When refugee smugglers become heroes

The man in the back seat says that his name is Mustafa. It’s probably a lie but it doesn’t matter. We have spent days and hundreds of kroner to get in touch with this man who now sits in our black Toyota.

Most Moroccan men are heavy smokers and this man that calls himself Mustafa is no exception. He barely manages to shut the car door before blowing a thick cloud of smoke in our direction. We drive slowly through Tangiers’ harbor quarter. He leads us to a dark and narrow street and then asks us to turn off our lights.

A genuine refugee smuggler is not interested in drawing the attention of the police.

Sails with chocolate

Mustafa is a thin, grey-haired man with mild brown eyes. Day old stubble pokes out of his leather-thick, weathered skin. The 54 year old family father is an experienced man in this branch. He has transported people over the Gibraltar Strait for nearly ten years. Thousands of Africans have been shuttled to Europe in Mustafa’s boat.

– I am a fisherman, but fishing only covers my expenses. There is much more money in transporting people. I can make 50.000 kroner in a single night- that’s more than a fisherman’s annual salary, says Mustafa.

The job is hardly without risk. Many of the small run-down fishing boats have been toppled in the forceful currents of the strait between Africa and Europe, but that doesn’t scare Mustafa.

– A fisherman cannot be afraid of the sea, he declares.

But Mustafa has other worries. The Spanish coast guard has intensified the hunt for Moroccan sailors and increased the penalty for refugee smuggling in connection with the European Union’s police cooperation. Mustafa has already spent one year behind bars in Malaga State Prison.

– But that was many years ago. These days, smugglers don’t get off so easily. Now it costs between two and three years in a Spanish prison. In Morocco the penalty is even higher, but the risk for getting caught is much lower, explains Mustafa.

In the beginning Mustafa only sailed with Moroccans but now people come from far away countries to get a spot on the little wooden boat- from Nigeria, Sierra Leone, Mail and other West African countries.

– Now I sail with chocolate, says Mustafa with a laugh.

The price for the fourteen kilometer long trip over the Gibraltar Strait is 1,000 dollars, but Mustafa only gets one-third of the money. The rest goes to the Moroccan mafia, who administrates contact with the refugees and organizes the trips. The mafia also makes sure that the coast guard’s scheduled patrols don’t coincide with the times when the smugglers’ boats set sail.

Forced into criminality

Souk Dakhel is the name of the poorest slum in Tangiers. It’s a genuine Arabic labyrinth, where the streets are so narrow that two people can just barely pass by each other. The sun has no chance to shine in here, so the humid walls’ perspiration blends in with the smell of piss, sweat and hash.

Nigerian John Jamakoro has traveled for nearly two years to get here. The 28 year old businessman fled from the bloody tribal conflicts that have plagued his country.

– My parents and my sister were murdered and our house burnt down. I am all alone now. I cannot return. It would be certain death, says John Jamakoro. He will attempt to come to Europe to apply for political asylum in a democratic country.

For people like John Jamakoro, refugee smugglers are the only chance to get their asylum case heard. EU countries have used visa requirements, deportation agreements with transit countries and heightened control in airports to ensure that all of the legal travel routes are closed.

John Jamakoro is a devout Catholic and was an altar boy for six years in a Nigerian church. He doesn’t like being forced to break the law.

– If I could travel legally, I’d do it of course. But Europe has made it impossible for us, and therefore I am forced to commit a crime, laments John Jamakoro.

He doesn’t share the European politicians’ contempt for refugee smugglers. To him, a man like Mustafa is an indispensable savior.

– The smugglers do a good piece of work. They risk very long prison terms for helping us. If there wasn’t anybody that dared sail, I wouldn’t know what would happen to us, says John Jamokoro.

John Jamakoro has spent three months saving up 250 dollars. It’s all about living cheaply in order to scrape together the money for the trip to Europe. It’s a slow process, but his hope survives. It isn’t like this for everybody. Many of John’s fellow countrymen have spent a year in Souk Dakhel without even coming close to their goal.

For the desperate, an alternative method of breaking through into Europe exists.

Refugee hunt

The usual morning chaos swirls around Tangiers’ harbor. Every night, at least 100 people climb over the fence to the export area to try their luck as a hidden passenger on a European truck. Today is no exception.

One of the police’s vans creeps slowly between long rows of trucks waiting to board the ferry to Spain. A plump officer blows his whistle vigorously, and police suddenly pop out on all sides.

The refugee hunt is on.

A young Arabic boy that must be about sixteen years old zooms off with the police on his heels. He darts fearfully between the trucks, running in all directions. The truck drivers honk and yell to psyche up the police. The hunt ends with a bang as the boy runs head-on into one of the parked trucks and falls to the asphalt. The driver laughs loudly. The boy has hurt himself but he doesn’t cry. He’s filthy and smeared with oil from head to toe: a certain sign that he tried to hide in one of the truck’s undercarriages.

The police van is nearly filled with people smeared with oil. The day’s catch consists of twelve young men, not counting the unknown number that managed to flee successfully. Attached to the coast guard’s office building are two small cages. The captured men are locked in here as a warning and deterrent to others.

Desperado’s parking lot

Export drivers aren’t impressed with the Moroccan police. In their opinion, the police don’t do enough to patrol the harbor. Some of them do their own policing.

– I kicked a harraga down from the roof this morning, says a proud British driver.

Harraga is the derogatory Arabic term for illegal immigrants that attempt to come to Europe by crawling under the trucks or by hiding in the containers.

– Harragas are really a problem for us. Many of the drivers have been threatened with knives and forced to smuggle people over. If you’ve had a knife to the throat you never forget it. They’re desperate. You never know how far they’re willing to go, says Paul Carter.

He is an export driver for the British transport company John Mann, and has driven all over Europe and North Africa. For the last three years he has only driven to Morocco.

– The harbor in Tangiers is the worst place I know of. At night the place is filled with harragas. You can hear them crawling around on the roof or under the truck. It’s scary, says Paul Carter.

Five welded plates on the roof of Paul Carter’s truck serve as a reminder of the times people have sawed a hole in the roof to hide themselves in the trailer.

– You never know what you’ll find when you open the doors to the trailer. Last summer, when the sun really cooked down here we heard knocking from inside the container. Two of the three harragas inside were already dead because of the heat when we opened up, recalls Paul Carter.

But for the British drivers it’s also a question of money. It costs them a fine of 25,000 kroner if they transport a hidden passenger into Great Brittan.

The new Berlin Wall

An hour long drive east of Tangiers through the steep mountain terrain brings one to the Spanish city of Ceuta. This little European enclave in Africa is a relic from colonial times and still a part of Spain- much like Gibraltar belongs to Great Brittan.

The distance between the EU and Africa is measured in meters here.

A four meter high barbed-wire fence surrounds Ceuta, equipped with electric sensors that register even the slightest movement. Behind the fence is a strip of asphalt leading to the civil guard’s jeeps and dogs, followed by another towering barbed-wire fence. And topping it all off are seventeen watchtowers with light canons and automatic cameras.

– Down here we call it the new Berlin Wall. The only difference is that the new wall is designed to hold the poor out instead of in, declares Manuel Lancha, who is a lawyer in the Spanish Refugee Aid organization and works at Ceuta’s refugee center.

Closing the loopholes

Ceutas refugee center is financed by the EU and resembles a prison with a tall fence, camera surveillance and a control post where a beefy rottweiler keeps off unwelcome visitors. Outside of the entrance sit three men from Guinea Bissau who have managed to swim to shore from a rubber boat. Their soaking wet shirts hang to dry in the afternoon sun as they wait for a green light from the police.

– We get mostly Africans, but also Iraqis fleeing from Saddam Hussein- we even saw a Chinese man here,” tells Manuel Lancha. It is his job to serve as consultant for asylum seekers and explain the Spanish immigration law. It’s a rough job.

– For many people here it’s the ultimate risk. They’ve sold everything they had to complete this journey and when they get here they believe that they’ve reached their goal.

They go into shock when I tell them that they’ll have a hard time staying in Spain, says Manuel Lancha. Only five percent of applicants attain asylum in Spain. This is the lowest rate in Europe.

Everyday Tragedy

The man on the stretcher closes his eyes shyly. Two aggressive TV crews with spotlights and cameras have stationed themselves in front of the hospital and they only get out of the way reluctantly so that two paramedics can get by with the freezing Africans.

Tragedy has once again hit Tarifa.

The little city in the southernmost Spain is a windsurfer’s paradise, but the high waves and the strong winds that attract tourists mean death for hundreds of Africans. Every week has its victims.

Today a boat with 43 refugees from The Ivory Coast and Sierra Leone capsized. The coast guard rescued 29, one drowned and nobody knows what has happened to the others. The heightened immigration control over the entire European Union has created an enormous refugee press on Tarifa, which is located right where the Gibraltar strait is most narrow.

The 32 year old officer Angel Munoz Barrera is moved by the day’s events.

– I feel sorrow every time we find a body. These people have voyaged so far and seek to come here to attain a better life, but many only find death. This part of the job will never become routine, he states.

Two more bodies wash up on Tarifa’s sandy beach the following day.

By Thomas Sæhl Sørensen

Photos by Ditte Bjerregaard

Translation by Michael Lee Burgess