Eritrea: Osman S.: A migrant on the run reminds me of my blessings

CANTANIA, ITALY—Osman S. never made it into the newspaper.

But he certainly did carve out a place in my memory.

The 27-year-old was one of the first migrants I met while in Sicily. It was early on a Monday morning, my first full day there, outside the Stazione Catania Centrale — the train station that is the gateway to the Italian mainland and Europe beyond. I had gone there in search of “unaccompanied minors” — those under the age of 18, migrating alone.

Osman was there, acting like a father figure to half a dozen teenage Eritrean boys loitering near a majestic fountain. Some of them had been on the same smuggler’s boat, which had been intercepted just days earlier by the Italian navy.

My translator spoke Arabic, but not Eritrean. Osman — who spoke some English but not enough to translate — stepped in, creating a three-stage interview process: Questions were asked in English, translated to Arabic, then translated by Osman to Eritrean. The process was reversed for the answers.

Osman was interested in both the questions and in helping these youngsters share their stories. One after another, he interpreted their harrowing voyages across the Sahara and the Mediterranean. Most of the boys wore cheap foam sandals with the word SPORT written on them; handouts from when they arrived. One boy was wearing a pair of green Crocs adorned with the signatures of his fellow travellers.

When Osman was translating those answers into Arabic, his look was both intelligent and intense — it was clear he took this task seriously.

Osman seemed to welcome this break from the monotony of simply waiting for the next step in his voyage. He had no money, or certainly not enough for a train ticket, so he was in limbo. Hoping, somehow, to gather enough cash to keep moving.

“If I find a chance today, I will go tomorrow,” he said. “The problem is, I don’t speak Italian. So it’s very difficult to find work.”

His goal? Norway. But he wasn’t entirely sure.

“Is Denmark nice?” he asked.

Though Osman would not become part of the story, I was curious about him. And so, after the interviews were complete, I asked him to walk a bit. We spoke together in English — his command was actually better than I was aware. We didn’t have much time, but long enough for him to tell me he had been imprisoned in Eritrea and managed to escape.

As we were about to part, he suddenly asked: “Can you give me some money? To get to Milan is €100.” He looked simultaneously hopeful, ashamed and desperate.

I could not give him €100 — but I would give him €10 for his translation assistance. (I should have given more, and regret that I did not. I had changed only a small amount of money at the airport the previous day, and didn’t have much.) I told him I would see him again.

After leaving Osman, I stopped at a local Catholic charity. It was a block from the train station, and I learned that scores of migrants arrive early for breakfast. I requested permission to observe the next day.

After leaving the charity the following morning, I walked back to the train station. Osman was there, greeting me with a warm smile like an old friend. The same boys we’d spoken to the previous day were there as well, but seemed less receptive to my presence. No one wanted their picture taken, and answers this time came begrudgingly. One boy clammed up completely.

“He just doesn’t want to talk this much,” explained Osman, gently adding: “He’s a little child.” He was right, of course.

I had asked Osman the previous day where they slept. He had told me it was a nearby abandoned building. I asked him to show me.

A few blocks away was the central bus station. There was a large lot where the buses swung in and out, and a wide platform for passengers. That platform ran underneath the overhang of a building, offering protection from rain. Osman gestured down. This was where they slept.

“Thirty to 35 of us,” he said. Large pieces of cardboard shielded against the cold concrete.

And what about meals at night?

“Sometimes, people come and distribute food.” But not always.

Osman and his compatriots could have been sleeping in beds, with regular meals in one of Sicily’s temporary facilities for migrants. But because all of them wanted to keep moving, they were deliberately avoiding those comforts and the documentation that comes with them. Osman told me he had worked for six years in a hospital as a medical assistant. He had been “helping with children,” he said — which explained his gentle and protective relationship with the minors.

On Friday, I returned to the train station. The children, the unaccompanied minors, were all gone. They had paid someone to drive them to Rome.

Osman was still there, wearing the same blue fleece jacket as on Monday and Tuesday. Wearing, in fact, the only clothes he had.

We chatted more. I explained I would be leaving Sicily soon, and wished him well on his voyage.

The stark contrast, the vast gulf between us due to little more than luck of birthplace, lodged irrevocably in my mind. Before long, I would be comfortably seated on an aircraft, heading toward my family, my home, my country. Osman would likely still be here. Waiting.

I gave him some money before he could ask, and because I wanted to. I told him I’d like to take a photo. He looked unsure — fearful a published image of him in Italy might ruin his prospects of applying for political asylum in a different country.

It’s not for the newspaper, I explained. I wanted a picture of us, together, to remember him by.

His eyes lit up, he put his arm over my shoulder, and we both smiled for the camera.