Dictators as Gatekeepers for Europe

Outsourcing EU border controls to Africa

Christian Jakob, Simone Schlindwein

• Publisher: Daraja Press
• Year: 2019
• ISBN:
  9781988832289
• Topic: Politics & International Relations
• Subtopic: Immigration Policy
• Index: Politics & International Relations

Europe's new borders in Africa

Freedom of movement:
Schengen in Europe,
fences in the Sahel

Issak Abdou strides across his barracks yard like a used car dealer at a clearance sale. White Toyota pickups are parked in long lines on the Agadez army base at the southern edge of the Sahara. Abdou paces between the rows, his hands behind his back, followed closely by his adjutant, who is cradling a Kalashnikov. ‘This one’s seven million francs,’ Abdou says, nodding towards a pickup. ‘That one’s 10 million.’^[1]

This would be equivalent to almost $17,000, but the pickup is not for sale. Abdou’s barracks yard is a storage for evidence. Until recently, each of these vehicles was shuttling from Agadez in Niger to Libya, each truck bed filled with Nigerian, Senegalese, Cameroonian or Gambian nationals traveling 950 mi – three days’ drive if everything went smoothly. Now, in November 2017, the desert dust buries the abandoned belongings of the former passengers like relics of a bygone civilization: old shoes, empty pill packets, water canisters decorated with bears for the children. And a Quran. A Quran? Abdou knocks off the dust and takes it with him. The Word of God must not lie in the dirt.

Fog and sand blend into a dusty grey haze. By Sahara standards it is cool this morning. To the side of the yard, a soldier in a tank top hoses off an armored vehicle like an animal keeper rinsing a dirty elephant. A few soldiers load their scout car with ammunition belts before setting off to patrol the desert.

Abdou became commander three years ago. Soon afterwards, the National Assembly of Niger passed Law No. 2015-36 against unlawful trafficking of migrants. Since then, Issak Abdou has had to arrest the drivers who take people across the desert. Their vehicles are impounded, 107 by now. Almost as many drivers are sitting in the prisons of the desert cities of Agadez and Bilma. Most of them are awaiting trial and could face up to 30 years in prison. ‘What they did used to be legal,’ says Abdou. ‘Now it’s considered human trafficking. Worse than dealing drugs or guns.’^[2]

People smuggling? Human trafficking? The pickup drivers were actually running nothing more than a taxi service from Agadez through the Sahara. Since flights are expensive, Africans prefer to travel by bus, or in the taxi vans that are common on the continent. Until recently, the millennia-old city of Agadez was a tourist attraction. Much of the local population earned an income from international visitors, especially in the transportation sector. But since Islamist militias have become active in the Sahara, fewer tourists visit. Increasingly, local taxi and bus drivers transport migrants to make money. To the EU, however, they are smugglers. As stated in a 2015 Frontex report: ‘Human traffickers in Agadez see themselves as service providers. Attempts to combat this growing industry could trigger local protests.’^[3]

This is how the desert state became Europe’s main partner in the fight against irregular migration in Africa, although the EU hardly cared about Niger until then. Screens at the Frontex headquarters in Warsaw show high-resolution satellite images. The EU border agency traces tire tracks in the sand of the central Sahara, over 2,500 mi to the south. From Agadez, trucks, buses or desert-proof pickups loaded with goods and migrants must travel thousands of miles through the desert to reach the Libyan border. Frontex officials in Warsaw analyze onscreen images of drivers stopping to fill up containers at the few water points on this route. A 2016 Frontex report states: ‘It was observed that smugglers tend to move between Agadez and the Libyan border on Mondays, when the weekly military convoys usually leave to provide supplies to bases in northern Niger. The presence of the military offers additional protection to the smugglers.’^[4]

The confiscated trucks are testament to what people go through to get closer to Europe. The back of a Toyota Hilux Single Cab, Series 7, the model used by almost all ‘smugglers’ here, is 7.6ft long and 5ft wide, slightly larger than a double bed. In this space, up to 25 people would ride through the desert. Abdou picks up a stick lying in the sand. He puts it between his legs, bends his knees slightly and grips the wood with both hands. ‘That’s how they held on. No one could stand it otherwise,’ he says.^[5]

The closer migrants get to Europe, the more crime-ridden, expensive and dangerous the journey becomes. Starting out, they can board buses for little money; in the end they pay a fortune for a life-threatening boat trip. Agadez is the turning point. Until here, the law is on their side. Beyond this place they can rely on nothing.

The village of Tourayet, population 100, lies a few hours by car east of Agadez. Along the way, the landscape varies between gravel, sand and bushland. A group of Touareg waters its camels at the single village well. Now and then, the outlines of trucks appear on the dusty horizon. They lumber along the dirt road, ludicrously overloaded with hundreds of bundles of cheap Libyan imports.

At the entrance to Tourayet, a limp rope crosses the road. Traders in a few huts sell firewood and grilled goat. This village is one of the many checkpoints on the route through the Sahara. Along the way there are some wells, small settlements and traffic, so accidents do not go unnoticed.

National Guardsman Hamdou stands next to his jeep chewing on a twig of miswak wood and watching a red truck roll up. About 30 men are sitting in the cargo area. They wear loose robes; turbans cover their heads and their faces. The driver gets out, a blue folder in his hand. The guardsmen slowly leaf through it, then pull the rope aside. The truck moves on.

‘They’re Nigeriens. They want to go to a mine nearby to look for gold,’ says Hamdou. ‘Nigeriens and Libyans. Nobody else can pass here anymore.’^[6]

The rope controlled by the guardsmen is the barrier blocking the somewhat safe path through the desert for many. ‘Every Monday when the convoys left Agadez, 200 cars came through here,’ says Hamdou. According to a census by the International Organization for Migration (IOM), an average of 6,300 people per week left Agadez for Libya and Algeria in 2016. Now just a lonely donkey plods over the gravel; its legs are hobbled so that it can only take small steps. ‘These days, nobody comes anymore,’ says Hamdou. ‘The drivers are going to jail.’^[7]

Hamdou’s uniform bears the badge of the G5 Sahel Joint Force, the new multinational squad against terrorism, drug smuggling and human trafficking in the Sahel. The EU is giving more than €100^[8] million for the desert army. Hamdou’s unit last found a group of migrants abandoned in the desert four months earlier. 60 people, three bodies. ‘That also used to happen before the ban,’ he says. But now the traffickers drive straight through the desert instead of taking the road. ‘Sometimes they get lost, sometimes there are accidents and sometimes they just leave people behind when they think we’re following them.’^[9]

Hussein Chani is no longer driving through the desert. On a hot morning, the Tuareg man stands in an empty courtyard on the outskirts of Agadez. He wears jeans and sunglasses, his cell phone in his shirt pocket. The clay walls are too high for an...