Washed up in our own doing
Washed up in our own doing
A strange rip in the universe, as migrants arrive in luxury Ibiza
It was a morning like any other in Ibiza: bright blue sky, sun burning down, hot already at 9.30am. It had been a windy night, and the peppering of catamarans and sailboats that anchor in the local cove were absent. Instead, as we came down the steps on the far north eastern edge of the island, it was clear something else was happening. A small blue tub was beached, and pouring out of it were ebony skinned young men, their clothes in tatters, grasping at the sand, crying out in jubilation. Rushing towards them were white-skinned bikini-clad tourists, offering water bottles and assistance. The men were elated, the ecstasy of relief written all over their faces. There was one woman amongst them, clambering out of the boat looking traumatised, petrified, grasping a tiny baby, gazing up the beach at where a toddler had been deposited on the sand.
Of course, they were not tourists. They were people on the run, beached accidentally after a terrible night of storms on the high seas. The lifeguards put their arms around them as the joyous men took selfies of this triumphant moment of survival. The tourists helped them with their clothes and belongings. Soon the Guardia Civil arrived, looking slightly bored and non plussed. Not their first rodeo. The group gathered peacefully on the steps and we left them to their future.
It felt like a rip in the universe - a sandy Ibiza beach full of tourists about to enjoy their Saturday; a band of survivors fleeing terror, climate or conflict. It is a reminder that our worlds are not that far apart, that every action we take has a reaction in some distant place, that reverberates closer and closer.
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