By Malia Politzer and Emily Kassie
The biggest refugee crisis in recorded history has engulfed continents, swung elections and fueled the rise of nativism.
It has also made a lot of people very, very rich. These are the stories of the CEOs, criminal masterminds, pencil-pushers and low-flying vultures who have figured out how to profit from global instability, also known as human suffering.
Smugglers
The migrant crisis has converted a tiny city in Niger into one of the continent’s most prominent and cruel smuggling hubs. Weapons, drugs, laundered money, hapless migrants, indentured prostitutes—they all pass through Agadez. And then the trouble radiates out from there. (This entire piece was completed with support from the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting.)
On a baking-hot day in August, Bilal Garo, a distant relative of the current sultan of Agadez, was sitting on a carpet on the dusty floor of his traditional mud house. He is more than 80 years old, with deep laugh lines etched around his cataract-clouded brown eyes that have witnessed the transformation of Agadez from a place he loved into a town run by traffickers. “We cannot go back,” he said. “We can only move on.”
In the 15th century, Agadez emerged out of sandy nothingness to become a trading outpost on the southern edge of the Sahara Desert. Tribesmen would come through town to exchange millet, cloth and gold, before moving on to their next destination. Centuries passed, the city grew and regional tourism replaced low-level trade as the primary driver of the economy (the center of Agadez is a UNESCO World Heritage Site). Then, beginning in 2007, a series of rebellions scared away the tourists. That was followed by the collapse of Libya, which left the country’s borders open and unguarded and made the smuggling of Africans into Europe a structured, multinational, multi-million dollar industry.
As recently as 2013, the Global Initiative Against Transnational Organized Crime reported that all the trans-Saharan migrant smuggling networks combined were making $8 to $20 million per year. By 2015, according to the same organization, they were making more than $300 million in Libya alone. And a high percentage of people who travel along the sub-Saharan route have to go through Agadez before heading north. By even the most conservative estimates, migrant traffic (to say nothing of the more profitable trade in weapons and narcotics) brings in about $20 million per year to Agadez, according to Tuesday Reitano, deputy director of the Global Initiative.
The Game Got Bigger
The trans-Saharan smuggling business grew wildly between 2013 and 2015. The final number shows how much it was estimated to be worth $323M in 2015—in Libya alone.
As a result, the city’s elite business classes now include drug dealers, smugglers and pimps—the type of people who rape newly trafficked women to “break” them, beat migrants who haven’t paid their passage or bribe officials so that all this illicit work may continue. The downtown is dotted with Western Union signs and storefronts for banks. Brand-new McMansions are sprouting up on the fringes of town. Just taking photographs of these homes can be dangerous.
The criminal influence of smugglers can seem inescapable here. Consider the tiny corner store that sells baby shampoo, diapers and grain staples that could somehow afford an air-conditioning unit and flat-screen TV, rare luxuries in this part of the world. If you walk through the back door into an open-air courtyard, you’ll find its real income source: a dozen near-starving migrants, sleeping on plastic mats, waiting to be loaded onto trucks destined for Libya. Then there’s the Nigerian restaurant that doubles as a brothel, located on a road a short stroll from the main mosque. After the sun goes down and devout Muslims answer the fifth and final call to prayer, the pimps release the prostitutes they lock up all day into the streets to approach potential clients.
The government has made some cursory attempts to crack down on all this misconduct, but mainly it just finds ways to benefit from it. Before leaving for Libya, smuggling vehicles are stopped by police who demand a “transportation tax” of $3 to $80. The reason for that wide margin is that only a few bucks goes to the city of Agadez; the rest presumably lines the border agents’ pockets. (All figures in this section have been converted from CFA francs to dollars).
As long as there’s poverty and unrest that makes people want to leave their homelands, and as long as people can find a way to profit off migration, the smuggling business will continue. Migrants and refugees will suffer, criminals will enrich themselves and Bilal Garo’s hometown will become even more treacherous.
The Unvirtuous Cycle
Here’s what the Agadez-based smuggling operation actually looks like.
The Escape : In high season, an estimated 5,000 people from neighboring countries arrive in Agadez each week in the hopes of eventually making it to Europe.
The Wait : These people are housed in ghettos until they are stuffed onto trucks headed for Libya.
The Secret Cargo : But unbeknownst to the migrants or the drivers, some of the trucks are also loaded up with drugs and foreign currency.
The Fire : Once the drivers offload the migrants, drugs and money in Libya, their trucks are packed with fresh contraband for the return journey—usually weapons.
The Twist : After being sold in Agadez, these weapons will often end up in the hands of groups like the Islamic State, Boko Haram in Nigeria and al Qaeda in Mali—the groups many of the migrants were fleeing from in the first place.
The Players : Now, let’s meet the people who make the system go round and round.
The Passers
This guy on the bike, his name is Khalid. He’s a “passer.” That means he functions as an all-inclusive travel agent for migrants, someone who provides for their food, transportation and sleeping arrangements at every point along their journey. He spends much of his day talking on his orange Nokia cell phone (one of several he keeps with him at all times) monitoring their progress, first from their home villages in Gambia and Burkina Faso to Agadez, then from Agadez to Libya.
He has a massive network of local contacts in the villages along migrant routes that keep him informed of his clients’ progress. If they run into problems along the way—maybe they don’t have enough money to pay bribes at roadblocks—Khalid will intervene to ensure they make it to their next destination, often loaning them cash and occasionally driving to pick them up.
Passers like Khalid are among the highest-paid players in the migrant smuggling business in this part of the world, charging $200 to $400 per person to see migrants safely to Libya. Not all of this is profit. Unless they are also ghetto owners, passers pay an average of $50 per week to rent space in Agadez’s ghettos. They also cover food costs and are responsible for paying truck owners once a migrant calls to confirm he has safely arrived at the drop-point in Libya.
Khalid is a slim man in his mid-30s, though he looks much younger. He speaks softly, almost in singsong, and emphasizes his words with delicate, precise gestures. During our interview, which was frequently interrupted by his “Ave Maria” ringtone, he fielded panicked calls from clients, managing to reassure them in a tone that was deliberately calm, level and low. “I do not believe in losing my temper,” he said, after finishing a conversation with migrants who were stranded at a roadblock in Burkina Faso, unable to pay an $80 bribe. “What is the point? Things happen. If you stay calm, it is easier to focus on what needs to be done.”
Khalid’s Cut = $17,686 per month
All numbers were confirmed by migrants, smugglers, truck owners and ghetto owners. Khalid disputes that he makes that much.
Once upon a time, Khalid, a native Gambian, was a government contractor who helped build middle schools. But after the World Bank cut the project that funded his contract, he decided to leave Gambia to find work in Europe. On his way north, he met up with other migrants making the same journey, loaning money to those who didn’t have the funds to pay for transportation. He soon realized he had a knack for organizing people, and for negotiating business deals.
He never made it to Europe. Instead, he started a business in Morocco, coordinating migrants’ journeys into Spain. When the Spanish route started shifting to Libya, he moved to Agadez. “I have been doing this kind of work for years, and I don’t charge interest,” he said. “I am a good person.”
The migrants in the compound he’s renting, and the compound owner he’s renting from, say otherwise: They claim he gives them only rice and water to eat, and that he took all the money the migrants brought with them, leaving them completely broke. “I am always loaning them money, and helping them when they get into trouble,” Khalid said, examining his fingernails. “I basically work for free.”
The Ghettos
The word “ghetto” doesn’t mean the same thing in Agadez as it does in the U.S. In Agadez, ghettos are dusty, open-air courtyards hidden from view behind rust-colored mudbrick walls. They’re the places migrants stay until their relatives wire payments for the next leg of the journey, and each one can hold anywhere from just a few people to nearly 100. No one knows exactly how many ghettos exist within the city limits, but locals estimate the number to be between 70 and 200.
We visited three ghettos in Agadez, one of them owned by a tall, brisk man in a brightly colored pineapple print shirt named Ahmed Mouhamed. Originally from Agadez, Mouhamed started working in the migrant business in 2003, when he acquired a compound. Today, in addition to the ghetto he owns, he rents out two others. “You have to move people sometimes,” he explained. “You don’t want the police to find you.” He also owns three trucks and works as a passer.
Mouhamed was skittish about showing us his ghetto, allowing us fewer than 15 minutes before shooing us out the door. His compound was spartan, consisting of a small open-air area and several stuffy rooms, with more than 30 men crowded inside. Some were lounging on plastic mats laid out over the dirt without the luxury of pillows or blankets. A thatched canopy provided the only protection from the scalding sun. In the corner of Mouhamed’s ghetto were four large plastic barrels full of water, where several men were washing their clothes.
When we arrived, Mouhamed had just told the group they would be leaving on trucks to Libya the next morning, and the ghetto buzzed with nervous excitement. One of Mouhamed’s migrants, a 19-year old from Gambia, had been stuck there for two weeks. “I am going to Spain,” he said. “I have a cousin there who picks olives. He says there is good work there.” He explained that his cousin makes about $40 a day, excellent money as far as he was concerned. He was so happy to be leaving Agadez, to finally eat something other than the curry and rice he’d been served over and over. “There are no jobs in my village,” he said. “In Europe I have a future. This is why I must go.”
The Prostitutes
On a Friday evening, in a filthy alley on the outskirts of Agadez, more than a dozen young women had just been let out of the compounds where they are kept under guard during daylight hours. They wore tight spandex pants and shirts with plunging necklines and stood in silence waiting for the men to arrive. Their pimp, who refused to give his name, was a scrawny, scowling man with lightning-bolt sideburns and multiple gold chains around his neck. He monitored the women from his seat on a rusted motorcycle nearby, a red baseball cap shading his small, squinting eyes from the rays of the setting sun.
Most of the women were lured from Nigeria, though others came from Ghana and Gambia. Very few knew what they were getting into. They just wanted to get away from Boko Haram, or the bruising poverty and food shortages in their hometowns. And traffickers have learned exactly how to seduce them. Wealthy madams fly down from Europe to regale them with stories of riches. Other recruiters are family friends, who convince parents that their daughters are their tickets out of poverty. In rare cases, traffickers pose as boyfriends or potential husbands, then bring them north telling them they’ll get lucrative jobs in Europe as saleswomen in bakeries and boutique clothing shops.
Before departing, many Nigerian women participate in a binding ritual called a “juju oath.” (Voodoo is referred to as “juju” locally.) In this pact, a local priest puts strands of a woman’s hair, slivers of her nails or items containing her bodily secretions (like a pair of panties stained with menstrual blood) in a bag that also contains her photograph. This packet represents spiritual control over a woman, and she is made to believe that she or her family will be killed unless her debt to her trafficker is repaid.
The Price of Freedom: There’s no accounting for what a woman really pays. (All numbers are approximate.). The maximum amount a woman owes her pimp is $3,000 . The number of sex acts required to leave Agadez 1,000
For many years, the Nigerian mafia primarily sent women to Italy on planes, with fake passports. But increased airport security checks and the collapse of Libya have caused the mafia to shuttle women along the same routes used by economic migrants and refugees. Agadez is often the first stop for Nigeria’s sex traffickers. Here, a representative from the International Organization for Migration reports, women can be “broken in”—repeatedly raped by traffickers, then forced to have sex with eight or more men per day. The women say they earn $3 per sex act in Agadez, money that goes straight to their pimp, to whom they owe a debt of up to $3,000 for “travel expenses.” After paying that off, they are taken to Libya, where they live in a compound called “La Maison Blanche,” or the White House. There, they also suffer sexual violence until the gangs put them on boats to Europe. And then once they reach the continent, they are hidden away in brothels in countries such as Italy, France, the United Kingdom, Belgium and Finland.
“I thought we were going straight to Libya,” a 26-year old woman named Manuela explained, twirling a braided extension around her hand. “Then they told us we would be doing this work. This isn’t what I wanted. I will work off my debt, then I want to go home.”
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Malia Politzer – Freelance Journalist, Writer & Editor , Institute for Current World Affairs, Granada, Andalucía, España
Emily Kassie – Investigative Journalist, Filmmaker & Photographer. Founding Creative Director
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Huffington Post
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