Newspaper article 10, Contraband Modern in the Fes Medina

A Voyage into the World of Smugglers From the North of Morocco, Those who are Tortured in the Trade of Devastation

By Muhamad Afziz and Abdallah Errami

Al-Tajdid, June 8 2004, No. 946, p.14

If you had stood before a “northern merchandise” vendors, as Moroccans call them, someday, then you might have been allured by its cheap price and its ornamented shape; and maybe the way in which it was hawked and the seller’s art which most of the traders adopt by praising their versatility in showing the best of their products. But did you ever reflect over the way these goods reach your neighborhood? Or about the distance they cover from the north till it ends in your market? You might even be one of those who got fed up with joblessness and thought about riding the first bus destination: Tetuan or F’nidaq, with the determination of throwing out poverty and the curse of “the empty pocket” as well, especially when you get to know how some of those contrabandists earn hundreds of dirhams out of that business. “Al Tajdid” welcomes you to take part in a tiring trip in this quest, to take you deep into the lives of the smugglers, their world, and their pains, and to reveal some of their secrets as well, and secrets of their goods that seduce you; yet, be sure from the beginning that what remains hidden is much greater.

The Contrabandist family:

We started our trip from the bus station of Rabat “Al Qamra” at 11 pm; we rode the bus that was going to take us together with small smugglers towards “F’nidaq” city nearby Ceuta, which is one of the black points of smuggling in Morocco. It was a sordid bus that did not meet the minimum conditions of comfort: the chairs were torn off from their places. In addition, there was a mixture of suffocating malodor coming every corner of the vehicle, from the shoes of some travelers who took them off to relax, from the mouths of drunks among whom you could find the co-driver who was sitting at the back, and the stinky smell of drugs and cigarettes taken by some young travelers.

The bus stopped before a filling station in Salee after less than half an hour, waiting for a group of smugglers to ride, most of whom were women and who came out of the corners of narrow corridors. People there called each other by the names as if they were one “family”, the family of smugglers. As soon as the bus departed anew most of the travelers fell into a deep sleep preparing themselves for a day of fight and struggle against the customers. Few of those who rode from Rabat descended in Tetuan leaving a large troop going to F’nidaq and Ceuta, most of which were women.

Whipping to the Disobedient:

When we arrived in Ceuta at half past five in the morning we noticed a strange relentless movement of both people and vehicles. A band of men were waiting for their turn to get into the city stood there holding their passports together with troops of women as well, in parallel to an endless chain of cars. At that very moment, tens of these crowds infiltrated while the police officers had been distracted, and creep over the fences in order to reach the alleyway that leads to the free zone of the city, in vain. Some of the women who had been waiting got tired and sat down on the ground with their hands on their cheeks; whereas the others standing outside the two rows watched the policemen, waiting for the right chance to sneak into the city. Others built a little market to sell the smuggled products, while the rest put their goods at tens of meters of height.

At the entrance of Ceuta, one is asked to hand his passport more than once: to the police on the first inlet, on the second, then to the Spanish authority in the third doorway. All that before getting to the depository of the smuggled goods on the left of the arches that lead to the city center; before that, one would cross a fourth corridor bounded by barbwires tied to iron posts. They are narrow corridors that recall of the “IRIZ” doorway that Palestinians cross to work in the colonized land; that was how a customer described it while we talked to him on the way to the Moroccan customhouse. Moreover, while we were busy with taking pictures of the surroundings we were attracted by the wailings of some women as a police officer took a strap in his hands with the intention to beat them to force them to respect the order within the queues. The police officer’s behavior was not a strange one, for, according to some testimonies, this is what most of the officers do to establish discipline and reduce the number of infiltrators. In this respect a young man showed us the marks of acts of violence on his body: wounds and blue marks on his neck. He said in grief: “Despite owning passports that allow us to enter legally we are usually beaten without any reason.”

Workers Turned to be Victims:

Everyone standing in the lines, in the ones reserved either to men or to women, does not necessarily belong to the little smuggler’s band. In fact, half of them are here to get legally into Ceuta as workers. That was what we were told by three unlucky masons who rested in the shade on a raised ground near the doorway. As one of them saw us climbing up the raised ground he came hurriedly towards us as if he had something important to tell us. At the beginning we thought he was a contrabandist; eventually we realized he was a mason who simply wanted to get into the city to work. The length of the queue and his weak resistance compelled him to give in and he did not enter although he had come very early in the morning (4 o’clock). This mason says, “We do have the passport, but the waves of smugglers who come for the foreign goods impede us from getting easily into the city to work normally.” His companion who insisted we should have a cup of tea with him added: “We cannot have access to the city but twice or three times a week because of the crush in the queues leading to the doorway.”

Smugglers Against their Will:

We climbed the highland nearby Ceuta City as we were told that it was the safety gate for the contrabandists; thanks to it they manage to escape the customs officers. We noticed how both men and women bore on their backs, shoulders, and hands, weights of smuggled products not seen by the customs officers or were partly paid for. We witnessed how they moved from the Spanish stores – the origin of devastation - through the first highland, then came down to the foot of the raised area withstanding all the difficulties marking such a descent; they reach the little market where they sell their merchandise to middlemen who are called “Sh’naqa” in the argot of professional contrabandists. Otherwise they go to the second highland (less high than the first) where the biggest part of the products that are to be sent to various Moroccan cities - therefore to most of the Moroccan houses - is collected in very hazardous conditions.

Contrabandists of all ages, men, women, children, and even old men and women sweated because they carried such heavy weights under the scorching sun. Their clothes got soaked with sweat, their faces were darkened, and their backs bowed. We just about managed, after a long struggle, to talk just for few seconds with five women whose faces were burnt by the sun; they were descending a steep slope afraid of being caught suddenly by the customs officers and having their merchandise impounded. We asked them about the reasons that pushed them to become smugglers; an old woman with lots of sweat on her forehead answered: “What should we do? I would throw myself into the fire if I could for the sake of my kids!” Another woman in her forties said: “It is for the sake of bread that we are here.”

The answers of the two women were not enough the suffering the small contrabandists really endure, especially women. We wanted more answers. Then an old woman with a wild hair and a very bowed back attracted our attention; she was holding a very heavy weight that only strong porters could bear. We helped her with few packs and moved along with her to reach the taxi that was to take her to her destination. We asked her whether it would have been better for to remain at home in dignity since she is a mother and a grandmother. She replied in a pitiful voice, her breath almost taken away: “Yeah! My husband lies invalid and we have to pay the rent. Do you think I can stay at home under these conditions?”

Next, we went to see a man in his sixties with a hat protecting him from the sun. The man had managed to sneak away from the authority’s gaze with two big bags in his hands. We hardly managed to convince him to have a conversation; and when we asked him why came here he replied briefly: “Life is not easy; I have to feed my kids.” The he went away saying: “This is not my job; I am a farmer. I am no longer able to cope with the costs of agriculture; that’s why I am here, because I need to get my daily bread.” On our left side, there was standing a young man listening carefully to our dialogue with the farmer. As soon as we had finished the conversation he came up hurriedly to us and in tears said: “The customs officers seized all my merchandise and left me this miserable bag that I am carrying.” He carried on: “I will never do this work again although I have just started doing this only a month ago. I did it under the pressure of the living expenses, feeding my kids and paying the rent. There is no work. Before I was a baker in a bakery but it went bankrupt and I lost my job.”

When we climbed the highland again a group of young people stopped us in an attempt to voice their struggle against the customs and police officers. It is something that occurs repeatedly everyday. This is how a young man addressed me saying: “Please write about us and our pains. They are unfair and they oppress us” and “…don’t pull punches in giving a fair picture about us.”

The Dunghill of Spain:

We carefully examined the hill which is ten meters up from the lines of hundreds of taxis and we witnessed the way the smugglers put down their goods, mostly food, on what could be described as dunghills, or if you like “The Dunghills of the Spanish”. Chocolate and candy boxes, a trash of detergents and perfumes, bags of rice and meat (mortadella) and parcels of both new and second-hand clothes; also, bottles of wine and internationally prohibited drugs. All the goods they carry, that can be seen under their wet clothes, through the green plastic bags on their shoulders, heads and backs, are then put down on a polluted ground exposed to the sun and dust raised by the passers-by. They are goods which will be taken by the “Sh’naqa” and bought on the spot, or taken to the station in the same city and then sent to Tetuan and other cities such as Rabat and Casablanca, and consumed by many Moroccan families. The hill was not the only place where smuggled products are displayed, although its is the biggest one; we got to discover many alike scattered over the wide highland.

Bribery and Sexual Threat:

According to the testimonies of some victims, women here are not safe from frequent sexual abuse by the Spanish police; all smugglers, men and women, were not safe from bribery either. A woman told us about this: “Spanish police officers molest women and grope their bodies. Some women accept this willingly while others succumb to it out of fear of the seizure of their merchandise. Some of the Spanish police officers give these women their phone numbers and oblige them to call at the end of the day in order to meet; otherwise they would never be allowed to enter again.” This smuggler gave us some glimpses of her own experience, she said: “Ever since I got my divorce I respect myself. Nobody has ever threatened me… I take my place in the queue and I have never been molested despite the attempts some of them have made; in case somebody dares and touches me I would fight for my dignity.” She ended her comments by praising Moroccan authorities and how respectful they are towards them: “When cases of trouble and disorder occur then they find themselves obliged to intervene somehow.”

Concerning bribery many claim it is widespread here. It is known by the term: “Fifa Operation”; some claim it exists, while others deny its existence at all. One of the young smugglers at the highland said: “We are obliged to give five dirhams to the customs officers everyday; it has become an ordinary practice for us.” Another one adds laughing ironically: “Didn’t you know that they force those who want to enter Ceuta to hand five dirhams? At the end of the day they carry a plastic bag filled up with the coins they gathered during the day.” A woman whom we interviewed in the small market denied that she had given any money to any of the customs officers and said: “We have never given any five dirhams to any of the customs officers, and what you’ve been told is nothing but rumors and lies.”

Another one asserts that the fact was actually true and that he saw how: “Many of the car-drivers handed five dirhams to some of the controllers; both excel in inventing ways to give and receive the money. The money is put inside the passport or attached to one of its edges with the thumb then discreetly handed to the controller who, in his turn, takes the passport, examines it and then swiftly hides away the money.”

Pale Faces on the Alert:

As soon as the small contrabandists escape from the customs officers, another scene of struggle begins; this time with their merchandise on buses and trains. Expectations, anxieties, fear of losing everything if any controller expropriates their goods on the long road towards the big markets of Morocco. It was midday when we rode the bus together with the smugglers from “F’nidaq” towards Rabat, then to Casablanca. Most of the travelers were woman and a few were men. Some of them hid their goods under the seats, on the racks, or in the trunks. All the smugglers are supposed to hand over a sum of money to the co-driver of the bus depending on the number of parcels each one carries in order not to be threatened by the customs officers and controllers on the way. Luckily for the smugglers and unfortunately for the state and the consumers the bus was only stopped once that day without even a real check. We halted our conversation with a female smuggler who was telling us about her 16 years of experience and pains with contraband to watch how the driver went down to talk to the controllers and then came back safely! Smiles anew on the pale faces of the smugglers. In less than five minutes the bus departed again and we got back to our conversation with the smugglers from Kenitra; she was a woman in her forties, yet her very thin body and her grey hair made her look as if she were in her seventies. She said: “During the first years of my experience I used to smuggle the value of 10 to 20 thousand dirhams of merchandise in one single trip. Now, and after several seizures of my goods, I’m no longer able to do the same, and I just bring like two or three thousand dirhams of goods.” We asked her whether she tried a job other than contraband and she replied: “Yes. I owed money to some people and I decided to work in a strawberry factory in order to pay my dues. Nevertheless, I left that job two months later for I was already tired and ill. I have developed chronic illnesses such as anxiety because of the shocks during the smuggling trips.”

Controllers and Officers Suffer Too:

In the past the passengers who used to enter to Ceuta were legal workers there. Yet, since the 1980’s it appeared the contraband phenomenon and the workers got intermingled with smugglers increasing the troubles making it difficult for the police officers to recognize who is who, a situation made worse by clandestine immigrants. Two officers told us what they had to go through daily chasing smugglers and immigrants and capturing counterfeiters as well. The first claimed: “We seize from 4 to 6 cases of falsifying passports in one single day, and we stop 4 to 10 immigrants”. The second one affirmed how “The police do not save effort when it comes to chasing young people who try to creep over the ramparts everyday.” He made an allusion to the racist attitudes of the Spanish authority on the frontiers.

Contraband: Devastation:

Tons of smuggled goods come from Spain and Algeria through Melilla, Ceuta and Oujda, and find their way to the rest of the cities of Morocco. The state’s treasury then loses more than 7.5 billion of dirhams of customs besides the loss of 45 thousand posts of job. Above all, these products are the reason for various illnesses such as cancer.

Ceuta itself receives between four and thirty thousand Moroccan visitors most of whom are contrabandists according to two different testimonies: a taxi driver’s and a customs officer’s. One could imagine then the size of smuggled/devastating products. More than two thousand blue taxis come around the entry of this city in order to take these products to various places. At least two thousand trips are made a day transporting tens of kilograms under the gaze of the customs officers and the police; then the question that is raised is: Who is the responsible for this mess? Is it the people or the authorities? Or is it the Spanish? Or all of them at once?

Most of the interviewed smugglers acknowledged they were aware of the danger their trade represents; in response they affirm that it is the state’s responsibility because they have had no alternative posts of jobs to live by with dignity. A young man commented angrily: “The state cares about taxes and it’s for its own sake, but it doesn’t care about the jobless youth at all. Our country is poor, and so are we… what can we do?”

Another one argues convincingly: “It’s true what we are doing is harmful to the state and we are aware of that; but if they close this zone many families will be dislodged.” A woman commented ironically: “The responsible organizations must think about us if they want us to act for the good of our country.”

We Need an Alternative:

Three of the traders, whom we interviewed concerning the phenomenon of contraband in the markets of F’nidaq (the biggest market of smuggled goods in Morocco) affirmed that lately these goods are not brought to the markets at the same frequency as it was in the past, thanks to the serious vigilance in the crossing points and to the rivalry of the products available in Casablanca. The first one said: “The activity in this market has been reduced if compared to the activity in the past; it is because of the competition represented by the Casablanca products.” The other salesperson said: “Contraband has decreased by 30 or 40% if compared to the year of 2003 statistics; it is due to the intense patrolling and to the influence of the goods smuggled from Casablanca harbor.” Whereas the third one doubted whether the state is able to provide the smugglers with jobs before it decides to close the contraband markets.

The fourth trader claimed that smuggling has receded by 70% in comparison to the year 2000 and that was due to the sluggishness of the smugglers and the purchasing capacity of the citizens. Then he concluded his conversation with this statement: “We are fully aware that we are doing an illegal trade and ruining the country’s economy. But what is the alternative? We need to produce quality goods at low prices in order to compete with contraband products. If the Moroccan citizen had access to such locally produced stuff he wouldn’t buy the foreign goods any more.”

Translator: Hind Salhi