I had been at the Adolfo Suárez Madrid-Barajas Airport for over half an hour, looking around, searching for reasons to keep myself busy, at least for a little while of the many I had ahead to connect with another flight.
There was no shortage, there never is in large stations, of points of interest. People in a hurry, overwhelmed officials, impertinent controls, lights, excessive consumption, stress, cortisol, above all else, cortisol.
I was always impressed by the movements of large stations, and stress is never lacking in transfers.
Forced to wait, as the check-in counters were not ready, we remained in the huge hall marked with the word "Departures."
Those who entered were met by young people offering to wrap the suitcases they carried in plastic. Armed with a roll of blue polyethylene, which they carried in a cart, they encouraged travelers to protect their belongings, and they did so with a timid voice, some, others with gestures, all with insecurity.
They knew it, as did the passengers, that they were in a place where they shouldn't be, that they were immigrants doing a job they couldn't do, competing with authorized positions that charged for similar services. They couldn't demonstrate their skills, the rush fought against the interest, and few accepted the service.
I wanted to know more about this activity, but I started failing. The first young man I approached understood Spanish, he explained that he couldn't say anything, that he was working illegally, that he was undocumented. I insisted, expressing that I wouldn't compromise him, that my intention was to convey his experiences to a newspaper, that I wouldn't write down anything that identified him, that my interest was to help, and that his, if he trusted me, was to help me write the article.
Shaking his head, with obvious distrust and looking back and to the sides, he pointed to a young man approaching, assuring me that this colleague of his would answer me.
Press reports indicated that many illegal immigrants lived in Barajas, that they spent their days and nights there, eating and sleeping where and when they could, using public services and defending themselves, also as they could, from the rules that persecuted them.
I had also read that their presence had generated certain controversies, that workers, especially those on night shifts, reported certain insecurities, robberies, and aggressions.
I wanted to talk about all of that with someone who didn't want to, unlike the second person pointed out, young, very young, who, unlike the previous one, was well-dressed, clean, and healthy-looking.
His command of the language was basic, at first he didn't understand the questions, but he did understand the context, which allowed him to say yes or no. Although the exchange began with doubts, upon identifying myself and stating what I intended, he didn't hesitate, with great naivety, to write his first and last name, which we will leave as Saif.
He smiled, the context clarified his nationality and place of origin, the time he had been in Spain, and the distance that separated him from his origins.
He had arrived by boat to the island of Fuerteventura, from there he was transferred to Las Palmas, then Murcia, where he arrived with some fellow adventurers, and finally Madrid. Of his 19 years, he had lived almost the last two as an immigrant, sleeping on the street or at a friend's house, and in an airport cart he carried his belongings: a backpack and the wrapping roll.
When the depth of the conversation required it, he told me that he had to call someone who knew how to speak Spanish.
After introducing me to the new interlocutor, I explained what I intended, and he conveyed to the boy what I wanted to know. Not many exchanges were needed to understand that I was facing two people out of the ordinary.
The information I received is what I want to tell, related to what he felt when leaving, why he did it, whether the administration of his country of origin did not inform them of what could happen to them, of what was happening to them, of what had happened to them, of the loss of life, of the hardships.
All together, as if it were written, the translator explained it clearly. "You have to know that emigrants don't listen to warnings. They know in their villages those who return, and they see them with a car, helping the family build a house. The few fortunate ones who return tell of the benefits of a country, of a continent, that rewards efforts with work and wealth. That is why they turn a deaf ear to the others, who failed, who did not return and will not return because they cannot, forced to work outside a system that recognizes their rights, without protections, without horizons for the future."
The one who was telling me this, sharing Saif's feelings, arrived in Spain with a visa. An engineer by profession, he was waiting for job interviews, for promises. Meanwhile, he went to the terminal to wrap suitcases, look for food, and meet other nationals who were looking for it.
He knew the boy, whom he helps, many nights he sleeps and showers in his house, because he considers it an obligation to help. He knows that among those who arrive there are many "bad" ones, who make them look bad and from whom they also need to protect themselves. They identify them quickly, they are not the ones who learn the language quickly, who demonstrate, who are courteous and respectful, who do not escape from the security forces.
Before saying goodbye, I asked Saif how many services he estimated he had lost during the time I stole from him. He didn't understand, and when he did, he refused to answer. He refused my intention to "pay him" for the work done, joining his hands as if he were going to pray and touching his heart, he repeated many times: no, no, no.
I can't forget them, they may be illegal immigrants, they are also vulnerable immigrants, the future!, but we don't offer it to them.
