TE20 Migrant Mosaics

Immigration: The Contest

dogs, which bit at our ankles just to make things more difficult. The weakest youngsters slid down to the ground and took off running from the dogs; excellent, shouted the organizers, and they applauded to give the scene some atmosphere. I got up to the topwith little effort, thanks to the womanly undulations that had captivated the Spanish writer; nevertheless, I didn’t anticipate the razor wire that awaited me at the highest point, cutting away at my delicate hands and dancer’s arms; and my bones crunched against the ground, next to the fence but on the wrong side, while I watched a few imposing Sub-Saharans–strapping, as the expat Spanish writer called them–who, tipped off by some friend about the contest’s new rules this season, wore work gloves that were barely even scratched as they jumped the fence; as the organizers said days later, those blades served to make the challenge more selectiveand toensurethatonlythemostphysicallygifted reached the second phase: only the ones the Europeans needed most. There, at the challenge, I saw Mamadou for the first time; he was one of those Sub-Saharans; he did pass the preliminary phase; I only received the appropriate pats on the back, down on the ground, along with a false smile from one of the organization’s members; a woman with blonde hair and terribly smeared lipstick who said to me with a foreign accent: Well done, thanks for participating. You’re young. Try again next year. Best of luck. It seemed like she was in charge of the whole thing; later I would discover that she was the Minister; she must have mentioned my youth because there were no children this time; compelled by desperation, some parents had signed up their young children in previous seasons and thrown them over the fence, leaving them severely wounded, until the organization banned minors under the age of sixteen from competing and placed cameras and 123