Free The Almond Blossom Appreciation Society by Chris Stewart Page B

life than the one they were escaping. And yet it was impossible not to admire these determined youths. They were clearly exhausted, hungry, thirsty and destitute, and here they were wandering through a land whose language they didn’t speak, ever at risk of being caught by police patrols. They were seeking hope and opportunity – a future with the dignity of work.
     ‘Are you hungry?’ asked Ana.
    ‘We are a little hungry,’ replied Hamid.
    Ana got up to go to the kitchen. As she did, she noticed that they were all eyeing the packet of cigarettes she had left on the table. She smiled and pushed it across to Hamid. They fell hungrily upon the packet, and somehow the tiny act of generosity, the ritual and the sweet smoke of freshly lit tobacco worked a magical effect. The fear seemed to fall away, there was a tangible feeling of relief, as they pulled the calming smoke deep into their lungs. (I suppose that’s the way it is with snouts; I’ve never managed to smoke one, so I don’t know.)
    Soon Ana had a meal on the table for them. There was a tureen of thick gazpacho , a buttery, yellow omelette made with our own farm eggs, thick slabs of bread and butter and honey. It was a bit short on the meat, but all we had in the house was bacon and ham and sausages of pig. Still, the four of them set to the food like thin wolves. Pausing briefly, Hamid told us that they had not eaten a thing for two days. They had no food, no money and, worst of all, no tobacco.
    We watched them as they ate. They were painfully thin and, from what I could gather from Hamid, were village boys from the desert border area in the south, where unemployment is endemic and secondary education rare. Quite probably each of these boys represented the investments of a whole village, or at least of an extended family. People would have scraped together their assets and given them to these ill-prepared young men so that they could find work in the distant fastness of Fortress Europe, and send home what money they were able to put aside. They didn’t look much – who of us would after tendays in the mountains with barely a thing to eat? – and yet these boys bore upon their shoulders huge burdens of hope, and were risking their lives to bring these dreams to fruition.
    It was shocking to reflect, given their appearance, that things were going well for Hamid and his party, thus far. They had survived the appallingly treacherous sea journey, on some barely seaworthy boat; they had travelled east for ten days without being caught by the Guardia Civil patrols; and now they had fallen in with us. The tobacco and food were visibly reviving the group, but still their eyes darted narrowly about, casting glances around at the farm, and us, and searching for warning signs. I wanted to say something to convince Hamid of our good intentions, but it wasn’t that easy, particularly in French. You can’t say: ‘We mean you no harm.’ It sounds silly. ‘Don’t worry; you’re safe with us.’ Not much better.
    As the group finished their meal and talked among themselves in Berber, Ana and I discussed what to do. El Ejido is a wretched place: acres and acres of greenhouses, where Moroccan and other illegal migrants work in dire conditions, for pitiful wages. It was awful to think of them ending up there, but they seemed determined and we had no other plan we could offer in its place. Reaching El Ejido, however, would be no simple matter. There remained a good four days’ walk over some pretty rough and broken countryside. Ana looked thoughtful.
    ‘We can at least take the trauma out of the journey,’ she said. ‘We could drive them there – or you could. You could wait for nightfall and then go the back way, via Cádiar.’ Ana’s caution was as much for my sake as for the Moroccans. Helping illegal immigrants is against the law,and carries the possibilities of a prison sentence and confiscation of one’s car. It seemed unlikely that I’d be caught, but