Silk Road

By NIEVES GARCÍA BENITO
Translated by CARMELA FERRADÁNS

Piece appears below in English and the original Spanish.

 

Translator’s Note

“Silk Road” is one of twelve short stories in Nieves García Benito’s collection By Way of Tarifa (Por la vía de Tarifa), originally published in 1999.

Forced migration and human trafficking are two of the most pressing humanitarian issues in the world today. In the Mediterranean alone, thousands of people travel across the Straits of Gibraltar every year on their way to Europe, but only a few arrive at their final destinations in France and Germany. Many are stuck working in the fields of Murcia, Spain. Many more drown around the waters of Tarifa, the southernmost point of Europe, a mere nine miles from the coasts of Morocco. This is the location where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic, where Africa and Europe are the closest and at the same time the farthest away for so many people. Nieves García Benito’s stories give voice to these children, men, and women who leave their homes in Africa hoping for a better life, a safer life in Europe. The stories are both a live document of the migration crisis and a categorical denunciation of the indifference of the European powers to the human tragedy unfolding around the Mediterranean at the end of the 20th century. The characters move around in a fluid and porous space, a space in the continental fringes defined not by political borders but by the human trafficking mafias operating in the area. Time is a continuum present without a clear pro(re)gression. It gravitates around the characters building stories of ill-fated hope and crushed dreams. This is the case of Rashad, Abdellah, and Abderrahim who are stuck in a “no man’s land” between Morocco and Spain in a contemporary and nightmarish Silk Road, at the mercy of the mafias that control the borders.

— Carmela Ferradáns

 

Silk Road

Christmas tales are either Christmas tales or they become something entirely different. I assure you that this one, even though it didn’t happen in December but in the height of summer, is a true Christmas tale.

It was the ancient caravanners of the Asian continent who granted the name “silk road” to the roads that, since always, through deserts, snowy mountains, hills, and stony roads, had been traveled from generation to generation on slow mule back rides to sell Chinese silk in Kashmir. There, the artisans would turn it into sweet rugs with Persian designs. On the Silk Road, the only sweet thing was the texture and softness of the threads bought in wholesale at the Lo-Yang markets and the Persian drawings that looked like they were taken from Scheherazade’s lips during her husband’s never-ending nights. Otherwise, it was a hard road, too long and boring.

Not everyone who started reached Kashmir: scurvy and the lack of oxygen took care of it. Some categorically affirm that the silk in the road comes from another reason altogether called opium, and that the Europeans gave it that name when they tasted it for the first time.

* * *

Rashad Brahim is in “no man’s land”: that stony and rough place in between Castillejos and Sebta in northern Morocco, facing the Spanish border. Born in Dosso, in southern Nigeria, he was now twenty-two years old and had always wanted to leave his homeland. How he and his friends, Abdellah Salim and Abderrahim Zinder, have come this far is a mystery. Each one tells a different version of the trip, depending on who is asking, and rightfully so: the suffering, the scheming, or whatever they had to do to reach the doors of Europe is nobody’s business. Now they are here, in this indeterminate place that the border owners call “no man’s land,” as if at this point in history we could afford the luxury of finding land that belongs to no one. Here they are. Next to them about three hundred men—most from Senegal, some from Nigeria, least from Mali—survive doing nothing. The Spanish authorities don’t allow them to enter, but after reaching such a remote place, they are not thinking about going back. All African mothers teach their children that with patience, you can accomplish anything, and here, they don’t even know the feeling of waiting: sooner or later something will happen.

And it did happen.

* * *

“I am dragging chains, what a waste! They weigh a lot, and the wound on my ankle hurts: with every step I take, it hurts more. The one moving in front of me is a son of a bitch for going so fast. The one behind me is right on top of me. I see sand, lots of sand, always sand. Somebody is crying with a boring lament ahead of me. I also hear a laugh, like a crane’s laugh. I prefer crying. The legs of the one behind me are badly made: first, because they are not completely black, and second, because they are irregular; the muscles are too elongated and that makes me nervous. A one-eyed man on a camel, shouts too much. Maybe he has two, but he is so covered up that I only see one. Maybe he laughs when he shouts, but that I don’t know, he is so covered up…A drop of water is falling; no, it is the sweat of the one with the badly made legs. I like his T-shirt with the big blue pool. It’s dirty, but I like it. I also like the colorful letters. A woman is throwing herself into the pool. When he moves, the woman also moves, one, two, one, two… she never quite reaches the water. I am entertained looking at his back. There is a black R which is the letter in my name, a yellow E, though it is a little discolored, then a bright green P. The green is not discolored and attracts my attention. I think I want to have a shirt like that one, bright like that, so everyone will look at me when I enter Europe, and with black pants, I will look very elegant. The S that follows seems to be dancing like a loud-mouthed snake. I got bitten by one when I was a child. My sister sucked the wound very quickly, and I was fine, but a friend of mine died of a snake bite. I don’t like that S. The O that follows is beautiful, also in yellow like the E but not as discolored: it is bright and with rays around it, it looks like a SUN, like the one is rising very slowly, in front of us, at a distance. I know we are going east. I learned it in school: you make a cross with your arms and where the sun rises it is east and where it sets is west. Now I am thirsty. I call the man on the camel, and very kindly, he gives me water, a lot of water, all the water I want. It has a sweet taste, and I like it; that is why I drink a lot. The man on the camel doesn’t yell at me when I drink, even though I stop all of us who are chained. He doesn’t yell at me. He even takes his scarf, and I see that he smiles, and not only does he smile, but he also encourages me to drink. Of course, he asks me not to spill the water. He doesn’t know that I would never do that, never with this water so sweet. I finish drinking, and I look at the letters again. Now they are moving, but not because his back is moving, but because they move on their own. They twist and insinuate themselves like dancers. I speak to the L, and she gets flirtatious; she tries to hug me, and I give in, and we hug in a twisted embrace. Then I see that she wants to bite me, and I give in. She is cute, but she hurts me, and on top of everything she has bitten me in my ankle, right in my wound, and I feel the chains again. Now we have mountains in front of us: we have to climb them. Uphill, the T-shirt in front of me is a green and black monster with golden teeth; it wants to bite me, and it gets closer and closer. I want to turn, but the black man pushes me, pushes me…I hear a joke about a genie in a lamp that meets a black man like me who is going through the desert, and he is thirsty, and he says, “Ask me for anything you want,” and he asks for being white, and he grants it to him. Then, I can’t hear well because of the camel’s laugh, and I fall slowly, in a dancer’s music, her belly appears and disappears, I am falling, and I am breathing slowly, very slowly…”

* * *

“It is so cold here that I know I am at the top of a mountain. I am in the French teacher’s map, in a yellow area, very large, with lots of rivers, and in the middle of an enormous white zone. There I am, chilled to the bone. I see many veins of water that originate here, practically from my feet. I am like the king who created water, I decide where it should go. Besides, I am in a good mood and I will send it in different colors to some places. People will call them Blue River, Yellow River, and so on…they don’t know that I did it on purpose, so they can laugh a little; because of all the people that have been waiting for water for so long, so they don’t despair, I will send it in different colors. This is a joke that I allow myself because I have a problem. Yes, a very serious problem. It is getting worse little by little: and the problem is that although I am cold, very cold, I am also thirsty, very thirsty, and seeing so much water I get thirstier. I cannot drink. I have no hands! If I had them, I would make a bowl with them, and I would drink it like from a fountain, but it is impossible without hands. Of course, I could crawl: throw myself to the floor, and drink like a dog, but I feel that the ice will crack with the slightest movement, and if I move a little, just a little, I will fall to a no-place, I suppose, or to the dark abyss that I am sure is there, below. That is why I am very still, dying of thirst and cold and looking at how the water springs out of my feet. The French teacher looks at me scared. “What are you doing inside of the map, Abdellah?” I suppose she tells me, but I cannot answer her, because I don’t have a mouth to talk to her, not even to smile at her; because she is good-hearted, I make a gesture with my eyes so she understands that I am thirsty, but she looks at me, only looks at me, and keeps smiling. A child enters the classroom, a white child. Her son! And he laughs—he looks at me and laughs.

Now he goes out running and comes back quickly: he brings me a glass of colorful water, and I can see all of them perfectly separated, like the colors in a rainbow which I know, because I saw a rainbow in the books and in the fields when I came back every day from harvesting millet. The white child is facing me, and with a crazy effort, very crazy, he slams the glass just where my mouth would be. The pain is immense. The pieces of glass stab me slowly, one by one: now the pain is greater because two pieces are going down the river. They are at my knees, now at my ankles. And I cannot move to stop it, to stop it…”

***

“Run, run, Abderrahim. We will be fine in this house, even though its walls are in ruins and the door does not exist. We will be fine here. Look. There is leftover food: bread, chocolate, and tobacco. And now we will open those bundles over there; maybe there is more food. It doesn’t matter that the kitchen is in ruins, what do you expect with all the bombings? Look, hide in there, under the bed, I will look for water. Rage. Rage of being by the sea listening to its litany and not being able to drink. One day I will taste the saltwater and if my body likes it, I will never have any more problems. Adberrahim! Where are you? Don’t leave. I will fetch water. Fetch water.

Don’t move. I am here! Hidden. And I hear the buzzing: there is a swarm of hornets bursting in my ears. They are getting closer. Slowly. They are on top of me, and they pour water, like in the fires. Now I know that I am a burning tree and that they want to extinguish me; rather, they want to dry me completely. But there is no water here. And with the bombing, everything is burning. The buzz grows. They are already here. Water is falling, water…it’s sweet, very sweet… I am drowning, I am drowning…”

***

It is almost certain that the Europeans called it the Silk Road because of the opium. They made medicine with it to calm the pain. Its twilight doze between vigil and stupor soothed the soul, and opium spread out to all corners of the Earth, as did the Persian rugs with sweet colors.

***

The sergeant of the national police also tasted the opium and put it in the water for the Africans—who were in no man’s land—to make them sleepy, to sedate them so they could have happy dreams before landing in whatever African country. He mixed it with a little whiskey. Then, he confessed everything. Well, almost everything, because the dreams of Rashad, Abdellah, and Abderrahim, remain their own, only their own…

 

Ruta de la Seda

Los cuentos de Navidad son cuentos de Navidad o no lo son. Te aseguro que éste, aunque no fue en diciembre, sino en pleno verano, es un auténtico cuento de Navidad.

Fueron los antiguos caravaneros del continente asiático los que llamaron « ruta de la seda» a los caminos que, desde siempre, atravesando desiertos, montañas nevadas, lomas y caminos pedregosos, habían ido haciendo, de generación en generación, a lomos de mulo lento, para vender la seda china en Kachemira. Allí los artesanos la convertirían en las dulces alfombras con dibujos persas. La ruta de la seda lo único que tenía de dulce era la textura y suavidad de los hilos comprados al por mayor, en aquellos mercados de Lo-yang, y los dibujos persas arrancados, parecían, de los labios de Shahrazad en las eternas noches de su esposo. Por lo demás era un camino duro, demasiado largo y aburrido. No todo el que lo comenzaba llegaba a Kachemira: el escorbuto y la falta de oxígeno se encargaban de ello. Hay quien afirma, y además rotundamente, que lo de la seda es por otra razón llamada opio, y que el nombre se lo pusieron los europeos al probarlo.

***

Rashad Brahim está en «tierra de nadie»: ese lugar pedregoso y áspero entre Castillejos y Sebta, al norte de Marruecos, frente a la frontera española. Nacido en Dosso, al sur de Nigeria, ahora hace veintidós años, siempre había deseado salir de su tierra. Cómo él y sus amigos Abdellah Salim y Abderrahim Zinder han llegado hasta aquí es un misterio. Cada uno cuenta una versión distinta del viaje, según quién lo pregunte; y hacen bien: el sufrimiento, trapicheo o lo que tuvieran que hacer para llegar a las puertas de Europa es cosa de ellos. Ahora están aquí, en ese lugar indeterminado que los dueños de las fronteras llaman «tierra de nadie», como si a estas alturas de la historia pudiésemos permitirnos el lujo de encontrar una tierra que no es de nadie. Aquí están. Junto a ellos malviven, sin documentos y sin hacer nada, unos trescientos hombres, la mayoría de Senegal, algunos de Nigeria, los menos de Mali. Las autoridades españolas no les dejan entrar; pero ellos, después de haber llegado hasta un lugar tan remoto no piensan retroceder. Todas las madres africanas enseñan a sus hijos que con paciencia todo se alcanza, y aquí, ni siquiera tienen el sentimiento de la espera: tarde o temprano va a ocurrir algo.

Y ocurrió.

***

«Voy arrastrando cadenas, ¡qué inutilidad!, pesan mucho, esa pequeña herida en el tobillo me duele, cada paso me duele más. El de delante es un hijo de mala madre, por ir tan deprisa; el de detrás se echa encima. Veo arena, mucha arena, siempre arena. Alguien llora con un lamento aburrido: es por delante; también oigo reír, con risa de grulla. Prefiero el llanto. Las piernas del anterior están mal hechas: primero porque no son negras del todo, y segundo porque no son iguales: sus músculos son demasiado alargados, y eso me pone nervioso. Un hombre en camello con un solo ojo grita demasiado; a lo mejor tiene dos, pero está tan tapado que sólo veo uno; quizás sonríe al gritar, pero yo no lo sé: está tan tapado… Cae una gota de agua; no, es el sudor del de las piernas mal hechas. Su camiseta, con un charco grande, azul, me gusta. Está sucia, pero me gusta. También las letras de colores. Hay una mujer tirándose al charco. Cuando se mueve, la mujer también se mueve: uno, dos, uno, dos…, nunca acaba de llegar al agua. Es distraído mirar su espalda. Las letras son bonitas.

Hay una R en negro que es la letra de mi nombre, luego una E en amarillo, aunque está descolorido, después una P en verde chillón. El verde no está descolorido y llama mucho mi atención; pienso que quiero tener una camisa de ese color, así de chillona, para que todos me miren cuando entre en Europa: con unos pantalones negros quedaré muy elegante. La S que sigue parece bailar, como una culebra gritona. De pequeño me picó una. Mi hermana chupó rápido la herida y no me pasó nada, pero un amigo mío se murió de una picadura. No me gusta esa S. La O que sigue es preciosa, también en amarillo, como la E, pero no tan descolorido: es brillante y con rayos alrededor, parece un SOL, como el que está saliendo, despacito, enfrente, a lo lejos. Sé que vamos hacia el este; lo aprendí en la escuela: te pones en cruz y por donde sale el sol es el este y por donde se esconde es el oeste. Ahora tengo sed.

Llamo al hombre del camello, y, muy amable me da agua, muchísima agua, toda la que quiera. Tiene un sabor dulce y me gusta, por eso bebo mucha. El hombre del camello no me grita cuando estoy bebiendo y eso que detengo a todos los que vamos encadenados. No me grita; incluso destapa su pañuelo y veo que sonríe, y no sólo sonríe, sino que me anima a beber. Eso sí; me pide que no derrame agua. No sabe que eso no lo haría jamás, y encima esta agua tan dulce. Acabo de beber y miro otra vez las letras. Ahora están en movimiento, pero no por la espalda que se mueve, sino por ellas mismas. Se retuercen y se insinúan; parecen bailarinas. Le hablo a la L y se pone coqueta: intenta abrazarme; yo la dejo, y nos abrazamos retorcidos. Luego veo que me quiere morder; yo la dejo. Es graciosa pero me hace daño, además me ha mordido en el tobillo, en la herida y siento otra vez las cadenas. Ahora hay unas montañas delante: debemos subirlas. Cuesta arriba, la camiseta de delante es un monstruo verde y negro con dientes de oro; quiere morderme, está cada vez más cerca. Quiero volverme, pero el negro me empuja, me empuja, me empuja… Oigo un chiste de un genio de una lámpara que se encuentra a un negro como yo que va por el desierto y tiene sed y le dice pídeme lo que quieras, y le pide ser blanco y se lo concede; luego no oigo bien porque me lo impide la risa del camello, y caigo despacio, en una música de bailarinas, su vientre aparece y desaparece, yo estoy cayéndome y respiro lento, lento…»

***

«Hace tanto frío aquí que sé que estoy encima de una montaña. Estoy, en el mapa de la maestra francesa, en un lugar amarillo, muy grande, con muchos ríos y enmedio una zona blanca enorme. Ahí estoy yo, casi muerto de frío. Veo muchísimas vetas de agua que salen todas de aquí, prácticamente de mis pies. Soy como el rey que creó el agua; le indica hacia donde tiene que ir. Además estoy de buen humor y a algunos lugares la voy a mandar de colores. La gente le dirá río azul, río amarillo etc…, no saben que lo he hecho queriendo, para que se rían un poco; que, con toda la gente que habrá esperado agua desde tanto tiempo, para que no se desesperen, se la mandaré de colores. Es una broma que me permito porque tengo un problema. Sí, muy grave. Se va agravando poco a poco: y es que aunque tengo frío, mucho frío, también tengo sed, mucha sed; y al ver tanta agua más sed tengo. Pero no puedo beber, ¡no tengo manos! Si las tuviera haría un cuenco con ellas y bebería como de una fuente, pero sin manos es imposible. Me puedo arrastrar, claro: tirarme al suelo y beber como un perro; pero siento que el hielo se resquebraja al menor movimiento, y si me muevo, nada, casi nada, caeré, a ningún lugar supongo, o a un abismo oscuro que seguro que hay debajo. Por eso me estoy muy quieto, muerto de sed y de frío y viendo manar el agua a mis pies. La maestra francesa me mira con cara asustada: «¿qué haces dentro del mapa, Abdellah?», supongo que me dice, pero no le puedo contestar porque no tengo boca para hablarle, ni para sonreírle siquiera; porque ella es buena; y le hago gestos con mis ojos para que entienda que tengo sed; pero ella me mira, sólo me mira y sigue sonriendo; entra un niño en la clase, un niño blanco, ¡su hijo!, y se ríe; me mira y se ríe; ahora sale corriendo y vuelve enseguida: trae un vaso con agua de colores, y yo los veo todos perfectamente, separados, como sé que son los colores del arco iris, porque lo he visto en los libros, y en el campo, cuando vuelvo cada día de recoger el mijo; y el niño blanco me mira de frente y en un esfuerzo loco, muy loco, estampa el vaso justo en el lugar de mi boca. El dolor es inmenso. Los cristales se me clavan, despacio, uno a uno; y el dolor ahora es mayor, porque dos se escapan río abajo. Ya están a la altura de mi rodilla, ahora en el tobillo. Y yo no me puedo mover para impedirlo, para impedirlo… »

***

«Corre, corre, Abderrahim. En esta casa estaremos bien: aunque sus paredes estén en ruinas y la puerta no exista. Aquí estaremos bien. Mira. Hay restos de comida: hay pan y chocolate y tabaco. Y ahora abriremos esos fardos: quizá sea más comida. No importa que la cocina esté destruida: ¡qué quieres con el bombardeo! Mira; escóndete ahí, debajo del somier; yo buscaré agua. Rabia. Rabia de estar al lado del mar, oyendo su retahíla, y no poder beber. Un día probaré el agua salada y si a mi cuerpo le gusta nunca tendré problems, Abderrahim! ¿Dónde estás? No salgas de aquí. Iré por agua. Por agua. No te muevas. ¡Estoy aquí! Escondido. Y oigo el zumbido: hay una manada de moscardones que revienta mis oídos. Se acercan. Despacio pero se acercan. Están encima de mí y echan agua, como en los incendios. Ahora sé que soy un árbol ardiendo y que me quieren apagar; más bien secarme completamente. Pero aquí no hay agua, y con el bombardeo está todo ardiendo. El zumbido crece. Ya están aquí. Cae agua, agua…, es dulce, muy dulce… Me estoy ahogando, me estoy ahogando…»

***

Es casi seguro que los europeos la llamaron ruta de la seda por el opio. Con él hicieron medicinas para mitigar el dolor. Un sueño crepuscular entre vigilia y sopor aliviaba el alma, y el opio se extendió por todos los rincones de la tierra, igual que las alfombras persas de dulces colores.

***

El sargento de la policía nacional que lo puso en el agua de los africanus—que estaban en tierra de nadie—para dormirlos, para sedarlos y que tuvieran sueños felices antes de aterrizar en cualquier país de Africa, también lo probó. Él con un poco de wisky. Después lo contó todo. Bueno casi todo, porque los sueños de Rashad, Abdellah y Abderrahim, son sólo de ellos, sólo de ellos…

 

 

Nieves García Benito is a writer, a human rights activist, and an educator. Originally from Vitoria- Gasteiz in the North of the Iberian Peninsula, she lives and works in Tarifa, the southernmost point of Europe, a mere nine miles from the coasts of Africa. García Benito is the author of the short story collection Por la vía de Tarifa [By Way of Tarifa], first published in Spanish in 1999. She is currently working on a documentary titled Iñigo’s Dream: An Imaginary Script, tracing the tragic death of her son Iñigo in a helicopter accident during a search and rescue mission in Almería Bay in 2010.

Carmela Ferradáns is a Professor of Spanish at Illinois Wesleyan University. She is the editor and translator of the poetry collection Incessant Beauty: A Bilingual Anthology of Ana Rossetti. She is currently translating Nieves García Benito’s short story collection Por la vía de Tarifa [By Way of Tarifa]. Her translations have been published in The Antonym, The Arkansas International, and The Hunger Mountain Review. Her English translation of García Benito’s Al-Jazeera was first runner-up for the 2022 Hunger Mountain Translation Prize.

Silk Road

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