire world was surprisingly witnessing the strange silence of the world leaders in face of these multiple shipwrecks of over thirty thousand people at the bottom of the salty water of the sea between Italy and Libya. Despite the world financial crisis, the factories that used to make these floating coffins on the sea would never know poverty. And the radars and the thermal camera never detected the boats at the seaside. Furthermore, the little carpenters who were making these small fishing boats that were transporting refugees, without ever going through a port, would never know the economic crisis that was hitting the third world. From winter to spring, from spring to summer, and from summer to winter, some thousands of people would die under the eyes people who talked about Human Rights all day long. The poor refugees were being squeezed against each other and stowed like a needle pack in small boats mostly overloaded, all so the smugglers could gain as much monetary profit as they could yield through the strength; it did not matter as they would then starve the travelers in the forests or throw them into the water on the slightest misconduct. The water would carry them back to Algeria or another country; otherwise they would drown in the sea. They did not know they were paying the price of their shrouds, hoping to escape death while they were actually heading to their graves. They never reached their final destinations. And their journey turned into an eternal journey. Almost all these refugees ended up their journey in hell, hoping to get peace and security, in the deep misted and ebullient sea. And the Mediterranean Sea would turn into a cemetery for hopeless ones. And the disappearance of Little Boy became the cause of Samba Diallo’s panic and sadness. Samba Diallo felt alone again in his journey. His journey turned into a fraternal mourning. Mourning over mourning. Samba Diallo blamed then the salty water of the sea for eating the dream of re-educating his friend and savior, Little Boy, in the desert. Sitting by the sea, the waves were coming up and were erasing on the fine sand the entire story of Samba Diallo’s savior, in who was included the executioner and the victim, through manipulation. Samba Diallo wanted to sing his miserable life to forget his painful grieving in the silence, but the sea would never be able tell him where it had hidden the body of his friend, Little Boy. Just as Samba Diallo threw up the salty water of the sea from his lungs, his wrists were bound in handcuffs and he was subjected to collective deportation to the desert. Before leaving the forest, the Lieutenant had told him that he had been on duty in Congo and Rwanda as a Blue Helmet. The Lieutenant asked Samba Diallo first in Nigala, and then in Swahili. He wanted to know if Samba Diallo was from Congo. Samba Diallo said that he could not speak either of these two languages. So, the Lieutenant added that “the Sub-Sahara is very vast, painted in green by its different types of forests, yellow by this immense ocean of sand we call Sahara, and blue by the sea that surrounds it on which we can see the different big fishing vessels and the gas plants that are constantly spitting fire. A land rich in the basement, but badly governed by its leaders who get the power by the way of guns, hurting their peoples under the influence of their former colonizers, who are in general the engines of the civil wars where millions of people get refuge in the horrible living conditions by escaping the different colors of massacres.” In his speech, the Lieutenant seemed the only one of Maghreb who felt comfortable as an African in his Arab skin. But he knew more about the massacre of kids in north of Kivu, where kids worked under the menace of armed men. But he didn’t dare say it. He just nodded his head before Samba Diallo got in a police car. But before getting deported, everyone had to taste the bitter taste of concentration camps. And these travelers were subsequently escorted under the police’s surveillance. Only the military knew where they were going to throw away these travelers in their journey. The desert was the reliable place. None of these soldiers knew Samba Diallo’s name. They gave him a nickname “bambino” because he was smaller and too young. Samba Diallo was one of the smallest travelers in this collective deportation group. All other travelers were looking at him wickedly because he was annoying them. He could not support the living conditions in which they were living. But, soldiers thought that Samba Diallo was a stubborn boy who was disobeying their instructions. They did not know yet his exile experience. When he would speak out on the mistreatment of his fellows along with his own, he would receive further punishment from the policemen. He did not know he was not allowed to rebel against the injustice and maltreatment being carried out. It seemed to him some other travelers arbitrarily detained knew that they don’t make noises there. Then, they used to hate Samba Diallo for aggravating their sufferings. Some inmates used to draw the maps of their home countries to relive the great moments in their lives and getting bogged down in another mental depression by measuring the living conditions in which they used to live. It was during Ramadan, the fasting month, and according to the Islamic terminology everyone should abstain from eating and drinking during daylight hours. Samba Diallo picked up a piece of dry bread and ate it
up to not die from hunger. A piece of bread could be found easily everywhere, in all corners of a street. The bread is the national and traditional food. But this dry bread was like adding fuel to the fire to his punishment. Samba Diallo had probably broken the law of traditional myth without knowing it.
On the collective expulsion day, one of the young auxiliary force member found Samba Diallo behind the van that was to serve as a vehicle to drive the detained ones to Nador’s police office; these abuses, humiliations, and forced evictions of people against their wills, that the world leaders used to call “humanitarian return” while it was the deportation (they did not want to say the real name), said to Samba Diallo, “I had beaten a teenager the last time until he fainted. But I was under the influence of drugs when I was beating up this teenager. However, when I came back to myself, the scene of that crime remained engraved in my mind. And I became over and over addicted to the drugs to not see that scene again. Please don’t judge me by my acts, I didn’t want to lose my job, my only hope.” The young auxiliary force seemed someone who was confessing his gestures. He wanted to add more things. But Samba Diallo did not want to listen to his detractor. Samba Diallo was painfully suffering from a back pain. And he was rather focused on this traumatic pain.
The iron curtain in front of which these travelers were getting beaten to death was the door of the Human Rights countries, and behind this scintillating barrier of barbed wire, there was a union of a powerful Club that had been there since decades. It seemed to be a united Club of twenty-eight inseparable members. The Club was composed of some kingdoms, a kingdom governed by a pretty queen with her beautiful crown, and some adventurers who used to plan all the time huge budgets to conquer the world, leaving some unforgettable souvenirs behind them—sometimes those that survived the horrifics of bombing and would never be able to forget the pain and mental and physical tortures they went through. The list of the Club was too long. Longer than a TGV to Madrid-Moscow.
However, the young girl, Nabila, was a descendant of a great labor father who had joined the nice and united Club during both world wars that destabilized the whole world. Some families came also from the four corners of the planet to join the same Club of twenty-eight members. Over the years, the Club grew. The Club, in its kindness, advocated freedom for all, no distinction, giving some wings to everybody to feel welcomed home. Then, Nabila decided to veil her face for her religion’s sake. Her dress created a huge polemic discussion in the nice Club that was advocating freedom for all. Suddenly, the Club began to brutalize Nabila for wearing the burkini at the beach. On the other hand, Qataris rich oil tankers veiled from head to toes with their crowns on the heads were openly welcomed as heroes in the private residences, unrolling red carpet with a thunder of applause, kissing them on their feet. It was so hard to distinguish all these veiled people, whether a woman or a man. However, Nabila was married to Pascal since many years ago. She wasn’t allowed in public places because of the veils she was wearing every day. She felt stigmatized in a society of “freedom for all.” Her children did not eat that injustice. And they used to seek for every means to put carnages in public places forbidden to their mother for her justice. Notwithstanding that, everyone used to envy them, even all those who possessed all the riches at their reach, thanks to its power and its influence exercised around the world.
Meanwhile, in Southern Europe, an endless stream of hopeless refugees was fleeing the chemical attacks in the Syrian civil war and beginning their journey. The highways were blackened by helpless human nurseries with some souvenirs from their home country in their arms and on their heads. They used to debark every day by hundreds from different zodiacs on Greek Islands. Sometimes, accompanied by many children. The numbers were a lot but only those that were traveling could discern how many there actually were. They planned to be closer to the coasts and called this information “the doc.” Some kids were dying by asphyxiation in the salty water of the sea as well. Many of the travelers preferred going to Libya despite the dangers of the civil war, in order to find a safe haven. News of the dead and the swirls and dangers of the sea could not deter this aim and they were unafraid of all kinds of threats. Likewise, refugees came from Sub-Saharan countries. And the world leaders used to call them “economic migrants.” This earthquake of refugees has shaken the entire world, particularly Europe and its Union, from North to South and from East to West. This immigration issue was a spark that divided their Union. Some leaders wanted other European leaders to open up their borders for refugees but refused to welcome them themselves, leaving the homeless to suffer out on the streets as if they were not human. But that led to a reinforcement of frontiers. And the transit countries were putting their blackmails in execution. They too wanted to be respected honorably by the same European Union. The fate of the humans was no longer a priority. The solidarity term was just words written on a piece of paper; the reality showed people dying in pain instead of saving them. West of Europe, it seemed the refugee migration policy of Berlin was set up on a good foot. The refugees who were debarking on the Greek’s peninsula would head to Germany. The people were witnessing then the journey of the human cattle. All trains were overloaded, heading to Germany. People were fleeing the Greek concentration camps for the open land of refugees in Berlin. Despite daily witnessing the nationalist uprisings to stop the crow invaders, “economic migrants,” while they were being chased by the bombs dropped in Aleppo and other places, it seemed that Angela Merkel, the German conservative leader, had formally rejected these calls to questions about the non-reception of refugees in distress. She could not give up her humanitarian responsibility. She had opened her country gate to over a million refugees escaping the wars. But she was challenged by her own party and long-time opponents because of her policy to give a sharp turn to her immigration policy. At that time, the welcome of the refugees was becoming pretty much repugnant, like the anus of a civet. Nobody wanted to taste it. This call of humanitarian solidarity for refugees was a spark to the division of the world. The world was fissured forever in ten thousand pieces, and European Union was severely struck and divided by this immigration issue since the wind that had brought the sequels of the mistrust of the two world wars. And Europe completely forgot its Union façade and made do with meagre refugee camps rather than providing the refugees with better and equal opportunities. The world elite kicked Human Rights away and gave birth to a ruthless political machine that was crushing the life of millions. Almost all the powerful countries around the world started building walls at their borders. Nobody wanted to hear the salty shouts of kids in the salty water of the Mediterranean Sea.
After a deportation to the desert, Samba Diallo struggled again to join Rabat, the political capital of Morocco. He would wake up early morning and start his job of begging until evening, he and many other kids in their nightmare of his myth of European heaven in the storm and the cold fog under the pedestrian bridge that led to the faculty of medicine, crossing the railroad linking Rabat-Casablanca, second capital, just a few steps from the largest bus station. In the eyes of society, Samba Diallo and other kids were some beggar ants that could never stop begging. Samba Diallo was ashamed to beg at roundabouts with beggar mates looking for something to eat. He no longer wanted the society to call him “mesquin” (shabby). To the society, “to beg” is to be cursed by God, creator of universe. Samba Diallo had become one of the princes of violence. Endowed with his physical strength, he imposed the jungle law to the weak kids who could not defend themselves to face the urban violence. And these kids would respect him thanks to his physical strength. They considered him as a protector who was defending them from the machete wars, and the dark insecurity that reigned in the street.
During the city cleaning operation, the ghetto was broken. And Samba Diallo was welcomed by a charitable organization and conducted to a refugee office. He left the bus station to Takaddoum, crumbling buildings, behind a long car ride north of the center of Morocco’s capital, Rabat, and its souk
(market) through a maze of narrow alleys in a densely populated northern suburb, where illegal sub-Saharan migrants shared tea, swapping stories of assault, rape, and daily encounters with hostility. Where respect was almost non-existent. An unemployed young one under the influence of drugs, most of these adult illiterates, and the presence of what seemed to be a large influx of people from elsewhere was causing real tensions in a neighborhood gilded already with violence. A hopeless youthfulness of a country in the process of loss, ravaged by the epidemic large-scale traffic of hashish, where all confusions were revolving at the ringtones of machetes. However, Samba Diallo was already a veteran of violence and the reprisals of police. So, he did not care about the threats made by these young people. Even when they used to brandish machete under his eyes. He was greatly welcomed in this block of “Who can live.” Samba Diallo was housed with many other illegal migrants in a rootless, windlowless building. An insalubrity building, no electricity nor potable water, but rented to them by smugglers. Some used water bottles were used for the daily shower, and for any kind of restroom, they only had a bucket of water to wipe themselves and no means to flush the dirty water, which gave off an unbearable odor. These travelers used to call themselves “squatters.” A community living. As soon as Samba Diallo arrived at Takaddoum, he was attacked with a machete one night.
“Give me your whole lot flouze now (money in Arabic), mon ami, otherwise you’d get a stab in belly,” said the aggressor.