In the two weeks we have been volunteering here, I’ve had a
good chance to listen to the many stories of the men who live in the center.
For the most part, they are the same: fleeing West Africa from joblessness and
harsh governments. Most of them have made perilous journeys across the Sahara
and into war-torn Libya, hoping to find passage across the sea to any European
Union state that will take them. Along the way, their statelessness and
desperation make them the perfect targets for exploitation.
One man I spoke with had fled Gambia, because he was a
wanted man by the Jammeh regime after his village had protested against
unchecked government excavation of their land. Several of their small children had
drowned in the massive holes the excavation had left behind. His forehead still
bears a formidable scar to remind him of his current status with Gambian
police.
Another man from Nigeria had left under similar
circumstances. After he was accused of smuggling contraband in a government vehicle,
he was incarcerated and administered beatings daily. After he was released, his
family decided that he no longer had a life in Lagos.
Based on the conversations with many of the men, it seems
there is little to no redemption for those who fall on the wrong side of the
powerful. Becoming an enemy of the state essentially means that you are now
living on borrowed time.
The Nigerian man struck out through Mali and made his way
with two truck-loads of others across the vast desert of the western Sahara.
The conditions were pitiful, and as dehydration and sickness claimed the lives
of several, the only choice was an unceremonious burial in the hot sands of the
desert.
As their small convoy neared population centers, highwaymen
would speed alongside them, demanding money for safe passage. If they did not
have the money, a quick burst of Kalashnikov fire would be shot into their
vehicle as punishment. After reaching Libya, the Nigerian man was imprisoned by
Arabs and beaten three times daily, often on the bottom of his feet. When asked
why he believed he was imprisoned, the man could not offer an explanation. Like
the Gambian man, his head was covered in scars. “I never used to wear my hair
long for my entire life,” he tells me, “but the scars are too embarrassing to
show. They are a way of taking your manhood.”
For the most part the refugee center feels like a purgatory.
Although the staff do all they can to care for their “guests,” the uncertainty
of successful asylum for the 90 men seeking refuge within the building means
that little fanfare echoes about the hallways. Instead, most of the men are
quiet and reserved, reflecting a feeling that they carry as many scars within
as their bear without.
- Tucker
Strom
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