"No one can imagine our suffering": two migrant women recount their fears and hopes

BarcelonaDelores Ohemaa Nketiah and Bintou Camara met in Catalan language and Catalan culture courses These are part of the social integration process for foreign nationals who wish to regularize their immigration status in the country. It is a long and costly process, as it requires non-EU citizens to live the first two years without papers – in an irregular situation—surviving however and wherever they can. Only after that time can they apply for legal status, provided they have a pre-employment contract or begin formal studies. It is at this point in the process that these two women find themselves stuck. They migrated alone and have had to face the added difficulties of being female migrants: the risks along the route and the vulnerabilities in the destination country.

Both are 29 years old and live in the same square in a neighborhood made up of former social housing. This is no coincidence. Over time, as the long-time residents have left, these apartments have been occupied by migrant families and individuals who, like them, are often forced to sharing 50 square meter apartments with strangers Or, in the best-case scenario, with friends or family.

They understand each other in a mix of Spanish, English, and French, and in the middle of the conversation, they burst out laughing. "We've become friends, yes," they say, because they understand each other without judgment. Remembering the years of migration, far from home and family, makes their voices break more than once, and they discreetly wipe away a tear. "Emigrating isn't easy; you have a hard time at many moments," says Nketiah, holding a handkerchief. Despite the pain that certain memories cause them, they want to explain themselves, to be heard, convinced that people can't imagine everything they've had to go through: "No one can imagine our suffering."

The yearning for freedom

Nketiah was born in rural Ghana and is the eldest of five siblings. After her father's untimely death, her mother raised the family alone. With little money, Nketiah only completed primary school, and she began working on a coconut plantation as a child. The urge to leave arose when an older man, with whom she had a relationship, "controlled and held her captive" until she felt suffocated. "I had money, but I wanted to be free. I didn't tell anyone; I only informed my mother after I had already landed in Casablanca," she explains. Morocco wasn't a premeditated choice, but the only one possible given her savings. There, she experienced what she describes as a "terrible" period: she slept on the streets and suffered racist attacks, robberies, police harassment, and more. She also lacked basic necessities. "They would destroy the tents where we slept and leave us with nothing," she recalls.

The situations she recounts, sitting across from a café, are the same ones described by many migrant women, more vulnerable than their male counterparts. It's clear she doesn't like to go into details, and her face only lights up when she talks about the young Ghanaian man she fell in love with, the one who convinced her to try to reach Europe. He left first. "He stopped answering me. Then I learned his boat had been lost at sea," she says, her eyes welling with tears. Her phone is a photo album filled with pictures and videos of the couple in happy moments. With the little money she had managed to earn, Nketiah made her way at sea. heading to the Canary Islands with about forty other peopleThree days later, the boat ran out of fuel, food, and water. "The fear of dying was constant," he says. Finally, a ship rescued them. It was September 2024, a date he treasures: the beginning of the two-year countdown.

Due to the collapse of the Canary Islands' reception system, the young woman traveled to mainland Spain on a regular flight to Madrid. In the Spanish capital, she found herself alone and facing an arrest warrant, which terrified her because of the fear of having to return to Ghana with nothing. Some fellow Ghanaians encouraged her to come to Barcelona, ​​and luckily, they were able to take her in for a few months. "I found myself on the street when they left for Germany," she says. Finally, she has found a room in the home of another Ghanaian, who is letting her stay for free for the time being. "I often find myself alone and sad, but I know I'm better off than in Ghana," she says, and confesses that when she's feeling down, she avoids contact with her mother or siblings "so as not to worry them."

Long-Distance Motherhood

Bintou Camara, on the other hand, speaks every day along with her daughter, who stayed in Senegal with her maternal grandmotherIt's from Casamance, a region with separatist aspirations, And, like most migrants, she entered Spain in 2018 on a tourist visa, convinced she would soon be reunited with her family. Her aunt, who had lived in Murcia for years, had promised her a job at her hair salon, but in reality, she found herself working without pay and barely able to leave the house. Fear of the police, fueled by her own family, kept her subdued, until the pandemic finally spoke volumes. She was deported.

For the first time in her life, she slept on the streets and on the beach, an experience that still brings her to tears. "I hadn't taken any clothes or my passport, but I didn't dare go to the police," she says. Her family network in Senegal put her in touch with a fellow countrywoman who took her in with a small room. In the summer, she braids the hair of tourists on Barcelona's beaches, and the rest of the year she earns a living wherever she can. She's keeping her fingers crossed that nothing goes wrong in the coming months and that she'll be declared eligible for asylum. ACOL program of the GeneralitatDesigned to facilitate the regularization of migrants.

With this prospect in mind, she is encouraged and confident that she will be able to send more money to her mother so that her daughter can study and "do many things." The plan involves a one-year work contract and a two-year residence and work permit. A relief, although she must overcome the obstacle of clearing the police record that resulted from an officer stopping her for identification. "Everything will be alright, I know it," she affirms.