In a turn of events so predictably tragic it could have been scripted by a committee of cynical travel agents, fifty souls have perished in the Sahara desert. Their chariot of hope, a lorry so decrepit it would shame a scrap yard, chose the worst possible moment to expire. It coughed, spluttered, and died somewhere between the endless dunes and the indifferent stars.
The migrants, fleeing lives of quiet desperation, instead found a loud and violent one. It’s a story so old it predates the invention of the lorry itself, yet we still pretend to be shocked. The desert, that great leveller, doesn’t care for your paperwork or your passports.
It simply consumes. And it has done so with aplomb, swallowing these fifty dreams whole, leaving only the bleached bones of bureaucracy to pick over. One can almost hear the collective shrug from the comfortable chancelleries of Europe.
Another tragedy? More migrants? Pass the gin.
The route was a known danger, a fact whispered in the hovels and the policy papers alike. But what’s a known danger compared to the unknown horror of staying put? So they climbed aboard, a lorry of last resort, and the desert’s appetite was sated.
I’d be angrier if I wasn’t so drunk on the sheer absurdity of it all. Fifty dead. A headline.
A statistic. And somewhere, a smug official is probably saying this is why borders must be strengthened. As if walls and vigils have ever stopped the wind or the tide of human desperation.
As if the Sahara, that ancient killer, needs any help from us.
