Since 2011, tens of thousands of people have perished while attempting to cross the Mediterranean Sea to reach the shores of the European Union, a catastrophe that has left thousands of families in mourning. Less known is the drama of many migrants whose fate is still unclear, having disappeared after arriving in European soil. Among those desperately seeking answers and fighting for justice is Imed Soltani, a mechanic in Tunis. His personal storyplaces him at the forefront of a poignant struggle for truth and dignity for the victims.
By Méline Laffabry (edited by Rogerio Simoes)
In March 2011, Imed Soltani’stwo nephews, Belhassan (23) and Slim (27) Soltani, tried their luck to cross the Mediterranean. “The whole family knew they wanted to leave for Europe to improve their standard of living.”
Slim and Belhassane are among tens of thousands of Tunisians who left their country and took to the sea to try to reach Europe since 2011. Only between late January and September 2011, more than 27,000 had arrived on the Italian island of Lampedusa. “We know our boys arrived in Lampedusa but disappeared there on 1 March, 2011.”
“At that time, there was a lot of noise about arrivals in Lampedusa. There were many videos. Italian and European media were talking about it every day. Italian residents were not happy. The Prime Minister at the time, Silvio Berlusconi, went there and announced that he would leave no trace of Tunisians and return the island to Italians,” explains Imed.
Indeed, Silvio Berlusconi announced drastic and rapid measures. “The government has prepared a plan to evacuate, to free the island, within two to two and a half days. Within forty-eight to sixty hours, Lampedusa will be inhabited only by Lampedusans,” the prime minister declared during his visit on 30 March, 2011.
In search of their boys, Imed and his family then began their “struggle for justice and truth.” By gathering several families of the missing in search of answers, Imed founded the association “Terre pour tous” (Land for All). “We chose this name because we know that if there is not land for all, there is no justice. If we do not fight, the number of deaths and disappearances in the Mediterranean will continue to increase.”
The association operates without any financial support. “We don’t even have a bank account. We want to keep a free voice and total freedom of speech. If we accept money from the European Union, we can no longer clearly say what we think and denounce what is happening.”
In 2015, the families obtained the opening of an investigation commission. “We sent all the videos and call records of our boys proving that they had indeed arrived in Lampedusa. We have testimonies and videos showing that large boats, on 1, 14, and 29 of March, and 29 of April, brought immigrants but we never heard from them again. We don’t know where these boats were going. There is something wrong. We spoke to the Italian Ministry of the Interior in Rome where there is an office dealing with missing people. They never gave a clear answer to Tunisian families.”
“An undeclared war”
Imed minces no words. For him, these deaths and disappearances are a direct consequence of European policies. “EU policies are an undeclared war. There are agreements between the European Union and Tunisia and between Italy and Tunisia that make our country the border guard of Europe. We do not agree with this and we fight against it. These policies have turned the Mediterranean into a cemetery and we want the EU to take responsibility.”
“A month ago, in March 2024, we found the bodies of six boys buried in Italian graves with no names, only identified by numbers. They had left Tunisia in October 2023 and had not given any sign of life after arriving in Lampedusa. This is not the first time that in searching for our missing persons, we find their bodies in Italian cemeteries. After DNA tests, we were able to pressure the government to have them repatriated and buried in Tunisian graves with their names where their families can come to mourn.”
Imed is also sensitive to the fate of sub-Saharan exiles passing through Tunisia to reach the Mediterranean. “We stand in solidarity with sub-Saharans. Many of them are in Sfax. They live in camps, in fields, under trees. This is unacceptable.”
To protect Tunisians and sub-Saharans and do justice to those for whom it is already too late, Imed and his association work tirelessly. . “All these problems are due to the closure of borders and the non-respect of international laws and human rights. We just want respect for these laws. Respect for the humanity of each person. That’s our fight.”
This article is part of the special series “Tunisia – Land of Passage”, produced by Specto Media and aidóni. Listen to the podcast here.
Life in Europe does not mean Nabil has forgotten his home country, Tunisia. He has fond memories, particularly about the early days of the Jasmine Revolution. The challenging economic situation in the North-African nation, however, makes him say that he might never return.
By Anne Mie Ryding (edited by Sebnem Adiyaman)
Well past midnight, in an empty, dimly lit blues bar located in inner Copenhagen, an unusual group barges in. One of the people is 25-year-old Nabil*, far away from what he used to call home, Tunis. Tonight he is accompanied by three British girls and an older man with graying dreadlocks, square sunglasses, and a guitar case in his hand. Nabil takes a seat in front of the small stage, observing the impromptu jam session that has begun, along with the few people still lingering in the late hours.
Nabil remembers Tunis, the capital city in Tunisia, where sub-Saharan migrants gather outside of the International Organization for Migrations office. It was also where violent clashes took place as the Jasmine Revolution began, back in December 2010. The uprising protested poverty, corruption and political repression in Tunisia, and inadvertently inspired a wave of civil resistance, later named the Arab Spring.
“We made history”, Nabil says with a smile, before he takes another drag of his cigarette. It was indeed historical. After the protests began around 2011, longtime president Zine Al-Abidine Ben-Ali was forced to step down, officially ending his 23 years of power. Bringing down an authoritarian regime through the power of the people’s collective voice is certainly a point of pride for the revolution, indicative of progress in human rights in Tunisia, as well as in many other parts of the Southwest Asia and North African region where resistance took place. “Yeah, so much better in terms of human rights, but the situation got much worse financially and economically”, Nabil says.
Today it seems the values and progress of the Jasmine Revolution are slowly being dismantled under the current president Kais Saied’s rule. Although Saied is increasingly criticized by the Tunisian population, Nabil believes he is still the lesser evil, “He’s not good, but with lots of bad people, you choose the less bad.” He lights another cigarette and goes on, reflecting on the upcoming presidential election in Tunisia, “He’s a good man. He’s trying to figure out… to figure some kind of solution for the country. I don’t think that he will make a big difference, but he’s trying.”
Not enough jobs, not much hope
Saied was elected back in October 2019 on the promises of strangling corruption, and saving Tunisia from its economic crisis. As Nabil explains, the economic situation is mainly the reason why he left Tunisia, and did his Master’s in mechanical engineering in Germany, where he now lives. “They just fucked up everything,” he continues. “Actually, Tunisia is a beautiful country, but the political thing, there is a little bit… There are a lot of problems there. I left Tunisia because of the financial situation because there is no work. When you find work, it’s a low salary.” According to the International Labour Organization, the overall unemployment rate in Tunisia hit 15.8% in September 2023, while Tunisian youth are hit the hardest, with an unemployment rate of 38.5% for ages 15-24.
Besides the internal political unrest, Tunisia has been dealing with the influx of sub-Saharan migrants journeying to the country. Transformed into a transit country, over 12,000 migrants and asylum seekers are registered by UNHCR in Tunisia. Nabil mentions the impact of the arrival of migrants from other parts of Africa as one of the reasons why he has left his home country. “When they came, they took low-salary jobs. For example, for an hour, it’s like €10 for one hour. It’s just an example. It’s not really €10. But they took €5 or less. That’s why, they took all the work in Tunisia..” Shaking his head, Nabil repeatedly describes the relations between Tunisians and the migrants as a “catastrophe”.
He sheds light on a vicious cycle that has been established. With the arrival of exiles in Tunisia, a workforce cheaper than local residents is introduced. Employers take advantage of the great precariousness of people in exile to halve the salaries they would usually pay to Tunisians. As a result, the latter find themselves unemployed, since the positions are occupied by a precarious community forced to accept less favourable working conditions. This dynamic breeds numerous tensions and frustrations between Tunisians and those in exile.
Although Nabil misses his family, who still live in Tunis, he does not see himself living in Tunisia again. At least not under the current circumstances, “It’s a better future here. I love my country, but going back to live there, no, I don’t think so. Maybe with time, it’s going to change, but actually, no. I just came here”, he says with a grin.
The bar is still full of life, with music from his newly-found companions, changing from blues to reggae. Nabil arrived in Germany just a year ago, after a strenuous journey to get his visa. “It’s like, not impossible, but… It’s bad. Hard, really hard. It took one year to get my visa to Germany. (…) Maybe it’s because of the German system: a lot of paperwork, bureaucracy, or maybe because of all of the people who want to leave Tunisia.”
With his new life, Nabil does not hold back on experiencing the world and is traveling to Berlin, Warsaw, and Barcelona in the coming months. But no matter where he goes, one thing might never change when he thinks about home; “The people in Tunisia are so cool. They are really, really cool. I think they are the coolest. That’s not because they are my people, no. I’m just telling the truth.”
*The name has been changed to preserve the anonymity of our source.
This article is part of the special series “Tunisia – Land of Passage”, produced by Specto Media and aidóni. Listen to the podcast here.
This multimedia series is produced by Specto Média. Author: Eléonore Plé Investigation and production: Eléonore Plé Sound production: Norma Suzanne Graphic identity: Amandine Beghoul and Baptiste Cazaubon French version dubbing: Yamane Mousli English version dubbing: Isobel Coen and Julian Cola Editing: Hugo Sterchi and Norma Suzanne Recording studio:Radio M’S
To discover the series in French, visit Specto Media
Whilst struggling Tunisians decide to leave the country through irregular channels due to high unemployment and inflation, those arriving from abroad suffer even more severe challenges and discrimination. Neither a National Migration Strategy nor a National Institute for Refugee Protection has been capable of protecting those passing through Tunisia or trying to adopt it as their new home.
By Nesreen Yousfi(edited by Tijani Abdulkabeer)
Geographic location, political turmoil, and serious economic challenges have placed Tunisia at the heart of migration flows towards Europe. The North African country has become both a significant source of migration and an essential path towards richer countries for people fleeing conflict, persecution, and poverty in different parts of Africa and Asia.Recent numbers provide a clear picture of the situation. According to the World Bank, Tunisians were the main nationality to arrive in Italy via the Central Mediterranean Route between 2019 and 2023.
Furthermore, data collected byArab Barometer in 2022 reveal that 45% of Tunisians want to emigrate, more than double the 2011 rate (22%). Of those who want to leave the country, 41% are willing to do so without the appropriate documentation.Similarly, Tunisia is a common passage for sub-Saharan African migrants trying to reach Europe. The World Bank says that in the first eight months of 2023 44% of irregular migrants going to Europe had travelled from Tunisia to Italy.
Only 11% were Tunisian; the remaining were sub-Saharan. Whilst the migrants’ option of using the country as a stepping stone highlights its proximity to Italian islands, the decision taken by Tunisians to migrate irregularly, in spite of the high risks of fatality during the perilous journey, reflects their desperation to improve their quality of life.
Political turmoil and a struggling economy
More than 13 years have passed since the young Tunisian street vendor, Mohamed Bouazizi, took his own life in response to the confiscation of his merchandise – and his livelihood – by authorities, police brutality, and subsequent state neglect. Only 26 years old, Bouazizi had spent most of his life working to support his family, selling fruits and vegetables in the streets of Sidi Bouzid, central Tunisia.His tragic self-immolation was followed by street demonstrations against authoritarian rule and socio-economic conditions.
This further led to the Jasmine Revolution and the wider Arab Spring. In contrast to other countries with popular uprisings in the region, Tunisia was able to take much larger strides towards democracy. After the autocratic President Ben Ali fled to Saudi Arabia on 14th January 2011, the country established a new constitution and shifted towards a multiparty system.Nevertheless, the economic situation has remained dire. As of the fourth quarter of 2023, the nationalunemployment rate is at 16.4%, but even higher for women, at 22.2%.
Higher education graduates, the majority of whom are between 20 and 29 years of age, are particularly touched by unemployment, with 23.7% of them without work as of the second quarter of 2023. Femalegraduates are more than twice as likely to be unemployed. There are also deep regional inequalities between the rural inland and the move developed coastal areas. Partnered with a long-term drought which has raisedfood inflationto 13.9%, these trends of high unemployment, in addition to gender, age, and regional disparities, are on par with the precarious living conditions which motivated the Jasmine Revolution.
The tourism sector, which contributed 4.5% to Tunisia’s GDP in 2019, has suffered fromfluctuations via the revolution, the 2015 Islamic State (ISIS) attackon tourists, the COVID-19 pandemic, and spillover from the civil war in neighbouring Libya. The industry had a relatively fast recovery from the initial drop in tourism after the terror attacks and has now also returned to pre-pandemic levels. However, the decline of the Tunisian Dinar, in tandem with wider structural issues in the sector, haslimited its potential revenues.As the situation bites harder, the country has turned heavily on foreign debt, which in 2022 alone was close to 90% of its GDP.
Having been able to repay 2023 debts, Tunisia still faces challenges securing more external funding. According to the Ministry of Finance, debt servicing is expected to increase by 40% in 2024 compared to 2023.To stabilise Tunisia’s economy, in 2023 the African Development Bank Group (AFDB) suggested the country should adopt a medium-term strategy to reduce sovereign debt, implement a plan to restructure public enterprises, and reduce its external debt. It also advised the country to negotiate a plan with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) to restore fiscal sustainability, in order to attract more investment.
Migrants from sub-Saharan Africa suffer discrimination in Tunisia. (Photo: Eléonore Plé)
Hard for Tunisians, harder for foreigners
While local citizens turn elsewhere for survival, foreign migrants have either decided or been forced to remain in Tunisia, despite initially wanting to reach Europe. One hurdle preventing their moves has been the Memorandum of Understanding between the European Union and Tunisia to cooperate on border management.In his study on migrant protection in Tunisia, urban studies researcher Adnen El Ghali notes that “EU funding to Tunisia is conditional on the country playing its part in stopping migrants reaching European soil”.
This ultimately turns Tunisia into a permanent destination for many, as the Tunisian government has augmented its role in managing irregular migration.Although Tunisia established the National Migration Strategy (2012) and the National Institute for Refugee Protection (2018) to defend migrant and refugee rights, the reality indicates the country has been falling short of carrying out that duty. Tunisia’s Labour Code legislates that work permitsexpire annually, ultimately restricting their access to long-term employment. Since many migrants overstay their visas, they are then unable to renew their work and residency permits.
This results in several migrants holding irregular status in the country, unravelling into a chain of dead-ends, as without residency permits, migrants do not have access to basic amenities like public health care, travel, or defence against exploitative employers.Labour exploitation of sub-Saharans in Tunisia is hence rampant. An absence of work permit and irregular status leads them to end up ininformal employment (e.g., through a verbal contract).
It is possible, for instance, that many sub-Saharan Africans are finding work in thehospitality sector which has an unusually high informal employment rate (46% in the second quarter of 2019). Such working conditions ultimately leave migrants at a much higher risk of exploitation at work.On top of that, sub-Saharan migrants and refugees are at increasing risk of state and non-state violence. Although Tunisia’s economic problems pre-date the growing migrant population, discourse in the sociopolitical sphere has shifted towards scapegoating sub-Saharan migrants and refugees for the country’s social woes.
Despite the adoption of ananti-racism lawin 2018, President Kais Saied has been fanning the flames of racial tensions,claiming last year that the influx of sub-Saharan Africans is a plot between opposing parties and foreign nations to change the demographic composition of Tunisia – despite the fact that foreign migrants make up around0.5% of the population, a significantnumberof whom come from Syria. This government’s rhetoric, regarded as racist and condemned by most of the international community, has led to an escalation inviolence against sub-Saharans. When undocumented migrants are subject to violence in Tunisia, their lack of civil status discourages them from coming forward as they are afraid of being arrested, or being subject to police corruption and extortion, a dynamic which echoes the tragedy of Bouazizi in 2010.
In apodcast withSpecto Studio,Filippo Furri (anthropologist and member of theMigreurop network), underlines the violent expulsion of migrants since Saied took the reins of the presidency. These concerns are confirmed by a joint statement from the UN agencies UNHCR, the UN Refugee Agency, and IOM (International Organisation for Migration) last summer, reporting that hundreds of migrants had been abandoned in the desert along the Algerian and Libyan borders. Many are even forced across the borders where they are faced with Algeria’s military or Libyan militias who violently refuse them entry.
This chain of offloading responsibility for migration from Europe to Tunisia, and then to neighbouring Algeria and Libya, leaves sub-Saharan migrants in a society already struggling to provide for itself. Stuck in Tunisia and scapegoated for the country’s wider socioeconomic issues, sub-Saharans ultimately become the most vulnerable to the country’s poor economic conditions, as their unrecognised status exposes them further to violence and exploitation.
This article is part of the special series “Tunisia – Land of Passage”, produced by Specto Media and aidóni. Listen to the podcast here.
This multimedia series is produced by Specto Média. Author: Eléonore Plé Investigation and production: Eléonore Plé Sound production: Norma Suzanne Graphic identity: Amandine Beghoul and Baptiste Cazaubon French version dubbing: Yamane Mousli English version dubbing: Isobel Coen and Julian Cola Editing: Hugo Sterchi and Norma Suzanne Recording studio:Radio M’S
To discover the series in French, visit Specto Media
This multimedia series is produced in collaboration with aidóni for translation, and producing the articles and profiles.
After spending months in routes used by people in exile in the Balkans in 2022, Specto’s Eléonore Plé wanted to see with her own eyes the conditions of people from sub-Saharan Africa crossing into Tunisia with the hope of reaching Europe. “It is about the people, not numbers”, she says, in this interview about her project ‘Tunisia – Land of Passage’, supported by aidóni.
By Rogerio Simoes (edited by Méline Laffabry)
“This is the main subject of today, the main subject of this century.” This is how French journalist Eléonore Plé, the founder and director of Specto Media, explains why she chose to focus on migration in her most recent editorial projects – and she is not exaggerating. The movement of people, mostly from parts of the world facing violent conflicts, environmental disasters, and extreme poverty towards richer nations in the globe’s Northern Hemisphere, is defining the 21st century. In June 2023, the United Nations (UN) recorded 110 million displaced people worldwide. A new record…
Eléonore wanted to help change the way this momentous subject is portrayed and discussed, especially in the countries where the exiles arrive at the end of their journey. This is why she went to Tunisia, a country used by people of other African origins as a basis from which they try to reach Europe.
Her main goal was to tell human stories, to seek to understand the motivations behind the departures, and to shed light on the realities of the journey towards a hoped-for better future. “For me, it was a way of creating a new narrative, a new way to tell those stories”, she said in a conversation with aidóni. “There is a lot of disinformation, a lot of fear around this subject, and deshumanisation [of people in exile].”
If each migration story is unique and results from a multitude of factors, Eléonore explains that exploring this subject necessarily means investigating oppression, even if it manifests in different forms. “For me, it was a way of understanding oppression better. When you work with migration, you can cover sexual oppression, economic oppression, political oppression. That’s why there is a strong link between migration and human rights.”
The railway crossing the city of Sbeïtla, about a hundred kilometers from the Algerian border.
“It’s about the people”
Eleonóre’s trip to Tunisia and its borders became Specto’s project “Tunisia, Land of Passage”, produced alongside aidóni. With so many numbers, graphics, and theories about migration from Africa already produced, promoted, and analysed, Eléonore focused on human stories.
“It’s about the people, not numbers, experts,” she says. “I wanted to go back to the basics, to tell people’s stories. We don’t usually hear those people. When people speak about migration, they always speak about politics, economics, numbers, but almost never listening to the people. When they do, it’s not in a good way, it’s through a narrative of crisis, catastrophe.” After people’s voices are properly heard, she says, the numbers, the context, and other views are added to complement the editorial content she produces around the subject.
Between November 2021 and March 2022, Eléonore travelled through several countries in the Bálkans to explore the conditions in which people were moving with the dream of a life in the European Union in their heads. The harsh conditions, particularly at the borders between countries such as Bulgaria and Turkey or Serbia and Hungary, made her want to discover more about the people who decide to attempt a journey to Europe despite the numerous dangers they encounter on their journey. Her attention then turned to Tunisia.
Indeed, this North African country serves as an informal gateway to Europe for many African exiles. Despite the increasing difficulty of crossing its borders, numerous sub-Saharan individuals take their chances with the aim of reaching the Mediterranean. The political and economic motivations behind the closure of Tunisian borders, as well as their financing, are more complex than they may seem.
Her trip to Tunisia, in August 2023, included different stages of any migrant’s journey from that part of the world towards Europe. At the country’s border with Algeria, she witnessed the struggles, distress, and fatigue of those who had already travelled thousands of miles, from countries such as Burkina Faso, Cameroon and Sierra Leone, and had just managed to enter a new phase of their perilous journeys.
Silent questioning
With her friend and fixer Amin, whom she had met during her trip in the Balkans while he was working to document pushbacks at the border between Greece and Turkey, she first tried to get close to the border with Libya. That goal proved too dangerous, so she headed towards Algeria, focusing on that border instead – “a bit easier”, as Eléonore describes.
That was where she met the focus of her journalistic enterprise: the people dreaming of a life in Europe, escaping violence, persecution, and destitution. “It was very emotional, very hard, to meet people at the border with Algeria who had just crossed. Some of them had no shoes, water, women were alone with their babies, their children.” People refrained from speaking, opting to walk silently out of fear of patrols that could have sent them back across the border. The urgency of their survival made journalistic interaction challenging, requiring respect for their pace of escape.
“I’ve decided to shut up. Because, how could they speak? How could they give their testimony about what happened at the border when all they wanted was to drink something and then move on, and move on?” The connections and interactions between her and those people had to be carefully established, in order for trust to be secured and maintained throughout those conversations. “First thing was: they were scared of me. A few women told me, ‘I don’t know you, maybe you want something from me. I’ve just been raped by guards, I’ve just been sexually assaulted.’ They were very scared, so I thought I should just shut up and respecting their choice not to provide testimony.”
“I saw fear, survival, but also, with some of them, solidarity.” Eléonore recounts how a group of ten men ran to hide in the pistachio fields when they saw her approaching with Amin. They thought they were either the police or thieves. She had to approach them, explain that she was a French journalist, and show her face with the light of her phone for some of them to agree to talk to her.
“Step by step, one guy started to chat, then a second one. Two hours later, we were laughing, we were speaking about lots of things. Some were still quiet, just wanting to move forward, but with some it was funny.”
In the region of Kalaat Senan, just a few kilometers from the Algerian border.
Helping create empathy
Those migrants’ stories, their conditions, and the hurdles they faced in their journey towards a better life – regardless of the reasons why they decided to start it in the first place – led Eléonore to a conclusion: she will have to continue producing stories around the subject because the issue will get worse before it gets, one day, a bit better.
“I cannot stop this work, that is what I’ve learned. Because this problem is huge and wont get any better. In my opinion, the way states are dealing with exiles will worsen. The policies of externalization and militarisation will deteriorate and lead to more and more tragedies and obstacles.” Upon her return to France, she wanted to quickly travel elsewhere to obtain other stories of migrants and their journeys. “For me, Tunisia was just the beginning.”
Eléonore describes herself as “pessimistic” when it comes to possible solutions that would either lead to either the accommodation of individuals in exile in more prosperous places, with dignity and hope, or the reduction or resolution of the causes that drove them to take to the road in the first place. “It’s not with a podcast series that we can change anything, I know.”
Works like her, nevertheless, can make a difference, even if on a quite small scale. One thing she would like to help create with the “Tunisia, A Land of Passage” series is “empathy”. “I just want to help create feelings in people’s hearts and put something new in their minds, so they can look at those who are on the move as human beings.” If that is achieved, Eléonore will be reassured that sitting down with people in exile to hear and record their stories is the right thing to do.
Pictures by Eléonore Plé, Tunisia, 2023
This article is part of the special series “Tunisia – Land of Passage”, produced by Specto Media and aidóni. Listen to the podcast here.
This multimedia series is produced by Specto Média. Author: Eléonore Plé Investigation and production: Eléonore Plé Sound production: Norma Suzanne Graphic identity: Amandine Beghoul and Baptiste Cazaubon French version dubbing: Yamane Mousli English version dubbing: Isobel Coen and Julian Cola Editing: Hugo Sterchi and Norma Suzanne Recording studio:Radio M’S
To discover the series in French, visit Specto Media
This multimedia series is produced in collaboration with aidóni for translation, and producing the articles and profiles.
In the streets of Sfax, a bustling Tunisian city perched by the Mediterranean, Mohammed is one of thousands of foreigners who view this location as a ticket to Europe. Dreaming of a better future in a richer nation, the Sierra Leone national shares his story, which includes a previous failed attempt to cross the Mediterranean and the hurtful experience of racism.
By Méline Laffabry (edited by Rogerio Simoes)
“First of all, my name is Mohammed Jawara. I’m from West Africa, Sierra Leone. I’m 36 years old. I left Sierra Leone in 2019 because of the country’s conditions. Things are hard there. That’s why I decided to come back to this. Because I’ve been in this world before.”
This world, as Mohammed calls it, is the world of exile. He recounts his initial attempt to reach Europe via Libya in 2017 and 2018, a venture that ended in disappointment and forced him back to Sierra Leone.
In 2019, he decided to go on the road again. He shows us a map on his phone: “I left Sierra Leone for Guinea-Conakry. This is my hometown, Kabbalah. So from there, I moved, to come to this side, Farana. Between Kabbalah and Farana there are many villages, so it’s not too difficult to cross on that side. But you know, each country has its own police checkpoint. When you come to the border to enter Guinea, you meet the Sierra Leone checkpoint and then the Guinea checkpoint on the other side of the border. When you pass this last one, you enter Guinea.”
Mohammed mainly travelled alone, but sometimes had to join a group. “To enter Mali, we were more than 15 people. From Guinea, Sierra Leone, Liberia, all of us trying to enter Mali. We also had children with us, two-year-olds and six-month-old babies.” He emphasises the difficulty of crossing into Mali from Guinea due to stringent border controls, stating “You know, when you’re facing that border, everybody’s trying to survive because to enter Mali from Guinea is not easy. The border is too tight.” He explains that bribes are necessary to cross. “Whatever checkpoint you pass by on that highway, you pay money before you pass.” The ones who cannot pay have to “sneak inside” Mali on their own, which is far more challenging.
“You spend three days in the Sahara desert in the back of a pickup van. That’s where people are dying. We were 36 in the back of the van. If you fall down, they will leave you. The driver will never stop.”
Venturing into the north of the continent, particularly in attempting to enter Algeria, proves perilous for migrants like Mohammed. “From Timbuktu [Mali] to Algeria, that’s the longest distance and it’s the scariest one,” Mohammed says. “If you have money, you can take a car. You spend three days in the Sahara desert in the back of a pickup van. That’s where people are dying. We were 36 in the back of the van. If you fall down, they will leave you. The driver will never stop.” Surviving this treacherous journey only leads to further challenges at the North African borders. Mohammed describes encountering armed groups: “There are some Arab lads. We don’t know who they are. They have their guns, they have their own government. Those are the guys who are killing people there, they are beating people and taking everything they have.”
Having spent six months in Algeria, Mohammed sheds light on the harsh realities faced by migrants in that country. “I was working in a construction company. Sometimes our boss would not pay us, he would owe us more than three months of salary. That’s why people leave and go to Morocco or Libya.” Financial insecurity is compounded by the spectre of racism, as Mohammed explains: “If the Algerian government says they will deport blacks, no matter where you are living, they will come for you. They will raid any place where black migrants live. Through that process, some people die. Some people jump from skyscrapers to escape. They bit us and then deported us to the Nigerian border. They leave you in the Sahara desert between Niger and Algeria.”
He claims to have also faced racism from local residents. “In the street, when they see us, some people use their clothes to block their nose. But I believe that I’m taking good care of myself. We are not smelling, you know. But racism, it’s not easy. I love my colour. I love this colour and I’m proud of myself.”
Reflecting on the broader picture of migration in North Africa, Mohammed paints a grim portrait of desperation and survival. “I don’t know about the coming years, but for now, people are suffering to enter this side. Between these borders, starting from Mali to Algeria to Tunisia, people are suffering. In fact, people are dying in the desert. It’s a game of chance. Everybody is fighting for himself. You can only trust your loved ones or your friends. You guys will fight together. That’s how the road works. Until today in Tunisia, that’s how we survive.”
Navigating the streets of Sfax, a bustling Tunisian city perched by the Mediterranean, proves to be a daunting challenge for Mohammed and thousands of others who view it as a launching pad towards Europe. “We are thousands. People are begging in the streets, there is no work here. Some people are nice and give us some food. We want to leave but without money there is no way… I want to go to France and build a life there.” Mohammed shares, yearning for a better future across the seas. Despite the uncertainty looming over him, he remains steadfast in his resolve. “Inshallah. And I know I will do it. I know I will do it. I’m just waiting for my time.“
This article is part of the special series “Tunisia – Land of Passage”, produced by Specto Media and aidóni. Listen to the podcast here.
This multimedia series is produced by Specto Média. Author: Eléonore Plé Investigation and production: Eléonore Plé Sound production: Norma Suzanne Graphic identity: Amandine Beghoul and Baptiste Cazaubon French version dubbing: Yamane Mousli English version dubbing: Isobel Coen and Julian Cola Editing: Hugo Sterchi and Norma Suzanne Recording studio:Radio M’S
To discover the series in French, visit Specto Media
This multimedia series is produced in collaboration with aidóni for translation, and producing the articles and profiles. To discover the series in English, visit aidóni.
“Come my friend. Come rest” – a seemingly inviting call, resonating with warmth and reassurance, yet concealing a dark truth. This friendly-sounding phrase was overheard by our journalist, Eléonore Plé, during the summer of 2023. The dangers particularly affecting sub-Saharan African people in exile reveal themselves on the tracks of the train line that winds its way from Algeria to Tunisia in the Tunisian Kasserine region, where men wait for migrants who’ve just crossed the border.
By Méline Laffabry (edited by Şebnem Adıyaman)
When migrants reach Kasserine, they embark on the final leg of a journey often spanning several years. Many of them recount the warm welcome extended to them by a portion of the local population. Journalist Eléonore Plé witnessed around 20 residents emerging from their homes and rushing towards migrant groups to provide them with food, water, and shoes. However, things do not always go as smoothly.
For those who answer the call of the men along the railway, reality proves to be far from welcoming. Our journalist vividly recalls a tense atmosphere during her observation. While she was on the side of the rails in the dark of the night, she noticed that the men waiting for the migrants kept looking at her, suggesting that her presence was causing discomfort or agitation.
Plé spoke with three migrants aged 18, 25, and 30, who had fallen victim to the threats of this spot. Recounting their harrowing experiences, one described a vicious attack by ten assailants armed with machetes and slingshots. “Ten of them came and attacked us. My friend was badly hurt, bleeding from the head, and they took everything we had. We tried to fight back but they were too many and had machetes and slingshots”. Such assaults on migrants, especially those from sub-Saharan regions, have become alarmingly frequent in Tunisia.
From poverty to dream
Kasserine is a governorate (or province) located in central-western Tunisia. It is known for its strategic location, as it serves as a gateway between Tunisia and Algeria. The region is characterised by its rugged terrain, with mountainous landscapes and valleys, making it both picturesque and challenging to traverse.
Economically, Kasserine has faced significant challenges, with high levels of unemployment and poverty affecting its population. This economic hardship has contributed to social tensions and created an environment where illegal activities such as smuggling can thrive as means of survival for some individuals.
Moreover, Kasserine’s strategic location has made it a crucial transit point for migrants and refugees. Less than 300 km away from Sfax, where migrants embark on boats to reach Europe, the region serves as a gateway for individuals wanting to cross the Mediterranean, adding layers of risks, dreams, and desperation to its already intricate socio-economic fabric.
In February 2023, Tunisian President Kaïs Saïed made controversial remarks suggesting a conspiracy involving migrants from sub-Saharan Africa. He insinuated that their influx aimed to alter Tunisia’s demographic landscape and undermine its Arab-Islamic identity. “There exists a criminal plan to change the demographic composition of Tunisia, and certain individuals have received large sums of money to grant residence to sub-Saharan migrants,” stated the head of state, as quoted in a presidential communiqué.
“This discourse has exacerbated a wave of violence (…) from Tunisian citizens who have violently attacked black migrants, and it has also sparked waves of arbitrary arrests,” explained Salsabil Chellali, director of the Human Rights Watch office in Tunis, in an interview with the French daily Le Monde. These statements sparked outrage both domestically and internationally, escalating racially-charged tensions and triggering violent acts against black migrants. Human rights organisations condemned the inflammatory rhetoric, highlighting its role in stoking xenophobia and violence. Saïed’s remarks underscored the challenges of migration and identity facing Tunisia, while also prompting broader discussions on racism and discrimination within the country.
Perfect conditions for exploitation
These circumstances have facilitated the emergence of a scheme to exploit the journey of individuals in exile. Some local inhabitants take advantage of migrants arriving in the region by tracing their path along the rails from Algeria. Under the guise of hospitality, the men awaiting the migrants present themselves as friendly locals offering assistance with the inviting phrase, “Come my friend. Come rest.” with the aim of luring them aside in order to strip them of their belongings.
Plé’s investigative efforts extended over a three-week period in Tunisia, where she meticulously traced the path migrants take upon entering the country until their departure by sea. Throughout her inquiry, she gathered and verified numerous testimonies from migrants who had been attacked in the Kasserine region, shedding further light on the perilous conditions faced by those on this arduous journey.
This article is part of a the multimedia series “Tunisia, land of Passage”, a project in collaboration with Specto Média. Each Tuesday, during six weeks, we will publish a podcast episode, a contextualisation article, a profile and an infography.
This article is part of the special series “Tunisia – Land of Passage”, produced by Specto Media and aidóni. Listen to the podcast here.
This multimedia series is produced by Specto Média. Author: Eléonore Plé Investigation and production: Eléonore Plé Sound production: Norma Suzanne Graphic identity: Amandine Beghoul and Baptiste Cazaubon French version dubbing: Yamane Mousli English version dubbing: Isobel Coen and Julian Cola Editing: Hugo Sterchi and Norma Suzanne Recording studio:Radio M’S
To discover the series in French, visit Specto Media
This multimedia series is produced by Specto Média. Author: Eléonore Plé Investigation and production: Eléonore Plé Sound production: Norma Suzanne Graphic identity: Amandine Beghoul and Baptiste Cazaubon French version dubbing: Yamane Mousli English version dubbing: Isobel Coen and Julian Cola Editing: Hugo Sterchi and Norma Suzanne Recording studio:Radio M’S
To discover the series in French, visit Specto Media
At the age of 19, Kamal has already travelled for years, crossing several countries in Northern Africa since having left his native Cameroon. Using Tunisia as a stepping stone, with a better life in Europe in mind, he recalls the harsh and life-threatening conditions of his journey.
By Méline Laffabry (edited by Rogerio Simoes)
Kamal is not yet 20 years old. Nevertheless, he has already spent over 7 years on the exile route, in what he calls “clandestine” living. When we met him in August 2023, he had been in Tunis for a bit over a month. He recounts the borders, the difficulties, and the goals he never loses sight of.
“My name is Kamal. I am a migrant, and the situation is not easy.” Throughout the conversation, the 19-year-old paints a stark picture of exile. “I left Cameroon very young, at 12 or 13. I crossed Niger, Nigeria, Algeria, Morocco…” Sitting near the makeshift camp where he lives in the streets of Tunis, he shares his story.
Kano, Abuja, Sokoto, Zinder, Maradi, Oran, Tlemcen, Guezzam, Tamarasset, Assamakka, Tebessa—city names he traversed unfold, outlining his journey to the Tunisian capital. The path he describes, far from a straight line, is filled with obstacles, detours, back-and-forths, to the extent that even he loses track of them. He is sometimes unable to recall how long he stayed in a place. A constant in this uncertain journey: violence. The violence of the police, the trials to endure, and the ever-present threat of death.
“To cross the Niger-Algeria border, you have to walk through the desert. There’s no other option. The car drops you off 1,000 km from Algeria. We are in groups of 35, 40, 50, sometimes 70. It depends. I know many people who left and never gave a sign of life again. Those who survive this crossing, it’s Allah’s will. The majority of people die; bodies fall in front of you. It’s very difficult. You would like to help them, but you can’t. I can save my life, but not others’. I have to survive.”
Facing police violence is also a reality: “Many people have got their arms or legs broken, and women have miscarriages. When the Moroccan or Tunisian police arrest you, they beat you and strip you. They take your phones and bring you back to the other side of the border you just crossed. Some people are taken away and never seen again. At least the Algerian police only search you and even give you a bit of bread and water before returning you to the border.”
Kamal has endured all this with the goal of settling in Europe. But once reaching the Tunisian coast, one must embark on “flocas,” small fishing boats, in the hope of crossing the Mediterranean Sea.
The sea, Kamal has taken it. Once. “A boat sank next to us. You see people sinking, and you can do nothing. If you have a life jacket and lose it, it’s over for you too. Fortunately, our captain knew how to handle the helm. Because, when you leave from the beach, the sea is calm, but afterwards, it’s a mess. We tried to continue, but the engine stopped, and we had to call the Tunisian coast guards to come get us. It was in May 2023.”
Sometimes these events are so traumatic that some lose their sanity. Kamal recounts, “Some went crazy. Here, there’s one who went mad. He’s been through too much. He’s in the streets of Tunis, and people think he’s been mad from birth. But it’s everything he’s seen that made him mad. It’s hard to overcome certain stages. You lose courage. You think about giving up everything and starting from scratch.”
Despite all the trials and violence, starting from scratch is not an option for Kamal. “Reaching Europe is no longer a goal; it has become an obligation. I think about myself, my family, and that’s it. That’s why I took to the sea, even if it was very risky. I had no choice. Otherwise, what do I do? Do I stay here, sleeping on a mattress? What will my mum eat if I do that? And my little sister? I need her to go to school, to have access to the education I couldn’t have. I want to take her on carousel rides, help my mum, my parents, my two grandmothers.
The former goal which became an obligation also includes a dream. “I dream of visiting Marseille because, in my heart, I’ve always been a Marseillais. I’m a football fan. But after that, I want to go to Amsterdam and Berlin. I know the situation is complicated and it will be difficult. But I think about my mum and my little sister; they are my source of motivation. And I also want to do it for myself. To have a good quality of life, to grow, to start my own family.”
This article is part of a the multimedia series “Tunisia, land of Passage”, a project in collaboration with Specto Média. Each Tuesday, during six weeks, we will publish a podcast episode, a contextualisation article, a profile and an infography.
This multimedia series is produced by Specto Média. Author: Eléonore Plé Investigation and production: Eléonore Plé Sound production: Norma Suzanne Graphic identity: Amandine Beghoul and Baptiste Cazaubon French version dubbing: Yamane Mousli English version dubbing: Isobel Coen and Julian Cola Editing: Hugo Sterchi and Norma Suzanne Recording studio:Radio M’S
To discover the series in French, visit Specto Media
In the hustle and bustle of Nigeria’s commercial hub, Lagos state, Maduagwu Ogechukwu strove to build a brand as a celebrity make-up artist and videographer partnering with globally recognised acts and record labels. But in 2017, she left the glamour of the entertainment industry to fight for “a divine assignment”— casteism across Nigeria states. Her friend’s marriage failed due to the stigma against people of her caste; she was an osu, who were descendants of enslaved persons dedicated to traditional deities.
By Jennifer Ugwa. Edited by Arshu John
Casteim exists in different forms in small communities across Nigeria. Among the Igbo community, slavery dates back to before transatlantic slavery. However, unlike the transatlantic slave trade, the enslaved maintained their connection to their ancestral roots. The Igbo community are one of the majority ethnic groups of Nigeria, predominantly from the south-eastern states of Anambra, Abia, Imo, Ebonyo and Enugu. Igbo is the native tongue of around 25 million Nigerians and is spoken by 40 million people globally.
In ancient Igbo, people were divided into four social hierarchies: the diala, who were the only community considered freeborn, and three hierarchies of enslaved castes—the ohu, the osu and the ume. The ohu were owned by the so-called freeborns and were the only enslaved caste to socially coexist with the diala. The osu were ‘dedicated’ to the gods, which referred to an act by which a community or family enslaved an individual to a traditional deity to avert a calamity or ill fate. Meanwhile, the ume were individuals who offered themselves to the deities to avoid certain societal punishment for a crime.
The osu and ume were treated as untouchables. Moreover, dedication was not the only way a person became enslaved. A widow who sought protection from a deity for property from greedy in-laws also automatically condemned herself and her household to osuship. The osu had no privilege, maintaining little or no interactions with the rest of the community. They lived near the shrine of the deities they were enslaved to. According to traditional beliefs, the generational curse of the osu is transmitted to the next generations, making the caste system not only hierarchical but also hereditary.
As such, it was considered taboo for the diala to marry with the other castes. In most rural communities across Igbo communities, it is believed that nuptial union with persons of osu descent would result in terrible luck in business and marriage. A 1956 law by the then-defunct Eastern House of Assembly abolished the osu caste system, but it was never implemented. Unfortunately, more than six decades after, discrimination and stigma of the caste system, the practice is still prevalent in different parts of Igboland.
Moved by the experience of her friend, Maduagwu, a diala herself, founded her non-profit organisation, Initiative for the Eradication of Traditional and Cultural Stigmatisation in our Society or IFETACSIOS in April 2017. Six years later, she continues the fight to change the narrative and abolish the system.
An epiphany
Stories of ill treatment of the persons of Osu caste are often, but only, heard in hush tones and in close quarters. While most person would not want to be accused of referring to anyone as less human, before any marriage, Igbo families still conduct the social custom of “Iju ajuju”—which roughly translates to “asking questions”—an investigation to trace the ancestry of the couples. It is at this stage that engagements fail and stigmatisation takes centre stage. People are called outcasts and slaves that are unfit to marry with a freeborn. It is what broke Maduagwu’s friend’s engagement.
“After the incident with my friend, I began thinking about how to help bridge the gap between my people,” Maduagwu said. She began creating audio messages she shared as WhatsApp broadcasts to her contacts and on Facebook. But even then, Maduagwu said she was scared of the implications of the fight she had taken up and distorted her voice in her message.
“After the incident with my friend, I began thinking about how to help bridge the gap between my people.”
Few weeks later, it became obvious that distorting her voice had not been sufficient when she started facing threats from community members for disrupting Igbo culture. The 47-year-old make-up artist turned activist is the youngest of seven siblings and recalled how she got a call from her sister asking her to stop out of concern for her safety. But Maduagwu did not. “I understood this was a serious issue,” she said. “Somebody had to fight the fight.”
For the aggrieved community members to make their point, the IFETACSIOS boss said she was advised to go ahead and marry an Osu if she wished, and to leave their culture alone. But committed to her purpose, Maduagwu continued sending the messages out, and it received massive engagements from the public. “This was how what you now know as IFETACSIOS began in 2017,” she said.
Since the cat was out of the bag, Maduagwu began sending correspondence to traditional leaders in communities where the practice was still adhered to. In Nigeria, traditional leaders effectively form a parallel government; holding significant political and economic influence without any actual formal power, and preside over cultural norms, including matters of caste.
However, the commotion on the outside was nothing compared to the storm that consumed her inside. Omenala is the set of traditional, cultural beliefs of the Igbo community, and it is the guiding principle of any Igbo individual. The people are strong adherents of their culture. At the height of the threats, Maduagwu even feared that in the absence of any conventionally agreed process to abolish the caste system, she may be called upon to offer a human sacrifice. Traditionally, the Osu were considered dead in the physical world, and merely the properties of deities, and as such, she feared that the leaders may argue that to abolish the practice and treat them as living individuals would require a human sacrifice on her part. “I thought, what if I become the scapegoat? What if I am asked to be the sacrifice to abolish the system in my place,” Maduagwu told aidóni.
Building a movement
Fortunately, this fear never came true. Maduawgu persisted, slowly and consistently expanding the reach of her mission for social justice. In 2019, Maduagwu delivered a TedXTalk on the sensitive issue. “I am beaming my light at the dark corners of your heart where love and equality are trapped,” she said in her opening remarks. The video on YouTube has over 9,000 views. But for all its acclaim, the talk received almost as much criticism from people who believe IFETACSIOS advocacy contradicts tradition. But Maduagwu said the negative feedback fuels her drive.
IFETACSIOS currently boasts a team of eight staff members and a growing number of volunteers. The team works with a group of legal practitioners who offer pro-bono services to victims of caste discrimination. “We have achieved over a dozen re-orientation and reconciliation programmes across the southern state communities,” Maduagwu said. In August, IFETACSIOS carried out major outreaches across three southeastern states–Imo, Anambra and Ebonyi states.
The NGO is also partnering with the group of legal practitioners in Nneji –roughly translated as born from the same mother— a global group that represents the interests of Osu’s on reviewing an unimplemented 1956 law. There is no data on the number of Osus in Nigeria, but it is estimated that millions of people of Osu and Ohu descent live within and outside the country.
“I am beaming my light at the dark corners of your heart where love and equality are trapped.”
With just N85,000—approximately $108—Maduagwu embarked on her first intervention in 2018. The sum was to cater to her then six team members, logistics. In 2020, the Ford Foundation awarded the NGO a grant, but since then, they have operated on publicly raised funds. IFETACSIOS offers counselling interventions for victims, and Maduagwu “wish to assist victims financially, especially the single mothers who their partners abandoned.”
IFETACSIOS is currently partnering on a Knowledge Exchange project with the University College London and the Bureau for Conflicts and peace resolution in Imo State to stop stigmatisation of the descendants of Osu. However, Maduagwu notes while they are making strides it is discouraging that at the top cadre of government, issues on casteism are not a priority.
Bringing social change
Yet, despite the lack of political will at the level of the Nigerian government, there have been smaller victories among the traditional leaders. In less than a year, Maduagwu led the first community intervention in 2018 to abolish Osu in her community, in the Oguta town of Nigeria’s Imo state. Following joint community meetings organised by IFETACSIOUS, twenty-four traditional leaders endorsed a formal declaration to abolish the caste system in Oguta.
The same year, IFETACSIOS also facilitated another intervention in Enugu’s Nsukka town, where the discrimination is primarily against the Ohu community. In the following years, 119 villages in nine autonomous communities in Nsukka have reportedly formalised the eradication of the caste system in their communities. In 2021, the Ogbor Autonomous community in the Imo state abolished the system as well.
Maduagwu said one of their biggest challenges has been to get traditional leaders and residents in rural communities where this practice is common to agree to the re-integration and orientation process. Since it assumed that an Ohu were slaves were purchased by the masters, Maduagwu said a tradition of a monetary exchange between the descendants of Ohu and Diala would nullify the age-long casteism in the communities. “Osu abolition would be done through a proclamation of the elders using the ‘offor,’” she said. The offor is a staff of the office of a traditional custodian, and supposedly embodies spiritual powers that makes any vow binding.
Maduagwu is optimistic a massive awakening will spark a national, if not global, conversation on caste discrimination and stigma. While she acknowledged that leaving a thriving career in the fashion industry came at a cost, Maduagwu emphasised that it was one she is happy to have paid. “Witnessing abolition ceremonies, people regaining their fundamental human rights and dignity is the high point for me in what I do.”
Top image: Maduagwu Ogechukwu, founder of IFETACSIOS
Disinformation is rampant and thrives among minority communities in the United States, including Latinx, exploiting language and cultural diversity like bilingualism or history. Limited fact-checking in languages other than English amplifies its impact, eroding trust and fueling polarisation. Language barriers and a lack of diverse representation within media and institutions contribute to spreading false narratives. Comprehensive fact-checking efforts and fostering language and cultural diversity are essential to combat disinformation and protect democratic processes.
By Julie Gonsard. Edited by Manmeet Sahni
Disinformation, the deliberate spread of false or misleading information, has emerged as a significant challenge in today’s digital age. Among the various communities affected by this issue, Latinx Americans have faced disproportionate consequences due to their language and cultural characteristics. The Latinx community holds a significant presence, with over 500 million Spanish speakers worldwide, making it the fourth most spoken language globally. This is a democratic problem. Because of their considerable representation, they are of great electoral importance, but misinformation and disinformation can influence their votes. It is even more so in the United States, the second Spanish-speaking country after Mexico.
Like many diaspora communities, Latinx folks in the U.S. rely heavily on social media platforms to stay informed. Social media is vital for them to stay connected with their home countries and close ones living abroad. It provides a space for them to share trust, intimacy, and information with their communities. Whatsapp is the most used social media by Latinx communities in the U.S. between 18 and 34. According to a Nielsen study from 2021, they used it twice more than other adults in the U.S.
However, the same social media platforms that foster connectivity and information sharing also serve as fertile ground for the spread of disinformation. Due to their viral nature, false narratives and mis- and disinformation can quickly gain traction and reach a large audience. It poses a significant challenge for the Latinx communities, as they are exposed to a higher volume of misleading information, increasing their vulnerability to disinformation campaigns.
Most Latinx communities are bilingual, proficient in English and Spanish and use both languages to stay informed. According to Pew Research Center, 71% of them said they received at least some information in Spanish daily. Less than a third get their information only in English. Spanish is, therefore, a major information tool for the Latinx communities in the U.S.
Nonetheless, Spanish is one of the languages with the most mis- and disinformation on social networks. According to a study by AVAAZ, Facebook (now Meta), does not flag more than two-thirds of fake news in Spanish compared to less than one-third in English.
Fact-checking is much less effective in foreign languages than in English, with half of all fake non-English content not receiving a warning label. Social networks have only recently begun to rely heavily on artificial intelligence to fact-check.
“Today, our small trading centre operates until 2 am local time and sometimes till the next morning on big days compared to 7 pm back in the day,” Tombe said. That is in spite of the absence of government electricity, functioning with just a few generators that run up to 10 pm. The few police officers in our area have also grown in confidence due to our level of cooperation with them.”
Initially developed in and for English, they have struggled to adapt to Spanish and failed to identify fake news. The development of AI in Spanish is made even more difficult by the lack of data in Spanish – most of which is private – and as Spanish is a diverse language with its numerous dialectal variants owing to its many geographical and cultural contexts.
Social networks face a deep-rooted problem when it comes to fact-checking in languages other than English, particularly Spanish. Fake news is usually corrected by independent fact-checkers long before it is labelled by social networks. It can take several weeks before Meta issues a warning label on Spanish content. Moreover, once a post has been flagged, Meta finds it difficult to do the same for its shares and duplicates.
Latinx communities in the U.S. have a long history of dealing with racism in the United States. They have little or no representation in the mainstream media, and this underrepresentation often leads to inaccurate portrayals and/or stereotypes that can be harmful. Amid this lack of representation in the media, more folks from the community are withdrawing from traditional forms of media, such as generally fact-checked news, and are turning to alternative media and sometimes to sources of information that may not be accurate and spread misinformation.
Latinx communities in the U.S. are often the targets of disinformation campaigns due to their significant presence and influence in the country’s political landscape. These campaigns exploit vulnerabilities stemming from the lack of robust fact-checking measures and Latinx communities’ challenges. As a result, disinformation efforts against these communities can be particularly effective.
The Latinx community in the U.S. has been particularly affected by disinformation surrounding COVID-19, even after the pandemic’s peak. For example, a list of alleged serious side effects of the Pfizer vaccine were circulated on social media, particularly on the Spanish-language Telegram accounts. The list compiled possible events to monitor related to severe COVID-19 and vaccines in general but was maliciously exploited and went viral, eroding trust in the Pfizer vaccine.
Given their substantial numbers, the Latinx communities in the U.S. have the potential to influence electoral outcomes and policy decisions. Disinformation campaigns designed to mislead and misinform this community can have far-reaching consequences, affecting the individuals targeted, the broader social fabric, and democratic processes.
A crucial aspect that makes them susceptible to targeted disinformation is their sensitivity to issues such as healthcare and immigration, among others. These topics are politically divisive and can sway the Latinx community’s political leanings in one direction or another. Disinformation campaigns strategically exploit these sensitive subjects to manipulate opinions and shape political narratives within the community.
Disinformation presents significant dangers to democracy and society. It erodes trust in institutions, fuels polarisation, and undermines democratic processes. This polarisation hampers constructive dialogue and compromises the ability to find common ground. False information has far-reaching consequences, including public health risks and exacerbating social inequalities. Disinformation campaigns also threaten democratic processes, such as elections, by manipulating public opinion and delegitimizing outcomes.
Additionally, disinformation can have severe implications for public health, as seen during the COVID-19 pandemic. False information about treatments, vaccines, and preventive measures can hinder efforts to combat the spread of diseases and jeopardise public health responses. Furthermore, targeted disinformation campaigns disproportionately affect marginalised communities, perpetuating discrimination and exacerbating social inequalities.
These disinformation issues are not limited solely to the Latinx communities in the U.S. but extend to all Spanish speakers and other communities. The challenges of disinformation affect the entire Hispanic diaspora, given their significant global presence. Arab communities face similar challenges due to their substantial diaspora and global reach. Disturbingly, nearly a quarter of Arabic-language fake news on social media platforms still needs to be labeled, indicating the prevalence and effectiveness of disinformation campaigns targeting these communities.
To effectively combat the targeted disinformation affecting linguistic minorities, developing fact-checking capabilities in languages other than English, particularly within social media platforms, is crucial. These platforms need to develop artificial intelligence that is equally effective in languages other than English. Building trust in traditional structures and fostering alternatives in the languages and cultures of these communities is essential. Better representation is necessary. For instance, many Spanish-speaking countries have expressed disappointment that linguistic parity has yet to be achieved. While the UN has six official languages, it disseminates its instantaneous press releases only in English and French, a concern repeatedly raised by Argentina and the Friends of Spanish Group. Spanish-speaking nations have also cautioned against relying solely on translated English content, advocating for original content creation to respect linguistic and cultural nuances.
Today, initiatives are emerging to bridge this information gap. One example is the presence of Spanish-language media in the U.S., such as Connecta Arizona, which caters to the hyperlocal Spanish-speaking communities in Arizona and fact-checks the information circulating in the community’s online social networks. These efforts aim to address the specific needs of linguistic minority communities and provide them with accurate information in their language. By expanding fact-checking capabilities and enhancing representation, we can empower these communities to navigate the digital landscape confidently and make informed decisions. Recognizing and respecting the linguistic and cultural diversity within society is crucial to combat the spread of disinformation effectively.
Ladu Isaac looked pensive as he sat alone at a corner table of his regular bar in Rock City, a suburb of the South Sudanese capital ofJuba. When the clock struck 8, he straightened himself up, his head supported by his hands, and glued his eyes to the TV screen as the anchor read out the evening news. When she began the international headlines, the 39-year-old engineer walked a metre closer to the screen. “In international news, fighting between the Sudan Armed Forces and the Rapid Support Forces paramilitary continues, with hundreds of thousands of civilians still trapped in the capital Khartoum,” the anchor spoke.
By Richard Sultan. Edited by Arshu John
Isaac turned away from the screen, walked to the bar and banged his fist against the counter. “What madness has come over you today?” the bartender asked him, concerned and confused by the regular’s irregular behaviour. Tears flowing down his cheeks, Isaac responded, “Just give me three bottles of Star Gin”—a locally brewed, high alcohol-content gin packaged in 250 ml bottles. The order surprised everyone, fellow bar regulars and the bartender—Isaac was not known to drink gin, let alone Star Gin, and his behaviour evoked grave concern. But Isaac ignored everyone’s questions and walked out of the bar.
In February this year, two months before the fighting began in Sudan, Isaac had sent his mother to Khartoum for medical treatment. Now in May, weeks into the fighting, his mother was trapped in the conflict-ridden nation’s capital, and Isaac was among scores of South Sudanese nationals anxious about their loved ones in Sudan, particular in Khartoum—worsened by occasional breakdowns in communication, endless battles, and a lack of necessities. According to the UNHCR, as of 31 January this year, there were over 800,000 South Sudanese refugees in Sudan, which included over 600,000 registered migrants—including students, individuals seeking medical treatment, and business professionals—and over 160,000 unregistered individuals.
In end April, a week after the onset of fighting, South Sudanese eagerly awaited a response from their government on the evacuation of their friends and families trapped in the war. Anxiety reached a boiling point when the West and other countries started evacuating their citizens from Khartoum. The government’s lack of action forced a group of youths in Juba to take matters into their own hands. A civil-society collective, now called Citizens Call for the Emergency Evacuation of the South Sudanese (CCEESS), spurred into action and started a crowdfunding campaign for the evacuation. They used social media, organised meetings and press conferences, and called upon the goodwill of every South Sudanese citizen.
“We thought of what we could do to help our compatriots,” Akoc Manhiem, the group’s chairperson, said. “Without consultation from government institutions, as life was at stake, we did what we felt could work. We first printed a banner, created a Facebook page and uploaded the banner as our cover photo. We also thought about the issue of trust, and that is where Mgurush, a local fintech, came in since it will allow us to receive money from within and from those in the diaspora.”
The campaign was more successful than they expected. Their initiative spread widely and quickly, leading to a surprisingly successful first press conference that even the country’s acting foreign affairs minister attended. “We raised 400,000 South Sudanese Pounds”—a little over $300 USD—“right after our first press conference, and received a pledge of $5000 USD from an individual in the diaspora,” Manheim recalled. “The success of our Facebook page boosted our morale, and I was able to open a crowdfunding account on gofundme.com and share it on other social media like Twitter and clubhouse.”
The initiative’s crowdfunding web page on gofundme records receiving $6,685 USD against their target of $100,000 USD. “This is a cause I believe in. Our people require our support,” posted Adhieu Majok on the crowdfunding page, after contributing $200 USD. However, the fundraising efforts of the initiative have spread far beyond the crowdfunding page, and has seen big investments from South Sudanese business owners and politicians alike. According to a post on their Facebook page on 17 June, CCEESS has raised nearly $550,000 USD, including over $125,000 USD from a fundraising event on 13 May, $100,000 USD from the Eritrean Business Community and over $30,000 from the country’s central bank. Moreover, the in-kind contributions are worth over $100,000.
Using the money, the initiative sought to pay truck drivers to travel nearly 500 kilometres from Khartoum to the South Sudanese town of Renk, carrying trapped citizens back to their home country. On 27 April, the initiative managed to pay the first truck driver to make the journey with the first group of South Sudanese evacuees. As of 13 June, according to Jok Monychok Kuol, the initiative’s spokesperson, they had evacuated 6,660 individuals from Sudan. “We are currently focusing on evacuating those trapped in Khartoum to the border,” said Emmanuel Ladu, the group’s head of logistics. “From the border onwards, the government and development partners like the IOM and UNHCR will take over. We will only help with food items and other necessities as we know you can’t leave a war zone with your belongings.”
The CCEESS have set up a coordinating office opposite the US Embassy in Juba, where citizens can contribute in cash or kind. “We have a coordinating team in Khartoum, in the Omdurman, Hai Joisef, Kala Kala and Mayo suburbs,” Ladu explained. “Thanks to them, they hired a Sudanese man who has lorries. However, due to the intense fighting, some neighbourhoods like Hai Joisef are still cut off from the assembly points.” He added that safety maps are drawn with the coordinating teams to aid in the evacuation.
Two months into the fighting, the initiative intends to continue their evacuations as long as South Sudanese remain in Sudan. The group is also considering evacuation through neighbouring countries by land for South Sudanese trapped in other parts of Sudan, though the planning is still early. “We are getting calls from various people across South Sudan daily, informing us of their trapped relatives in various parts of Sudan,” Ladu said. “We give them assurances, and they believe us.”
Ladu had urged people to contribute, stressing on the dire situation and appealing to the public’s generosity. And the public responded. Sabina John, a local businesswoman, contributed 50,000 SSP—approximately $50 USD—to the initiative. John said she learnt of the initiative through her daughter. “I had just finished my extended morning prayers because since the outbreak of the Sudan fight, I offer special prayers for peace and safety of my relatives in Sudan,” she recounted. “Then, my daughter called, asking if I had heard about the ongoing contributions to help evacuate trapped South Sudanese from Khartoum. She explained every detail, saying she read it online and urged me to contribute.”
John spoke of the South Sudanese community spirit in times of crisis. “In 2008, while in Western Equatoria State, I heard about the need to contribute anything to support our brothers in the disputed Abyei region after an attack by Khartoum—we gave foodstuffs, clothes and even cash which helped our displaced compatriots there.” She continued with more examples of such initiatives in the past, including during the 2015 Fuel Tank explosion accident near Maridi town, in Western Equatoria, which killed over 200 people, and the COVID-19 pandemic, during which everyone made “a lot of sacrifices to help overcome starvation.”
Mama Maria, a 70-year-old woman who contributed bedsheets that she had saved for her burial, similarly beamed with pride about the South Sudanese community efforts, and remembered South Sudan’s founding father, John Garang. “This is how during Dr John Garang’s time, we supported the rebellion by giving whatever we had for independence. For such a spirit to still exist nearly 18 years after Garang’s dead gives me the feeling that whatever will befall this country in the future, the current generation can handle it.”
However, not everyone remembers previous community efforts with the same trust, and despite this initiative’s success, they have also been subject to questions from those who remain doubtful of certain aspects of their process. For instance, Makuei Garang recalled his bitter experience of being displaced from his home in Bor during the floods in 2020. “Many people came up with the same initiatives, and money was collected and pocketed,” Garang said. “There was no evacuation, and we had to figure our way out.”
But the group rejected any allegations of impropriety, citing the transparency of the organisation and the fintech company, Mgurush. “We keep records of the cash and in-kind collections,” Manheim said. “The management of Mgurush only releases payment after verifying all the necessary signatories and purposes. Everything we do is voluntary, public, and for the good of our country.”
Credit: Citizens Call for the Emergency Evacuation of the South Sudanese (CCEESS)
Another criticism levelled against the initiative is its relationship to the South Sudan government. For Deng Lual, a student of political science and economics at Juba University, this was the issue that turned him from a supporter to a critic. “Why do you start partnering with government institutions like the Office of the First Lady?” Lual asked “They are ashamed of failing to evacuate our people, and now at the last minute, they are dishing out cash to please us that they care.” He added that some of the citizens contributing to the initiative, who have different political affiliations than to the ruling party, may have to think twice before taking part in such an initiative again.
Others, too, have noted the lack of initiatives by the government to help its citizens trapped in the fighting. While acknowledging the positive support of the youth and development partners, a multi-denominational group called the Upper Nile Religious Initiative for Peace and Reconciliation, which works in the region that borders Sudan and is at the forefront of returnees and refugee crisis, urged the government to do more. The septuagenarian Maria, too, questioned the inactivity of the government. “In 2016, I asked my grandson the whereabouts of our Ugandan neighbours when there was a conflict in Juba, and he told me that their country sent trucks to evacuate them. Why can’t we now evacuate our own from Khartoum?”
Similarly, religious groups have also insisted on the need for further action from the government. “We call on the Ministry of Humanitarian Affairs & Disaster Management to develop a strategy and mechanism in collaboration with other ministries, NGOs and institutions to repatriate many South Sudanese people still in Khartoum and other areas in Sudan,” said Rev. Fr. Paolino Tipo Deng of the Comboni Missionaries. “They are more than those already at the border.”
On 1 May, over two weeks after the fighting began and under criticism for inactivity in evacuation assistance, the South Sudan government released one billion SSP to the ministry of humanitarian affairs and disaster management. “There are more than 6,000 returnees entering daily through 12 border points,” said the information minister, Michael Makuei. “South Sudanese will be transferred to their areas of origin and supported from there as the government has no plans to set up another IDP camp.”
According to Ladu, the government and development partners have focused on evacuating those who reached the border town Renk instead of those trapped in the battle zone. From Renk, the government and other well-wishers have charted several flights and boats to help the returnees reach their region of origin. Meanwhile, humanitarian agencies are helping in the registration and provision of temporary transit shelters as well as food rations. According to the latest UN figures, over 101,000 individuals crossed the border into South Sudan since April 15.
Back in Juba’s Rock City suburb, a week after the engineer Isaac drew cause for concern with his order of Star Gin, he returned to the bar to explain himself. This time, he wore a broad smile, his eyes no longer hollow and his round face glowing. He shook everyone’s hand and, surprised by the small number of early worshippers—as the locals referred to the daily patrons of the bar—he asked, “Where is everybody?”
Isaac then called the bartender and waived around a $100 USD note. “For all the eight worshippers present, the bar girl inclusive, drink and eat whatever you want, and madam boss here will deduct it from this hundred dollars,” he announced. He was not finished. “This $100 is for between now and 5 pm. After that, we will start a new bill!” Those in the bar later confessed to thinking that he had won big in gambling or maybe even robbed a bank. But Isaac seized the moment of shocked silence that followed his announcements to explain the extravagant generosity.
“The last time I was here, exactly a week ago, I sat in that corner before the 8 pm news hour, and most of you recall what I did afterwards”, he started as they responded with a nod. He explained that he had lost contact with his mother, who was stuck in Khartoum, and driven by desperation had turned to Star Gin. “But as I speak now, I have communicated with my mum and kid brother! Thank God, they are safe and sound in Renk town, inside South Sudan.”
As the bar remained in stunned silence, only the bartender asked how she had managed to escape, and Isaac recounted what his mother had told him. “Juba youths hired a lorry to evacuate any willing South Sudanese from the war, with the location and the departure time. After leaving here, I am driving to their office to give this money to support their honourable initiative”, he said, showing them another $300 that he removed from his suit pocket.
Before he left, Isaac announced, “There is going to be an open bill here even in my absence, as I will be heading to Renk to bring mum home.”
Top image: South Sudanese citizens queue up to make contributions during a CCEESS fundraising event at their office in Juba . Credit: Citizens Call for the Emergency Evacuation of the South Sudanese (CCEESS)
