"As a Moroccan, from now on, you will feel singled out."

Torre Pacheco (Murcia)They want to be from somewhere, to have an identity, but they're not allowed to. Neither there nor here. They're not Spanish, nor Moroccan. Some left their country many years ago. Either their parents decided to cross the Strait of Gibraltar, and they were born in Spain, or they themselves, as teenagers, landed on the vast Murcian esplanade. That's why they must always claim their origins and their roots, because they feel they haven't been allowed to embrace the identity of the country that welcomed them.

During childhood, at school, even if they speak Arabic at home, they can coexist as equals with the rest of their classmates. They are all children. However, when adolescence arrives, everything changes: racism, being different, and the very limits imposed by some North African families appear, and every day they are reminded that they are not from here.

This is the case of one of the boys walking through the center of Torre Pacheco under the harsh Murcian sun in July. "Where are you from?" the journalist asks. "I'm Spanish," he replies naturally. However, after a couple of seconds of silence, he understands he must add something: "My parents are from Morocco." This boy, born in the San Antonio neighborhood of Torre Pacheco, educated in the Spanish educational system, is beginning to understand the differences between them, between himself and the boy who was born a few streets away, outside the neighborhood where the majority of the North African population lives. During childhood, he didn't realize he was different, but suddenly, in adolescence, his perception changes.

Children who come out to defend themselves

Over the last week, following the attack on a 68-year-old man and the emergence of ultra-right groups that went out at night to hunt the immigrant, some sixty teenagers from Torre Pacheco, all of them members of the North African community, They organized to defend the neighborhoodThis group is a small sample, the most belligerent, of a generation of young people seeking their place in this Murcian municipality of 41,000 inhabitants (in 1993 there were 17,738). This municipality, with 30% immigration and a 20% school dropout rate, is primarily dedicated to the agricultural sector.

"They're children, they don't think about what they're doing," summarizes Abdolali, a shopkeeper who became a spokesperson for the community during the incidents in the neighborhood. He arrived in Spain in 1998 and owns several businesses, one of them in the plaza that separates San Antonio from the rest of the municipality: a border that has been invisible for years between two opposing realities. Abdolali, like many of his compatriots, displays the constant friction and attraction between the two identities. The Spanish and Moroccan flags stand out in the back of his shop; the shirts of both national teams are clearly visible in the window, as is the Lamine Yamal shirt, an example of the integration of both communities. Abdolali keeps repeating the phrase most heard in Torre Pacheco these days: "We just want to work." And a second premise that he also needs to assert every time a journalist stops him: "I'm Spanish too." This merchant believes that young people rebel against external aggression because of their age, and that when they grow out of the excitement of adolescence, they'll do like the rest of the North African community, who watch him closely from street corners, expectant of the commotion, and begging the Civil Guard to ease the tension. "When my nephew turned eighteen, I told him: 'Enough with the nonsense, now wake up. Get to work,'" recalls Abdolali, who shaved his relative's hair to remove the highlights, a metaphor for a period that was ending.

Most of the young people who went out at night were students who hadn't even reached the age of majority. Many of them attend the Luis Manzanares High School. The group doesn't include unaccompanied minors—a group heavily targeted by the far right—but rather all the kids have families and live in one- or two-story, very old and run-down houses that dominate San Antonio. It's a snapshot from another era.

Racism against North Africans

Víctor and Maria Ángel are 14 years old and share high school with many of the kids who, with their faces hidden and sticks in their hands, went out to confront the hooligans. Both were born in Ecuador. "We know them, they're good people, they only defend themselves if attacked," he argues, having arrived in Spain at the age of five. Víctor is clear that the treatment he receives is very different from that of his North African classmates: "They don't do anything to us Latinos; there's more racism against them."

All the kids agree. Yassin is 17 years old. At six, he arrived from Marrakech to Roldán, and has been living in Torre Pacheco for two years, where he moves around with his trusty scooter and Adidas cap. In sixth grade, he already suffered his first attacks. "Go back to your country," his classmates told him contemptuously. When he took his little brother to a park next to his house, on the edge of San Antonio, some neighbors wouldn't let them play and made them leave. Innocent racism in the classroom, hatred from the older generation. One old man, as he calls him, snapped at him, "Let's talk in prison," while chatting calmly with a friend outside his house. Although the kids protesting are his age, he doesn't want any trouble. He lost his father at 15 and feels the responsibility that comes with it. "They're kids between 16 and 18, and they have a mix of rage and frustration," he concludes. Yassin knows that the events that have devastated his town in recent days will have serious consequences for the peaceful coexistence that Torre Pacheco has had until now. Nothing will ever be the same: "As a Moroccan, from now on, you'll feel singled out. You'll ride the bus and people will stare at you."

Is there a future in a society with such deep wounds? Young people believe that, despite everything, there is hope.

At noon on a weekday, three boys sit on one of the benches in Sánchez Raspinegro Square, the epicenter of San Antonio, where North African children gather at night. Only one of them, Wail, spent the night playing cat and mouse with the police, demanding justice for the attacks against his people by ultra-right groups. He is 18 years old and in his third year of secondary school. Just as Sophien and Monkasier, his two youngest classmates, enter the conversation and firmly assure them that "of course there is a future" for boys like them, Wail, his face tired from a busy night, just laughs mockingly. His friends want to study computer science and electricity, but he, on the other hand, couldn't care less. "I just want to work," he says resignedly, without any hopes or dreams for the future.

The future they will have

Rayan is 14 years old and has "always" experienced racism. He walks through the city center, outside the San Antonio limits, wearing his Cristiano Ronaldo Al Nassr jersey, despite being a Barça fan. He's in his third year of secondary school at Luis Manzanares and is clear that he wants to study mechanics. He recalls that his father arrived by boat more than two decades ago, and that he's been able to go to school and plan for a bright future: "I'm going to live better than my parents." However, he leaves the door open to finding a future away from Torre Pacheco: "There is a future, but I don't know if it will be in Spain. Maybe I'll go to Germany or another country when I'm older."

"The kids who are protesting believe there's a future, but if things continue like this, life might be worse than my parents' generation," says another 18-year-old. Unlike Rayan, he believes his life will be "worse" than his parents because it was easier to find housing before than it is now.

Parents who took on the most precarious jobs, especially in the agricultural sector. Javier summed it up perfectly while chatting with Juana and Manoli—two grandmothers from the neighborhood—about the transformation of San Antonio and the good coexistence with the North African population: "If it weren't for them, there wouldn't be any countryside. We don't want to work anymore." The data supports him. The economy of the Region of Murcia is sustained by those who have come from outside, since in the last four years, 54% of the jobs created were filled by immigrants.

Spaniards don't want to go to the countryside. But what about the young children of immigrants? They all want to study mechanics, computer science, electricity, or become sports coaches. Sociologist and professor at the University of Murcia, Andres Pedreño, expressed similar views a few days ago in the ARA newspaper. who considers that the new generations "They no longer want to work in the same jobs as their parents" because "they refuse to accept the precariousness" of the countryside.

Among the North African community, there's a consensus when it comes to pointing fingers at those who don't want to work. This discourse is deeply ingrained. They know that if they earn a good living and do their thing, they won't have problems, at least not with respect to coexistence. "There are Moroccan kids who do nothing, who spend their days in cafeterias or smoking. Those who don't want to work should be sent back to their country," says Riad, a 21-year-old of Moroccan origin who lives in Jaén, despite having been born in Torre Pacheco, and who works as a tractor driver for a fruit company.

Near Riyadh, Mohamed watches the ten Civil Guard vehicles preparing for the nighttime operation to prevent riots. The afternoon ultra-right rally failed; only two hundred people gathered in front of City Hall. His son, Rayan, answers a couple of questions from French journalists from TF1. He's 15 years old, was born in Torre Pacheco, and knows the kids who go out to protest at night. "Some don't go to school, they end up on the streets," he laments. He, on the other hand, is convinced that thanks to the education he receives, he will be able to have a better life than his father—Mohamed nods and recalls that young people these days "have everything"—and fulfill his dream for the future: to be a Civil Guard member.