The doors of the Ortega y Gasset school in Ceuta open at 9 in the morning. From a few minutes before, the students crowd in front of the school doors, holding their parents’ hands. It is the first day of the school year.
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“Are you excited?” a father asks his daughter eagerly, expecting an enthusiastic response.
She shrugs indifferently.
“Not much,” she replies.
Today, 13,000 minors are called to return to the 35 schools in the city of Ceuta. They do so amid uncertainty about whether their classmates will attend or how the first day of class will unfold after the situation the city has been experiencing for over a month.
Around half past eight in the morning, a military helicopter flies over the area. An unusual sight that the people of Ceuta receive with some “normality” given the circumstances. At the door, a girl no older than 8 greets one of the soldiers guarding the entrances in a friendly manner. He returns the greeting. There are six of them, and their presence is also a striking image. Children with new backpacks and the excitement of reuniting with their friends, contrasted with the serious faces of the Army, who have been guarding the area for over a month. “We had to explain to them that they are good and that they come to help us”, explains a mother who says she has been bombarded with questions from her children.
At the door, another woman arrives dressed for work, in a full black suit. She opens the back door of the car, and her daughter (who is no more than 10 years old) jumps out of the vehicle. She accompanies her to the entrance where a man over 80 years old waits and greets her with a big hug. He is her grandfather. According to his granddaughter, “the best grandfather in the world,” she says happily. They call him El Patilla and he has run a bar for more than 40 years: “In my business, I have dealt with everything, and today I have to be here to take care of my granddaughter, my daughter can’t do it, and my other son is taking care of another little one in the family. We organize ourselves as best we can.” This is the reality of the people of Ceuta on September 8 after the massive influx of immigrants on July 30. Real juggling between working parents and children who can no longer go to school alone. The luckiest have grandparents who help them.
“Look, this is my lawyer,” she says while showing a stick with the inscription: “El Patilla’s lawyer” – “if anyone comes to touch my granddaughter, I will not hesitate to use it.”
When we ask his granddaughter if she is eager to return to class, her answer is nothing other than “well… not much. I think most of my classmates won’t come,” and that is also a latent reality. In fact, minutes later, a car passes in front of the school, a man sticks his head out and shouts “I’m not bringing mine!”.
“School is where they will be best, the problem is the street”
Time passes and other children approach the door. All of them accompanied, not a single one comes without family support. This is the case of a mother walking with her two daughters who hold their new wheeled backpacks with excitement and uncertainty: “I had to bring them, leaving them at home is more of a punishment for them than for anyone else,” she says. “Besides, inside the school is where they will be best. Once they enter, I feel calm. The problem is the street,” she assures.
At five to nine, the doors open and the children start entering. The parents hand them over to the women at the center who wait to receive them at the entrance. Hand delivery, so to speak. Once they see them inside the premises, they feel calm and leave.
Minutes later, this newspaper meets with Javier Pérez Rodríguez, director of the Puertas del Campo Institute, an educational center with 450 students. It is located in the neighborhood known as “El Morro,” two kilometers from the Tarajal industrial area.
In the area, there are young immigrants who live on the streets and in the doorways. The narrow alleys of the neighborhood provide hiding places. It is common to see them wandering around the area, although in those early morning hours most of them are still asleep. “Educationally, we are like in a bubble,” explains Javier, “Maybe the problem is more outside the walls”. However, the concern of the vast majority of teachers has a common point: “We don’t know how the children come from their homes. With a lot of enthusiasm, or with a lot of discouragement, with fear… we don’t know,” he assures.
The director states that the uncertainty of the young people will be transferred to the classrooms, where they will ask questions to try to understand the situation they have been living through (and continue to) until now: “It is essential to respond to them adequately and logically. Obviously far from politics, but without distorting reality,” he concludes.
The security of the centers is in charge of a single private security guard who controls the entrances, something that is deficient in case any incident might occur: “To think that one security guard is enough for an extreme situation like this seems very complicated to me. But well, less is nothing,” he laments.
Javier appeals to the education of the young people, assuring that in his center the maximum normality of activities will be maintained and they will try to emotionally support the children who need it within the “scarce resources” they have. However, he understands that concern in the parents because he assures that “it is evident that there has been a reality. A bad dream for this city.”
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