The harragas are making good progress. Like them, the viewers are eager to cross the finish line. Another hairpin bend or two and we find ourselves in a withered pine forest on the outskirts of the Spanish exclave Ceuta, which in a former life was the walled city of Abyla. Hundreds of harragas live here, some have been here for several years. They have clearly put down roots: tents and shacks have sprung up everywhere, pots and pans hanging from the branches tinkle among the pine trees. The camera does a sweep of the location. A quick interview with one person, then on to another. Endless tales of harragas. The camp is segregated according to skin colour, nationality, religion, dialect and tribe. This is old-fashioned racism; peoples live cheek by jowl without acknowledging each other. As the camera prowls the Algerian quarter, I keep my eyes peeled. Every boy there looks just like Sofiane, same age, same pathetic affected air, but of Sofiane himself, there is no sign. I felt both disappointed and relieved. Each group has its own territory, its own survival strategy, its plans for freedom. Some have their sights set on Ceuta itself, others are merely passing through, heading for Tangiers, the gateway to Tarifa. This was what Ahmadou and Abu-Bakr were planning. They have come too far to spend all eternity picnicking in a pine forest. The film’s epilogue was devoted to them. Having survived the sandstorms and the vastness of the desert, they died in the arms of the sea within swimming distance of the Spanish coast. Only a young Togolese girl, beautiful as the sun at noon, set foot upon the promised land. Death must have realised that taking two wretched lives for the price of one was too unfair.
They come from afar
Seeking the impossible
Bellies empty, bodies taut with truth.
As they advance
Time flees before them
And behind them the corpses pile higher.
The sun wheels in the sky
Not a soul must escape
All must die before nightfall.
And so they die in their shadows
The wind gathers their bones
And with the earth, so turns the millstone.
The film ends with a long pull-back shot of the Ténéré while a haunting threnody comes from the heavens, from the oppressive, boundless, ochre sky. A funeral lament. Eyes close and we hear a final prayer as the ad break arrives with tips on how to make money in the capital which reminds me of Jean Yanne’s film Tout le monde il est beau, tout le monde il est gentil, prophets come and go, but advertising is for ever.
I was exhausted, I felt dirty, tattered, lost in thoughts of Sofiane, of Ahmadou and Abu-Bakr, of the young Togolese girl with the pretty face, and all those flailing in the background. My mind was in turmoil, lightning flashes, waves of sand as high as the Himalayas, the stench of sweat and shit, the chattering of TV commercials, the screams of the insane. It is terrible how painful noise can be in a universe of silence. One must love life to suffer so much. One must love death to court it so assiduously. Where does evil come from? What goes on in our heads?
I spent the whole night fretting.
Sofiane had everything, he had a house, he had my affection, he had friends, he had a routine. What about the rest? You can’t live on love alone when you’re imprisoned. Try as I might, I can’t work it out, but it is not always possible to name the thing that kills. The daily hardship? The all-idiocy? Yes, these play a part, but there are more powerful reasons: corruption, religion, bureaucracy, the culture of crime, of violence, of clannishness, the veneration of death, the glorification of the tyrant, the love of ostentation, the passion for strident sermons. Is that all? There are those who set a bad example. It comes from the top, from a government that mistakes ignorance for a priceless diamond; barbarism for sophistication; shoddy policies for brilliant statesmanship misappropriation of funds for legitimate disbursements. Oh, the bastards; oh, the stink of corruption! What about the intelligentsia, what do they have to say? They’re not all dead. What do you want them to say? They’re in prison, begging for a blanket and a piece of bread like everyone else. What about the heroes, the veterans, the hard nuts who revelled in the war? Oh, you poor deluded fool — they’re fossils now, their memories belong to others who rake in lots of cash. So is that all? No, there are the walls collapsing, the disasters the government has signed us up for, and the fear, the dreadful fears of a static life. What is left when all routes are cut off?
Dying is no big deal
When living is possible.
One elsewhere is worth a thousand heres.
Misery for misery
Considering the effort of the journey
The pain of being wrenched away
And the fear of losing one’s way.
The pleasure of finally believing in tomorrow
Is well worth sacrificing one’s life.
Like the bird
Like the prophet
Let us spread our wings, shake dust from our sandals
And walk into the wind
Burn a path
Somewhere in the world is the promised land.
Suddenly, in my heart, I feel like a harraga.
My door did not go bang bang, it went knock knock. That sound our doors no longer know how to make came to me like a divine breath. No one visits me except the local moralisers, the gorgon from the rue Marengo, and mad Moussa. I listen to them carefully, but they don’t understand, they just talk all the more. Then there are the officials who arrive on fixed dates hoping to take me by surprise, the meter readers for the gas, the water, the electricity, but they don’t count, they silently take their readings looking at us as though we’re invalids. I never dare to ask them about the charges for services never provided. Sometimes, trudging from afar, shuffling pitifully, the local tom-cat Missing Parts comes round to see if Minnie Mouse has returned home. He never says anything, he simply sighs as his one remaining eye stares down at his orphaned leg. It’s pitiful to watch as he contorts himself like a man on a high wire, vainly trying to scratch his missing ear with the stump of an arm. I fear for his safety, one ill-timed sneeze and he’s ready for the scrapheap. I’ve tried explaining to him that it’s pointless, that it’s all virtual, that Phantom Limb Syndrome means that though a limb is gone, the feeling continues for a time, it is persistence of sensation, a recognised phenomenon, it’s nothing new. I try to explain that there are better ways of expressing his shyness than scratching his earlobe or the tip of his missing nose. But I know it’s not easy to change one’s habits. I thought about bringing him to the hospital and fitting him with prostheses but I gave up on the idea; he would have to be completely rebuilt at which point he’d be even more at a loss. With a hook attached to his stump, persistence of feeling could kill him. I remembered the corny old joke: Tramp goes up to a tourist. ‘Hey, monsieur, I would bet a hundred francs I can kiss my right eye.’ ‘You’re on!’ says the tourist and stands back to watch. The tramp takes out his glass eye and brings it to his lips. ‘And now I bet you a thousand that I can kiss my left eye.’ ‘Impossible,’ says the tourist, setting down the stake and stepping closer. At which point the tramp takes out his false teeth and brings them to his left eye. Missing Parts could earn a living making bets now that he can’t work as a porter any more.