Life or death?
November 15, 2024
I recalled this story quite recently even though it happened 5 years ago. “Am I lucky to experience it and see the world from this side? Is it a gift or punishment? Did these traumas weaken me or did they make me stronger?” “Both, I suppose” — answered my therapist. Bet she was especially depressed at the end of that session. Is it a story about life or about death? Both.
It happened in January of 2020. After my chill time in Tenerife in preparation for the apocalypse, I returned to mainland Spain to reunite with my friend. What were we up to? Hitchhike to and across Morocco. Two Russian 19-year-old girls without any knowledge of Arabic. I got it into my head that we should arrive there by sea. And of course for free. The two success stories I found on ancient forums from ten years ago seemed convincing enough for me to decide that we should arrange the crossing of the Gibraltar Strait with truckers from the commercial port of Algeciras (Spain) to the commercial port of Tanger (Morocco).
Said — did. From Malaga we got to Algeciras, being picked up first by a Mercedes SUV, and then by a racing car at a speed of 200 km/ h. By the way, in the last car the driver very astutely looked me in the eyes and said: “do you know what is going on here? HERE be careful.” The big gold chain on his neck, a staring contest and those words were enough to indicate that the rise of the illegal trades in southern Spain is a real thing. Frightened but unwilling to show it, we wandered through the dark streets of Algeciras with our hoods pulled over our heads, searching for a place to stay. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something ominous hidden behind these walls — something I sensed in the shadows, in the fleeting glances of passersby, and in the tense silence of the Mediterranean sea air.
Still, there were bright moments: that night, Cristina wasted no time and connected with a guy from the other side of the Strait. He promised to host us at his family’s home in northern Morocco and even meet us at the port. I fell asleep thinking about how tomorrow we’d be attempting to leave Europe for Africa, somehow crossing Gibraltar on trucks, and on the other side, unknown Moroccans would be waiting to take us to some family home. In short, I knew this would be a big and important experience, opening new horizons in my life.
As we walked through Algeciras to the commercial port the next morning, I convinced myself that, to “blend into the surrounding context,” it would be best to cover all my skin with clothing and even wrap my head in a scarf (this, of course, hilariously completed the look of a bleached blonde with a pixie cut wearing pajamas and a denim jacket.)
After two hours of trying to hitch a ride on a truck in the port — where, I should note, we didn’t see a single other woman — our efforts finally paid off. One of the truck drivers came over to talk to us, communicating in Arabic via Google Translate. Miraculously, it turned out that he could take only one of us, as each truck’s ferry reservation included just two slots — one for the driver and one for a co-driver. We decided to register Cristina as the co-driver, as leaving her alone in the port to search for another truck seemed illogical, given her lack of foreign language skills and absence of internet access (!). Everything else, however, didn’t seem illogical to us at all.
I was left alone. The hope of finding another truck in time to catch Cristina’s ferry died two hours later, as I watched the ferry depart, leaving me behind with the Spanish port workers. They enthusiastically taught me a samba-like dance, which, according to them, was supposed to attract the attention of truck drivers to the roadside and my cheerful, scarf-wearing figure. It wasn’t until an hour later that I managed to move to another spot and finally found a man who was a friend of a man who was a brother of a man who could pick me up to cross the strait. We agreed to meet there with A. in four hours to head out together. Not wanting to sit on the curb in the port for all that time, I decided to make a final shopping trip in town for “souvenirs” — specifically, a pack of lemon Fanta cans.
By the time we set off, the sun was already sinking toward the horizon. Cristina messaged to say she’d arrived safely and had already met up with the guys. Breathing a calm sigh of relief, I dove headfirst into a pantomime-style conversation with my driver. He turned out to be an extremely kind and charming Berber. Our conversation was led to a long stretch of joking about how absurd the situation was from both perspectives: I’d never imagined I’d become the co-driver of a truck with a Berber just to cross the Gibraltar, and he’d never expected to drive a Russian girl in a ridiculously tied scarf from Europe to Morocco. Together we watched the pink sun sink into the Strait of Gibraltar, perfectly framed between two landmasses visible from the ferry window — Africa on the left and Europe on the right. Onboard, we were generously given free food, a couple more cans of Fanta, a movie theater with giant leather seats, and a women’s shower, which I had entirely to myself. A. showed me photos of sweet fruits (dates), his kids, and crafts made from tree bark. In return, I showed him pictures of the Canary Islands, which, as my companion put it, were “so close and yet so far.” Before returning to the car, we, along with many other truckers, walked back across the ferry to the canteen, where we handed out the rest of the cans of lemon Fanta. “These are my people,” I thought at the end, and was wearily glad of this thought.
We docked when it was already completely dark. In a caravan of large vehicles, we slowly crawled out of the ferry in our truck and headed to park inside the port of Morocco. After that, we walked in a group to the bus stop, where work shuttles were supposed to pick us up and take us out of the port. We stood under a dim streetlight, and in my pleasant semi-daze, I realized that I represented several unique categories among this crowd of North African male truck drivers. I was the only woman, the only person of European origin, and the only one under 30 (perhaps by quite a margin). Not to mention, I was also the only one without a driver’s license.
As we all stood waiting for the buses that never seemed to arrive, I found myself wondering: did I feel flattered or uneasy about the way everyone treated me so courteously? My driver, A., was practically ready to carry me on his back and guard me like a dragon, even though we’d only met a few hours earlier and would part ways forever in less than half an hour.
Suddenly, I noticed something unusual happening nearby. The drivers began moving their large bags closer to where I stood, forming a giant circle of belongings around me. One driver turned to me and said something in Arabic, then another joined in. Their expressions had shifted — no longer filled with gentle smiles — and my sense of calm was quickly replaced by unease. Before my anxious thoughts could spiral, A. dashed over. Without a word, he physically moved me about a meter away from where I had been standing.
After I was moved, I instantly became the least interesting object in sight. Around the circle of bags, most of the drivers from our group had gathered. Some stood facing inward, others outward, scanning the surroundings. This scene continued for several minutes. I stood there, unsure of what was happening, as they clustered together, doing something within the circle. Then A. returned to me, gently guiding me toward the surrounded area. With gestures, he encouraged me to look inside. Inside the circle, a few people were kneeling, carefully passing down some items. I stood there for a moment, utterly confused about what they were showing me. Then, suddenly, I realized what was happening — they were all focused on a rainwater drain.
I must note that the memory of this moment still makes my heart race, brings tears to my eyes, and replays in my mind every time I hear the word “refugee.” Back then, among the crowd of Arab-Berber truck drivers in the dim light of the Moroccan port, I saw a long rainwater drain. Through the grates, countless fingers stretched upward. Aside from the fact that they belonged to non-Arab Africans and varied in size, I cannot say much else about their owners.
Get Mary Ya’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
Several sections of the grating had been cut away, and through these openings, the drivers passed down the same Fanta and food we had been served on the ferry. I was so shocked by what I saw that I stopped hearing any sounds. Everything around the drain and the endless hands blurred out. I couldn’t utter a word or move a muscle. Disregarding any rules or sense of caution, I silently bent closer to the ground, staring unblinkingly at what was happening.
I don’t know how long it lasted — 30 seconds, a couple of minutes, five minutes. For me, time stretched into eternity. I just watched, over and over, as the fingers hungrily carried everything down that was handed to them. Now and then, I noticed tiny hands appearing among the larger ones. All of this was happening for me in complete silence. When the distribution was over, someone turned to me and said something. It didn’t matter what exactly and in what language they said because all I heard were muffled, indistinct sounds. I saw their gaze in my direction, silently opened my backpack, and began handing out my remaining cans of Fanta, one by one.
What happened next is a blank in my memory. The next thing I recall is being on the bus. I don’t even know how much time had passed since we had parked the truck. We were in the same crowd, packed tightly into the bus, with darkness enveloping the interior. The faint glow of port lights barely illuminated our route. The drivers exchanged occasional words, creating a low hum of conversation, while I sat frozen in silence, staring out the window.
A. sat beside me. At some point, I think for the last time, he asked to use the translator on my phone. He typed a message, explaining that those people were hiding in the drains, waiting for their chance at night to attempt to sneak to the water, board boats, and cross to Europe.
He looked at me with profound sadness, and even without words, it became painfully clear: not all of them would make it to Spain.
I also remember very little about how we arrived at the port gates and how Christina greeted me with her new Moroccan friends. But I do remember A. shaking my hand as we said goodbye. I mumbled something like, “Thank you, see you.” It hurt so much to turn away and walk in the opposite direction. He had been my last lifeline, keeping me from sinking entirely.
We were soon speeding along a dark highway in a fancy car, listening to French rap. Christina, three young Moroccan guys, and I were all packed into the vehicle, heading off into the night. Christina excitedly told me about her day — how they had wandered around Tangier and had a fantastic time. When I mentioned that I thought I’d just witnessed illegal migrants attempting to cross into Europe, she suddenly lit up. She shared that while they were waiting for me outside the port gates, they saw several people trying to slip past the barbed-wire fences. But, as she described it, the guards noticed them and probably opened fire in their direction. Some of them, she said, either jumped or fell into the darkness. Then, she abruptly shifted back to chatting with the guys in Russian, enthusiastically discussing the plan for tomorrow and going over the rules of behavior in their family. Along the dark northern Moroccan road, we drove off into the other story.
In the following two weeks, we learned more about the refugee situation. Despite the fact that the Moroccans themselves, even the youngest of the drivers and hosts who picked us up, seemed more than content with their lives in Morocco, they spoke openly about the staggering odds against those fleeing from poorer countries of Central Africa. They told how only a small percentage manage to reach Morocco from their countries, and only a small percentage of them manage to reach the port, survive there, and somehow cross the Strait of Gibraltar, cramming 20 people into small boats and disembarking undetected on the shores of Spain. Most people die, are kidnapped, or go to prison. Along the roads we saw people who did not look like locals and sometimes just walked along the deserted road alone or families with children heading north with huge bags on their shoulders and heads.
I kept thinking that most of the people whose fingers I saw there probably died within the next day or two. Including possibly women, children, and pregnant women. That most of the people we met were doomed to a quick death or a terrible future. It was as if I stood in front of the ruins of Polish camps and saw a factory of death. Only everything was real and without buildings. The stories of thousands of people are being cut short and will sink into oblivion, but instead of monuments and tears, for now we prefer not to pay attention to this and speak with disdain about the migration issue in the most developed countries.
When I hear the word “refugee”, I find it difficult to associate it with myself, instead imagining these phantom owners of the hands I saw. The few who survive the journey, running towards the unknown. And yet, is it about the terrible death of thousands of people deprived of justice or the desire for a life that is both beautiful and merciless? Both? It hurts me deeply to think about it.
I feel I must take at least a small step to try to help the global refugee community in response to this terrible (and widely known) secret that was so crudely shared with me.
