Trapped on a beach in Ceuta: the bitter wait to ask for asylum

CeutaIf a straight line is drawn between the Comoros Islands, an archipelago located in the African strip of the Indian Ocean, and Ceuta, it measures 6,300 kilometers. By road, once you cross the sea, the shortest distance is about 8,000 kilometers. Hibbane (26 years old), one of the hundreds of young people who for more than ten days has taken refuge on the Trampolín beach in the autonomous city, was born there. With his finger, he points to the crest on the football jersey he is wearing: Fédération de Football des Comores. The language is one of the many legacies of colonization. "I fled because the political conflict is permanent [...] There are constant deaths," he explains. In recent years, these islands have left behind the small advances they had made as an incipient republican democracy. That is why he seeks international protection, although on Saturday, more than a week after arriving in Ceuta, he still had no news on how to request it.

Do you know if we can go to CETI?

— I know it's collapsed.

From a right to a privilege?

The Temporary Immigrant Reception Centre (CETI) in Ceuta is a few metres from Trampolín beach and is the place where those applying for asylum are temporarily housed. Its capacity is 582 people and sources from the Spanish government delegation in Ceuta explain that 72 more places have been added. Police sources confirm to ARA that there are more than 700 people inside, although they acknowledge a constant fluctuation of figures. And although the Spanish government assures that teams have been strengthened to register asylum applications, those on this beach in Ceuta have not seen them. It is almost inevitable to think that instead of a right, asylum could become a privilege.

Hibbane's crossing has a stop before Ceuta: Morocco. He arrived there by plane. "We were allowed to leave [the Comoros Islands] to seek some stability [...] But in Morocco it is impossible". He barely made a living doing a bit of everything. When he heard that the Spanish border "was open", he also fled by swimming. In this case, social networks come into play again.

Suffering from the heat. He and the rest. "It's killing us," he says. They have received water and some food, but they find it difficult to protect themselves from the sun and the high temperatures that have scorched Ceuta in recent days. Some have managed by building huts with poles, reeds, and materials they have collected from the street, which have now become their roof. This beach,like the ships of El Tarajal, has also become a settlement where most seek "asylum" , as it is read in a shed at the entrance. While they await a response, they have also begun to organize to leave it clean.

Until this past weekend, the government of Ceuta had not installed portable showers. They are about 100 meters away. Next to them, they have also placed some toilets. "Some people are getting sick," he says, touching a visibly swollen stomach. On the beach there are injured people and others with signs of discomfort. The doctors of Ceuta, who are doubling their shifts to attend to them and have even organized themselves into volunteer groups to approach these areas, have demanded an "action plan for emergencies and catastrophes." They warn of people with head injuries, abdominal pain, or respiratory illnesses who cannot be treated.

Meanwhile, some neighbors peer out from the terrace of their homes. At their feet lies this corner of Ceuta from where, on a clear day, the Peninsula can be glimpsed. Since last Thursday they have stopped frequenting it and, for this reason, they are "indignant." They denounce the situation people are in and the accumulated dirt.

Wounds of war

L'Hibbane is willing to speak comfortably. At first, he is confused as to whether the press is responsible for collecting his testimony to begin the asylum application. He is told no, but he sees it as a channel through which to disseminate his story in the absence of those who should be responsible. The only thing visible on Trampolín beach is a Civil Guard boat in the distance, monitoring the Mediterranean waters through which he swam from Morocco to Ceuta.

Aidan (19 years old) or Kamara (16 years old), both from Sierra Leone, also do so. "I trust they will let us register," says Kamara before highlighting his mood and that of many of his companions: "No one is taking care of us [...] We all need help," he laments. He acknowledges that this beach has become a "very small" place for so many people. Over the weekend, there were more than a thousand people. Some were starting to opt for refuge in less visible places, as already happened in the 2021 migratory crisis.

On this beach there are people from different countries in Africa, and many are fleeing countries marked by war, some forgotten. This is the case of Halid, 23 years old. He is from Niger and has been orphaned. Few are from Morocco, who have settled mainly in the ships of El Tarajal. Sadamohammed (Sudan, 22 years old), Mamadou (Senegal, 27 years old) or Salim (Yemen) are also seeking international protection. Some to stay in the State, like Mamadou, who speaks fluent Spanish. "I was trying to make a living in Morocco by being a translator for Spanish tourists," he explains. He acknowledges that this is not the first time he has entered Ceuta and tries to get a life on track in Spain: "I know I have it harder, right? I am from Senegal." Senegal and Spain maintain police and migratory agreements linked to repatriation, and the success rate for asylum applications is low. It's like finding a needle in a haystack.

Salim, on the other hand, with very fluent English, aspires to reach the United Kingdom. "I know it's very dangerous. A friend died crossing the [English] Channel. But I'm not scared," he says, just after having left behind a journey that has resulted in the deaths of dozens of people, while others remain missing.

Being a Coptic Christian in Egypt

Then a boy approaches, who seems more solitary than the rest. He has his head covered from the heat with a red cloth. He looks suspiciously, as Hibbane did. He also asks about asylum. "I am a journalist," I answer.

He opens his shirt at the neck and looks down. He approaches cautiously, also looking around. A red wooden rosary with a cross hangs from his neck, which he dares not take off. "I am from Egypt, I cannot stay there. They are killing us," he says, showing a very worn passport. His name is Makarios (26 years old). He is a Coptic Christian; a community that represents around 10% of the Egyptian population, but in a predominantly Muslim country they are considered second-class citizens, with fewer rights. Although a large part of its members joined the revolution that overthrew Mubarak, fears remain alive and he is an example of this.

Meanwhile, the CETI road turns into an anthill of people going up and down, looking to see if they can get in. Families have also settled around them. Two Civil Guard patrols are controlling it a few meters down. Besides the workers, they only let users of the equestrian center, located next door, pass. On the beach, some are swimming in the sea; others are trying to play keepy-uppy with a deflated ball, and there are those who are reliving the embers of the fire that serves to warm up at night.