Neu Leonstein
31-01-2007, 11:44
When you read this, do it with some bleak music in the background.
It's a multi-part series about a man from Ghana who immigrated illegally into Europe, and on the way it illustrates everything that is so wrong with Africa. It is a rather hopeless and sad story, but definitely worth reading.
http://www.spiegel.de/img/0,1020,789718,00.jpg
Part 1 - About leaving Ghana (http://www.spiegel.de/international/spiegel/0,1518,462085,00.html)
At 9:00 p.m. on the day of the arranged meeting, John was waiting in his hotel in a town called Sogakope. It was a flat, white building with a terrace and a stairway leading down to the rooms. At about €10 per night, or four for those who knew how to haggle, the rooms were cheap at the Volta View Hotel. Located as it was on the main road, it was noisy here at the Volta View -- flooded by the constant sounds of engines, horns, drums and music that would continue well into the night. John waited, and soon Vida arrived with the baby he hadn't even seen yet -- Alice, age one.
The couple had only one night together, but neither of them slept.
Vida was against the idea. She knew if he went it would be a long time before she saw him again -- and this might even be the last time. He said that they were married, which meant he had to take care of her and the children, something he felt he couldn't do in Africa. "No," she said, that wasn't true. The reason they married was so that they could be together. She wept and she shouted. She knew nothing about Europe, but she did know that she was terrified of what might happen. John remained uncharacteristically tough and resolute. He had $1,000 in debts in Accra, money he said he would never be able to repay. He said he wanted to fight for his family's future, and that there was no future here in Africa.
They lay there together, embracing and talking, and at dawn he left the hotel and, after catching a bus to Lomé in Togo, was soon far away.
Asked today if she understood the odyssey John was about to embark on, Vida answers: "No, not then."
Part 2 - Lagos (http://www.spiegel.de/international/spiegel/0,1518,462088,00.html)
Lagos is a miserable city, a city of filth and garbage and mud and paths consisting of nothing but a few boards thrown over sewage so you can at least stay halfway dry -- boards they call "major roads" here. Children sit in front of oil drums and play with sticks floating in the muck, as piles of garbage grow in front of huts.
Everyone here has empty eyes. The people are unloved, unneeded, not encouraged and unwanted. In fact, they are completely superfluous. They have no schools, no insurance policies and no books. They have no clean water and the stench they breathe can hardly be called air.
Every license plate reads: "Lagos: Center of Excellence."
Lagos is a city of 15 million and its population is expected to jump to 25 million within the next 15 years. But this city will never point anyone in a better direction again. Its mountains of garbage will never shrink, and its people will never see a better life. It's too late for that.
Part 3 - To the Sahara (http://www.spiegel.de/international/spiegel/0,1518,462089,00.html)
When Izoua looks out the window, he sees sandy, potholed roads on which he is unable to drive his cars, and he sees families who sit in front of fire pits grilling rats. If he sold just one of his cars, he could build schools and have every street in the city repaired, but then he would be missing one car. And that, of course, is simply unthinkable.
Izoua can neither read nor write, and he can't really speak, either. He stammers, stutters and makes noises. He is fat, he drools and his right incisor is missing. His head is shaved, except for a gray patch at the back. He sits on a bronze rocking horse, and the people standing around him hold his telephones and read his letters, quietly putting their questions to the boss, who grimly answers yes or no.
Izoua seems pleased to see John -- for about a minute. "Oh," he says, "ah," of course he remembers the prison in Lagos, "da cell," as he calls it in his odd version of English. But he asks no questions and clearly has no interest in John. He does make a point of telling us that he has 2,000 employees.
Then he takes his friend and his friend's white companion on a tour of his possessions, beginning with the cellar, where water from a spring is filled into plastic bags ("St. Jane Water") and stored there, later to be sold on the street. He takes us to the bakery where Izoua's bread is baked. The boss strides through the streets, surrounded by bodyguards wielding Kalashnikov rifles. Look, his gait seems to say, look, white people have come to see me, because I am Bob Izoua, ruler of Benin City.
Part 4 - Betrayal in the Sahara (http://www.spiegel.de/international/spiegel/0,1518,463094-2,00.html)
At 10 a.m. one morning, one of the vehicles broke down. John no longer remembers the exact date. The passengers jumped off the truck, and the drivers stood around discussing the situation before attempting to repair the vehicle's broken engine. But they were unsuccessful. The drivers resumed discussing the situation, while the migrants squatted on the ground, waiting. Then, suddenly and without warning, one of the remaining vehicles disappeared. Had the driver gone to get help?
They waited for two days. They were exhausted, it was 40 degrees Celsius (104 degrees Fahrenheit) outside, and they lay, silent and motionless, in the sand. Migrants quickly learn how to spend an entire day without saying a word.
A quarrel broke out when the migrants accused the drivers of planning to abandon them. The drivers insisted that they were responsible for the migrants and had no intention of abandoning them. But no one had a satellite phone, there were no villages nearby and John had no idea where he was.
On the third day, the second vehicle was suddenly gone. Before anyone could take notice, the drivers had climbed into the truck and were gone within seconds.
Part 5 - No Man's Land (http://www.spiegel.de/international/spiegel/0,1518,463512,00.html)
They climbed mountains and ran across farmland and fields. They crawled through the no-man's land in the border region, sticking close to the bare, uncovered ground, but this time they managed to evade the searchlights. And then, one morning at 6:30, in November 1995, Ampan found himself on European soil.
He had been traveling almost four years.
But there was no time for John to catch his breath, celebrate his good fortune or even relax. Europe was foreign and cold. Before long a police car drove by, one of the officers waved his arms, the other officer stopped the car, and before they knew it John and Albert were sitting in the car. John thought the officers, who were friendly, would take them to the Red Cross or a refugee camp. But then John saw the border and the two officers told John and Albert to get out of the car and tried to push them back across the border. But the two Africans refused. "No," John cried, "only over our dead bodies."
He had gone through too much and made too many sacrifices to return to Africa. I will never return, he thought, I would rather die first.
But then John and Albert realized where they were. They were standing on a strip of no-man's land between Morocco and Ceuta, between Africa and Europe. Armed Moroccan soldiers stood on one side, refusing to allow the refugees to return. Spanish soldiers, also armed, were on the other side, and they didn't want the refugees either. This barren stretch of no-man's land was on hot, sandy terrain, a place with no shadows. Soon the two men were joined by other refugees, five in the first night and 10 in the next.
Part 6 - Ceuta (http://www.spiegel.de/international/spiegel/0,1518,463656,00.html)
Today fifteen men sleep on wooden bunk beds in the room in which John spent his first four months in Algeciras. Life in paradise is just beginning for these men. Pater Andres is an eccentric-looking man with a full beard and curly hair. He wears glasses and a red cardigan, and his eyes are warm. People who have traveled thousands of kilometers to reach a continent like Europe need someone like the 65-year-old Pater Andres Avelino Gonzales Perez, someone to give them blankets, to give mothers diapers for their children and to help families find their first house in their new world. Pater Andres has been doing this for the past 30 years, since the day a group of tourists spotted a capsized wooden boat drifting offshore.
There is a wooden cross high up in the mountains near Tarifa, a vantage point that offers a view across the sea to Africa. An inscription on the cross reads: "In memory of the immigrants who died in the straits." Aid organizations in Algeciras estimate the number of dead since 1990 at 15,000. "The direction is changing, but migration will always exist," says Pater Andres, "after all, migrating in times of need is a fundamental right of free human beings."
It's a multi-part series about a man from Ghana who immigrated illegally into Europe, and on the way it illustrates everything that is so wrong with Africa. It is a rather hopeless and sad story, but definitely worth reading.
http://www.spiegel.de/img/0,1020,789718,00.jpg
Part 1 - About leaving Ghana (http://www.spiegel.de/international/spiegel/0,1518,462085,00.html)
At 9:00 p.m. on the day of the arranged meeting, John was waiting in his hotel in a town called Sogakope. It was a flat, white building with a terrace and a stairway leading down to the rooms. At about €10 per night, or four for those who knew how to haggle, the rooms were cheap at the Volta View Hotel. Located as it was on the main road, it was noisy here at the Volta View -- flooded by the constant sounds of engines, horns, drums and music that would continue well into the night. John waited, and soon Vida arrived with the baby he hadn't even seen yet -- Alice, age one.
The couple had only one night together, but neither of them slept.
Vida was against the idea. She knew if he went it would be a long time before she saw him again -- and this might even be the last time. He said that they were married, which meant he had to take care of her and the children, something he felt he couldn't do in Africa. "No," she said, that wasn't true. The reason they married was so that they could be together. She wept and she shouted. She knew nothing about Europe, but she did know that she was terrified of what might happen. John remained uncharacteristically tough and resolute. He had $1,000 in debts in Accra, money he said he would never be able to repay. He said he wanted to fight for his family's future, and that there was no future here in Africa.
They lay there together, embracing and talking, and at dawn he left the hotel and, after catching a bus to Lomé in Togo, was soon far away.
Asked today if she understood the odyssey John was about to embark on, Vida answers: "No, not then."
Part 2 - Lagos (http://www.spiegel.de/international/spiegel/0,1518,462088,00.html)
Lagos is a miserable city, a city of filth and garbage and mud and paths consisting of nothing but a few boards thrown over sewage so you can at least stay halfway dry -- boards they call "major roads" here. Children sit in front of oil drums and play with sticks floating in the muck, as piles of garbage grow in front of huts.
Everyone here has empty eyes. The people are unloved, unneeded, not encouraged and unwanted. In fact, they are completely superfluous. They have no schools, no insurance policies and no books. They have no clean water and the stench they breathe can hardly be called air.
Every license plate reads: "Lagos: Center of Excellence."
Lagos is a city of 15 million and its population is expected to jump to 25 million within the next 15 years. But this city will never point anyone in a better direction again. Its mountains of garbage will never shrink, and its people will never see a better life. It's too late for that.
Part 3 - To the Sahara (http://www.spiegel.de/international/spiegel/0,1518,462089,00.html)
When Izoua looks out the window, he sees sandy, potholed roads on which he is unable to drive his cars, and he sees families who sit in front of fire pits grilling rats. If he sold just one of his cars, he could build schools and have every street in the city repaired, but then he would be missing one car. And that, of course, is simply unthinkable.
Izoua can neither read nor write, and he can't really speak, either. He stammers, stutters and makes noises. He is fat, he drools and his right incisor is missing. His head is shaved, except for a gray patch at the back. He sits on a bronze rocking horse, and the people standing around him hold his telephones and read his letters, quietly putting their questions to the boss, who grimly answers yes or no.
Izoua seems pleased to see John -- for about a minute. "Oh," he says, "ah," of course he remembers the prison in Lagos, "da cell," as he calls it in his odd version of English. But he asks no questions and clearly has no interest in John. He does make a point of telling us that he has 2,000 employees.
Then he takes his friend and his friend's white companion on a tour of his possessions, beginning with the cellar, where water from a spring is filled into plastic bags ("St. Jane Water") and stored there, later to be sold on the street. He takes us to the bakery where Izoua's bread is baked. The boss strides through the streets, surrounded by bodyguards wielding Kalashnikov rifles. Look, his gait seems to say, look, white people have come to see me, because I am Bob Izoua, ruler of Benin City.
Part 4 - Betrayal in the Sahara (http://www.spiegel.de/international/spiegel/0,1518,463094-2,00.html)
At 10 a.m. one morning, one of the vehicles broke down. John no longer remembers the exact date. The passengers jumped off the truck, and the drivers stood around discussing the situation before attempting to repair the vehicle's broken engine. But they were unsuccessful. The drivers resumed discussing the situation, while the migrants squatted on the ground, waiting. Then, suddenly and without warning, one of the remaining vehicles disappeared. Had the driver gone to get help?
They waited for two days. They were exhausted, it was 40 degrees Celsius (104 degrees Fahrenheit) outside, and they lay, silent and motionless, in the sand. Migrants quickly learn how to spend an entire day without saying a word.
A quarrel broke out when the migrants accused the drivers of planning to abandon them. The drivers insisted that they were responsible for the migrants and had no intention of abandoning them. But no one had a satellite phone, there were no villages nearby and John had no idea where he was.
On the third day, the second vehicle was suddenly gone. Before anyone could take notice, the drivers had climbed into the truck and were gone within seconds.
Part 5 - No Man's Land (http://www.spiegel.de/international/spiegel/0,1518,463512,00.html)
They climbed mountains and ran across farmland and fields. They crawled through the no-man's land in the border region, sticking close to the bare, uncovered ground, but this time they managed to evade the searchlights. And then, one morning at 6:30, in November 1995, Ampan found himself on European soil.
He had been traveling almost four years.
But there was no time for John to catch his breath, celebrate his good fortune or even relax. Europe was foreign and cold. Before long a police car drove by, one of the officers waved his arms, the other officer stopped the car, and before they knew it John and Albert were sitting in the car. John thought the officers, who were friendly, would take them to the Red Cross or a refugee camp. But then John saw the border and the two officers told John and Albert to get out of the car and tried to push them back across the border. But the two Africans refused. "No," John cried, "only over our dead bodies."
He had gone through too much and made too many sacrifices to return to Africa. I will never return, he thought, I would rather die first.
But then John and Albert realized where they were. They were standing on a strip of no-man's land between Morocco and Ceuta, between Africa and Europe. Armed Moroccan soldiers stood on one side, refusing to allow the refugees to return. Spanish soldiers, also armed, were on the other side, and they didn't want the refugees either. This barren stretch of no-man's land was on hot, sandy terrain, a place with no shadows. Soon the two men were joined by other refugees, five in the first night and 10 in the next.
Part 6 - Ceuta (http://www.spiegel.de/international/spiegel/0,1518,463656,00.html)
Today fifteen men sleep on wooden bunk beds in the room in which John spent his first four months in Algeciras. Life in paradise is just beginning for these men. Pater Andres is an eccentric-looking man with a full beard and curly hair. He wears glasses and a red cardigan, and his eyes are warm. People who have traveled thousands of kilometers to reach a continent like Europe need someone like the 65-year-old Pater Andres Avelino Gonzales Perez, someone to give them blankets, to give mothers diapers for their children and to help families find their first house in their new world. Pater Andres has been doing this for the past 30 years, since the day a group of tourists spotted a capsized wooden boat drifting offshore.
There is a wooden cross high up in the mountains near Tarifa, a vantage point that offers a view across the sea to Africa. An inscription on the cross reads: "In memory of the immigrants who died in the straits." Aid organizations in Algeciras estimate the number of dead since 1990 at 15,000. "The direction is changing, but migration will always exist," says Pater Andres, "after all, migrating in times of need is a fundamental right of free human beings."