Public Project
Perdu dans le désert
Pour celui qui n’a jamais mis les pieds dans le désert entre la Tunisie et le Maroc, il est difficile de comprendre l’étendue de cet océan de sable, la chaleur, la sensation de soif et parfois celle d’être perdu au milieu de nulle part. A l’extérieur de Tozeur, au Sud-Ouest de la Tunisie, le désert nous ouvre ses portes, le sable s’étend à perte de vue, et on peut trouver des bâtiments vides, restés debout tels des témoins de la présence des hommes. C’est dans l’un d’eux que par hasard je rencontre un groupe de jeunes hommes en exil depuis la Gambie. Alors que je prends une photo du désert, j’entends un bruit, et lorsque je me retourne, deux yeux apeurés me fixent dans l’obscurité. C’est par cet échange de regard que se fera la rencontre avec Lamine et ses amis.
Arrivés la veille à Tozeur, ils ont marché depuis la frontière algérienne où le dernier passeur les a laissés. Sans eau, nourriture et surtout sans moyen de communication avec leurs proches ou le prochain chauffeur qui pourra les amener à Sfax, point de départ du périple vers l’Italie. Bakary, Lamine et les autres se sont rencontrés sur la route et aujourd’hui ils fonctionnent comme une famille. Lorsque je les rencontre, ils peuvent enfin contacter leur passeur et prendre contact avec un chauffeur. Le premier qui leur répond demande le prix de 350 euros par tête soit une petite fortune pour eux. Ils s’énervent, refusent et reprennent déjà la longue liste des numéros écrits au stylo sur une feuille de papier roulée. Les hommes se mettent d’accord sur le prix de 200 euros et finissent par entrer en contact avec un chauffeur qui accepte de les récupérer là où ils sont après envoi d’une photo et d’une vidéo pour qu’il puisse les retrouver.
Malheureusement, le départ n’a jamais eu lieu et je le retrouve deux jours plus tard, toujours au même endroit. Le chauffeur n’est jamais venu et sans internet, ils n’ont pas pu le rappeler. A mon arrivée, le même ballet d’appel reprend donc et le chauffeur leur dit être venu mais n’avoir trouvé personne. Maintenant il refuse de venir jusqu’à Tozeur et dit qu’il ne pourra les prendre qu’au départ de Gafsa à 92 kilomètres d’ici. L’ambiance est morose mais une décision est prise: si ce soir aucun chauffeur n’est trouvé, ils partiront à pied pour Gafsa dès que la nuit sera tombée. Les hommes se préparent, il faut manger et boire en prévision de la longue marche de plusieurs jours. Finalement, jusqu’au bout ils espéreront; un chauffeur accepte de les récupérer mais pour cela il leur faut effectuer les transferts d’argent tout de suite ce qui est impossible pour eux dans l’immédiat. Il faut donc se résoudre au départ. Je les observe, leurs regards reflètent à la fois l’appréhension et la détermination. Comme me l’écrit Madi, “rejoindre Sfax est aujourd’hui le seul but que j’ai”.
Lost in the Desert
The desert between Tunisia and Morocco is both a fascinating and terrifying place. For those who have never set foot there, it's hard to imagine the vastness of this ocean of sand, the oppressive heat, the unquenchable thirst, and sometimes the feeling of being lost in a place where the horizon seems endless. Just outside of Tozeur, in the southwest of Tunisia, the desert opens its doors, with sand stretching as far as the eye can see. Amid this inhospitable landscape, abandoned buildings stand tall, silent witnesses to the presence of humans in the past. It is in one of these buildings, by sheer chance, that I meet a group of young men from Gambia, in exile. While I’m taking a photo of the desert, I hear a sound, and when I turn around, I lock eyes with Lamine, whose fearful gaze pierces the darkness. It is through this exchange of glances that our meeting begins. They arrived the day before in Tozeur after a long walk from the Algerian border, where the last smuggler left them behind. Without water, food, and especially with no way of communicating with their loved ones or the next driver who might take them to Sfax, the starting point of their journey to Italy, they find themselves completely isolated. Lamine, Bakary, and the others met along the way, and now they function as a family. When I find them, after hours of waiting and uncertainty, they manage to contact their smuggler and reach a driver. The price for their transport is exorbitant: 350 euros per person, far too much for them. After a heated discussion, they refuse this offer and go through their list of phone numbers written by hand on a piece of paper. They eventually find a driver who agrees to pick them up from their location, after receiving a photo and a video to facilitate the meeting. Unfortunately, the long-awaited departure never happens. Two days later, I find the group in the same spot, unchanged. The driver never showed up, and without internet access, they could not contact him to inform him of their whereabouts. The same sequence of phone calls begins again, and this time, the driver tells them he came but couldn’t find anyone. Now, he refuses to come to Tozeur and insists they go to Gafsa, 92 kilometers away. The mood grows heavier, but a decision is made: if no driver shows up that evening, they will walk to Gafsa as soon as night falls. They prepare themselves. They must eat and drink to prepare for the long journey, which could take several days. Finally, after more hours of waiting, a driver agrees to pick them up. But there’s a condition: the money must be transferred immediately, which is impossible for them right now. The disappointment is palpable, but they resign themselves to leaving on foot. Their determination remains intact, and despite the fatigue and uncertainty, they prepare for the long road ahead. I watch them. Their gazes are a mix of apprehension and determination. As Madi writes to me, “Reaching Sfax is now the only goal I have.” In these gazes, one can read hope, but also the struggle against adversity, the impossibility of turning back, and the firm belief that, despite everything, the journey must continue.
The desert between Tunisia and Morocco is both a fascinating and terrifying place. For those who have never set foot there, it's hard to imagine the vastness of this ocean of sand, the oppressive heat, the unquenchable thirst, and sometimes the feeling of being lost in a place where the horizon seems endless. Just outside of Tozeur, in the southwest of Tunisia, the desert opens its doors, with sand stretching as far as the eye can see. Amid this inhospitable landscape, abandoned buildings stand tall, silent witnesses to the presence of humans in the past. It is in one of these buildings, by sheer chance, that I meet a group of young men from Gambia, in exile. While I’m taking a photo of the desert, I hear a sound, and when I turn around, I lock eyes with Lamine, whose fearful gaze pierces the darkness. It is through this exchange of glances that our meeting begins. They arrived the day before in Tozeur after a long walk from the Algerian border, where the last smuggler left them behind. Without water, food, and especially with no way of communicating with their loved ones or the next driver who might take them to Sfax, the starting point of their journey to Italy, they find themselves completely isolated. Lamine, Bakary, and the others met along the way, and now they function as a family. When I find them, after hours of waiting and uncertainty, they manage to contact their smuggler and reach a driver. The price for their transport is exorbitant: 350 euros per person, far too much for them. After a heated discussion, they refuse this offer and go through their list of phone numbers written by hand on a piece of paper. They eventually find a driver who agrees to pick them up from their location, after receiving a photo and a video to facilitate the meeting. Unfortunately, the long-awaited departure never happens. Two days later, I find the group in the same spot, unchanged. The driver never showed up, and without internet access, they could not contact him to inform him of their whereabouts. The same sequence of phone calls begins again, and this time, the driver tells them he came but couldn’t find anyone. Now, he refuses to come to Tozeur and insists they go to Gafsa, 92 kilometers away. The mood grows heavier, but a decision is made: if no driver shows up that evening, they will walk to Gafsa as soon as night falls. They prepare themselves. They must eat and drink to prepare for the long journey, which could take several days. Finally, after more hours of waiting, a driver agrees to pick them up. But there’s a condition: the money must be transferred immediately, which is impossible for them right now. The disappointment is palpable, but they resign themselves to leaving on foot. Their determination remains intact, and despite the fatigue and uncertainty, they prepare for the long road ahead. I watch them. Their gazes are a mix of apprehension and determination. As Madi writes to me, “Reaching Sfax is now the only goal I have.” In these gazes, one can read hope, but also the struggle against adversity, the impossibility of turning back, and the firm belief that, despite everything, the journey must continue.
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