‘Melted away by the hot sun, snowed under by cultural customs and blown away by other people’s sorrows,’ I wrote recently. Instagram after visiting my father’s grave in Morocco for the first time since the Covid pandemic. It was a sweltering Friday morning, the traditional day of commemoration of the dead, and I couldn’t help but think of my father. The other suffering in the cemetery was too great.
At the entrance of the cemetery, with graves stretching far beyond the horizon – there must be tens of thousands (without exaggeration) – a large group of beggars had gathered. Homeless people, but also parents with sick children, people with amputated arms, the blind and deaf formed a long line. Some sat under rickety umbrellas, others used the large tombstones to catch the shade and shelter from the sun. Hoping for some change, the beggars prayed for the dead. To back up their pleas, some had even put out paperwork; receipts from the pharmacy, an invoice from the hospital accompanied by x-rays or other ‘evidence’. Everything to make the mistrust wane and to show that their suffering is genuine and the need is great. As if their mere presence here on this sweltering morning isn’t proof enough.
And then there were the young black men, the sans-papiers (refugees without official residence documents). It is now more than five years since my father passed away. The migrants, mostly from sub-Saharan Africa, were stranded in Morocco on their way to Europe. For a tip in the form of money or bread, they now keep the graves clean.
Last June, some 500 refugees attempted to reach the Spanish enclave of Melilla in North Africa by storming the heavily armed fence. The small piece of land on North African territory officially belongs to Europe and is therefore a gateway to an asylum procedure. The assault got horribly out of hand. At least 23 refugees were killed, according to the Moroccan government. Aid organizations say the number is higher. Moreover, according to them, it is not only the result of the jostling, as the Moroccan government claims, but the Moroccan border police would have blood on their hands. On the horrific images circulating online that presumption is confirmed.
With images like those on the border of Melilla on the retina, an encampment in an overcrowded Ter Apel is not that bad. You could say that sleeping in a urine-smelling tent with fire risk, without privacy – or Ter Apel – is less bad than sleeping between the urine-smelling graves with fire risk, without privacy – or As Shouhada cemetery in Rabat – but the situations differ. not so much from each other. Moreover, as a human being you do not suddenly have less right to humanity because people elsewhere in the world are even less fond of human rights.
Ultimately, it all comes down to political will to actually do something about the problem. The housing shortage is great, they say. The number of reception places for asylum seekers is limited. It is conveniently forgotten that both are the result of political choices and therefore very bad excuses for our indifferent asylum policy.
Internationally, nationally and municipally, people are pointing to someone else for the solution. Morocco points its finger at Europe, the municipalities point their fingers at the State, the State points with one hand back to the municipalities and with the other to a shelter far out of sight of the sea. It is to be furious. No one should have to hide from another. Not at sea and certainly not among the dead in a cemetery.
Hasna El Maroudic is a journalist, columnist and program maker. She replaces Karin Amatmoekrim this Tuesday.
A version of this article also appeared in the newspaper of 26 July 2022