Across the Straits of Gibraltar in Ceuta and Melilla they build their Spanish homes on rocky African shores facing north with their backs to Morocco. The sign at the southern end of town says “Bienvenido a España.” The immigrants can't read Spanish. The traffic lights at the border flash green and red. Everyone knows what that means. Don't come in, Morocco. Ocupado.
The immigrants build ladders out of roughly hewn tree limbs and leave them leaning against the fence on the African side. Gibraltar's not so far away across the Mediterranean, a distance narrower than some stretches of the Amazon, narrower than the Volga. The way the Ceutans, Melillans, and refugees see it, the Mediterranean is just a Spanish river.
The immigrants build ladders out of roughly hewn tree limbs and leave them leaning against the fence on the African side. Gibraltar's not so far away across the Mediterranean, a distance narrower than some stretches of the Amazon, narrower than the Volga. The way the Ceutans, Melillans, and refugees see it, the Mediterranean is just a Spanish river.