By Modou Ceesay
My journey in the Sahara with 179 migrants in a congested truck began in Timbuktu. Soon we ran into a fight between Gambians, Ivorians, and Guineans. Four days into the journey, the four barrels of water mixed with petrol that we used to drink, with each having half of 1.5 liters for 24 hours, got finished.
The driver ran through a war zone as I observed debris of landmines, guns, and broken cars. He knew when he stopped, we would die, and that if he didn’t reach the oasis, his car would have a problem, which would mean a death trap for all of us.
So as he ran to the oasis, everyone was thirsty and no one had water, which brought insults and short tempers. When my fellows and I reached the only oasis, we didn’t wait for the truck to stop as we spotted three wells ahead of us.
These wells were surrounded by camels, also fighting to squeeze each other to drink. One hundred seventy-nine of us rushed to the wells; some of us drank the water that the camels were drinking, some drank with them, others drank the water flooded on the ground, while others, including me, queued at the well.
The aim was to have a first taste of fresh water, not the one mixed with petrol. In this situation, push and pull began; insults began between Gambians and the Susu from Guinea. One of my fellow Gambians was punched and sustained a minor injury; this angered him, and he hit the Guinean on the face and wounded him seriously.
This was around 12 p.m.–1 p.m.; the blood kept coming in large quantities, and there was no first aider. The Susu were angry, and they mobilised themselves to beat and kill my fellow Gambian migrant.
Gambians also relied on the long-standing “badinyaa” and pledges to defend our brother, then the fight broke out; we began hitting each other, throwing stones, and punching.
The other nationalities also descended into the fight, supporting the Susu migrants; the fight was tense, and bloodshed was all over. At this moment, I even feared for my life and didn’t want to fight, but I had no option but to join the fight.
The Tuareg drivers and smugglers couldn’t stop the fight; now they decided to support the Guineans and threatened to punish us. The driver said he would leave us in the oasis and carry on with the Guineans and other nationalities.
He meant it and put all of them in the truck and set off the car. At this juncture, my fellows and I ran towards the truck and couldn’t get it; he even turned back and vowed to go back to Mali instead of continuing.
I sat under a shadowless tree and began thinking of how to escape from there; I felt sad and regretted the whole fight. After several negotiations led by a Gambian man who could speak Arabic, the driver agreed to allow us to enter the truck with a strict warning that death would follow if any fight broke out between a Gambian and any nationalities.
As I entered the car, I could sense the atmosphere of anger heating up and fear for my life because I knew the fight was to continue when any of us met with Guineans on future trips.
I observed that in the back way, when you touch one citizen, you touch the country, and that’s why Gambians fight to death for one another. This fight left me guilty because one Guinean had helped me with four pieces of biscuits when I was nearly about to die a day earlier.
But this fight was necessary for survival and to retain dignity and independence. This fight, which led to bloodshed, was one of many fights between countries that I witnessed on the journey. While I could see graveyards of dead migrants around, I wondered whether such fights had not also contributed to the death of some of them because the only three wells available in the oasis meant survival of the fittest.
