Madame Habib is a little shy at first – and surely she must wonder who this pushy expat woman is who has intruded in their lives this way – but she thaws a little as I ask her more questions, gradually becoming less reticent as she talks about the centre and the work she does there. Thankfully, I discover, her English is even more fluent than her husband’s.
‘It was set up to try to protect the women and children who get stranded in Morocco. They come from countries like Nigeria and Mali and Senegal, following the old salt routes across the desert – an unimaginable journey in itself. Some are migrants, deciding to leave their homes to try and find a better life for themselves. But many are refugees, fleeing from persecution, starvation and war. Mostly they enter Morocco through Algeria, in the north, trying to get as close to the Spanish territory of Melilla as they can. It’s a little corner of Morocco that’s still owned by Spain, and the neighbouring towns of Oujda and Nador are swamped. But it’s hard to get into Melilla, which is surrounded by a triple barrier of high fences topped with barbed wire, and it’s dangerous too. They either have to try to jump the fences or to swim round. Those who fail become trapped here in Morocco and eventually make their way to the big cities like Rabat and Casablanca in the hope of making a living here until they can pay to be trafficked into Europe.’
‘Do they not try to go home again, once they realise they can’t get through?’ Even as I say it, I realise how na?ve the question is and I feel myself blushing.
Madame Habib shakes her head, her eyes filled with sadness. ‘There is nothing for them to go back to, only the danger and deprivation that they were running from in the first place. The journey itself is dangerous, too. They become so vulnerable when they are homeless. They lose their family, their friends, their culture and their language. Pretty much all the main things that make up someone’s identity. Can you imagine how isolating that is? What it means to lose every landmark that has helped you find your way in this world?’
We’re driving towards the lighthouse on the furthest outskirts of the city, past the breakwater that protects the port from the ocean’s currents, through clusters of shanties and cramped slums.
Monsieur Habib swerves to avoid a goat tugging at the brittle leaves of a bush that’s been uprooted by the side of the road. ‘They become like that.’ Madame Habib points at the dead shrub. ‘When their roots are torn from the ground of their home, there is nothing to nourish and protect them. They fall prey to all kinds of abuse and hardship. It’s worst of all for the women and children, they are the most vulnerable.’
We pull up outside a makeshift building, with walls of bare breeze blocks and a corrugated tin roof. On one of the walls, someone has painted a mural of sunflowers. They look determinedly cheerful in the midst of so much bleakness, where the real thing would struggle to survive in the dust.
‘Please,’ says Madame Habib. ‘Follow me.’
I stand back to allow Monsieur Habib to go first but he shakes his head. ‘I don’t go in. This centre is run by women for women and children.’
His wife stands holding the door open for me. ‘Many of the people here have been traumatised at the hands of men,’ she says quietly. ‘We feel it’s better that they know this is a completely safe place, where they won’t be exploited or abused, where there is nothing that could retrigger their trauma. No men are allowed in.’
Inside, the large space has been subdivided by makeshift screens into different areas. There’s a canteen where they are just finishing clearing and wiping the trestle tables, having served bowls of thick soup for lunch. In another corner is an area where medical examinations can take place, Madame Habib explains. Many of the women are pregnant, but a large proportion of those pregnancies are the result of rape. ‘The counselling and mental health services we try to provide are as important as the physical care on offer. And then there are the extra complications of HIV, hepatitis B and syphilis. These women have been through hell and there are still many challenges ahead of them. We can only do so much here. They start off pursuing a dream – the “Dream of Europe”， they call it. But it rapidly turns into a nightmare from which there is no escape.’
Madame Habib introduces me to another of the volunteers, sitting behind a makeshift desk. A long queue of women are waiting to speak to her. ‘Latifa is trying to help sort out applications for replacement papers. If the women manage to make it as far as Melilla and try to get across the fences, very often they are caught by the Spanish Guardia Civil and handed back to the Moroccan security forces. They do not fare well at their hands, I’m ashamed to say. They are usually taken at night and dumped back on the Algerian side of the border. There are gangs there, waiting to prey on the vulnerable. That is where some of the worst things happen. Having their passports, money and phones stolen is often the final act of abuse after a long and traumatic ordeal. And then so many of these children also get lost along the way.’