See How Much I Love You

Chapter Seventeen

FROM THE ROOFTOPS IN THE SAHARAWI AREA OF HATA-Rambla, the city looked like a ship sinking into a sea of sand. One could hear the echoes of the commotion taking place in the modern part of El Aaiún. Few people really knew what was happening, so everyone moved with suspicion, trying to deal as best they could with the chaos of the evacuation.

In Hata-rambla there was a general feeling of consternation. No one had any idea what might happen to those who chose to remain in the city. The population assumed, without entirely accepting it, that sooner or later a great catastrophe would occur. Those Saharawis who lived on the outskirts were looking for vehicles in which to leave the city immediately. The most pessimistic, fearing the danger of invasion, would set off into the desert on a cart drawn by a donkey, loaded with barely enough supplies to survive for a few days. Ownership of a vehicle became a great privilege. The Territorial Police, meanwhile, patrolled the exits of the city, and forced anyone trying to escape to turn back. Nevertheless, the desert was difficult to patrol, and in the middle of the night people would flee in all directions.

Santiago San Roman spent his mornings on the rooftop of Lazaar’s house. He felt like a bird perching on top of its own cage. The neighbourhood was like a prison, and it was very difficult to go in and out. Although every man found a way to evade the controls and move around the city, those who lived in Zemla were not prepared to leave behind their women and children. The Moroccan television broadcast disquieting news. Morocco had announced it would organize a peaceful invasion, but the reports coming from the north indicated otherwise. Over ten thousand soldiers had already crossed the border, and were now marching towards the capital.

Sid-Ahmed found Santiago sitting on top of the house, his legs dangling over the façade, smoking a cigarette. Ever since he’d come back, the legionnaire had been acting strangely. He showed little interest in current affairs and did not seem to understand what was going on. He just sat on the rooftop, listening to the noise in the street. The shopkeeper sat down beside him and lit up his pipe.

‘I need you, my friend,’ aid Sid-Ahmed. ‘You’re the only one who can help me.’

San Román could only smile when he thought of the last time Sid-Ahmed had asked for his help. However, he didn’t say what was on his mind; he remained silent, staring at the desert.

‘I’d like you to drive me and my father away in your car.’

‘You can have it whenever you like. You know where the keys are.’

The Saharawi searched for the right words.

‘I know, my friend, but I don’t want your car. I need you to drive us. Later you may return.’

‘You’re not coming back?’

‘No, no, of course not. I’m leaving forever.’

‘Then you can keep the Land Rover forever,’ replied Santiago tersely. ‘I don’t think the Army will mind.’

‘No, still you don’t understand me. I want you to come back to the city in the car. My children and my wife are staying here. I need you to look after them. That’s all I can say for now.’

Santiago came back to reality, suddenly abandoning his self-absorption. Sid-Ahmed’s words sounded sincere. The Saharawi’s face was serious, very serious. Santiago had almost never seen him like this. For the first time he felt they were on an equal footing.

‘Where do you want to go?’

‘I don’t know yet. I only want you to take us out of El Aaiún. I’ll tell you later where to drop us off. You’ll be back here in the morning. I’ve discussed it with my family and Andía’s. They all agree. I can’t do anything here, and my people need me.’

‘Your people?’

‘Yes, my friend, my people. They won’t let me out on my own, but if I go with a legionnaire there won’t be any problems. Do you follow?’

He did. That same night he filled up the radiator with water, checked there was enough fuel in the tank, and got ready to take Sid-Ahmed and his father out of the city. They waited until it was completely dark and said goodbye to the whole family. The Saharawi’s wife wept in silence. Andía hugged Santiago, and he had to make an effort to disentangle himself. Although her expression was serious, Santiago’s spirits rose when he saw how moved the girl was. It was a brief, self-controlled farewell.

Corporal San Román didn’t find it difficult to leave Hata-Rambla. The soldiers guarding the gates had their minds on other things. In spite of their orders, the guards were not too zealous, and when they saw the Corporal’s stripes, they didn’t stand in the way of the vehicle. Later, Santiago, instead of heading for the road to Smara, followed Sid-Ahmed’s directions. Despite what the Saharawi had said earlier, he seemed to know exactly where he was going. They drove to the Saguía river and followed it upstream. There was barely any water, and, in the moonlight, one could make out the reddish tinge of its shallow pools. The Saharawi knew every path, ford and track.

‘If we’ve got far to go, we’ll run out of petrol,’ warned Santiago.

Sid-Ahmed didn’t heed the warning. Santiago drove on for two hours with no idea where he was going. There was neither road nor path. The Land Rover lurched across the desert, at times following an old track, at others ploughing across the stony ground. Santiago, who had always admired the Saharawis’ sense of direction in the night, let himself be guided through the desert, himself unable to tell north from south. He trusted Sid-Ahmed.

About thirty kilometres away from El Aaiún, the vehicle ran out of fuel.

‘I warned you, damn it, I did warn you. The journey’s over.’

Sid-Ahmed remained impassive beside him, without taking his eyes off an imprecise point in the horizon.

‘Calm down, my friend. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Allah will help us.’

San Román had heard that phrase many times, but it had never before sounded so hollow. He tried not to look disconcerted. The silence was terrifying. The Saharawi helped his father out of the car. He sat him down against an acacia and went back to the vehicle. He returned with a teapot, glasses, sugar and water. On seeing this, the legionnaire had to resign himself to the calm temperament of the men of the desert. And when he saw Sid-Ahmed make tea, he knew somehow that nothing would happen to them in that inhospitable place. However, it was beginning to get very cold. The Saharawi walked away a few metres and pulled off some dry branches of an argan tree. Then he cut the white spikes of the acacia. He dug a hole in the ground and made a fire. While they waited for the water to boil and the old man warmed himself, Sid-Ahmed began talking about football. Santiago didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

They drank three glasses of tea, and they would have continued drinking if a light had not appeared at the top of a hillock. The legionnaire stood up, a bit shaken, and alerted the two Saharawis.

‘It’s all right, my friend. Stay here.’

San Román obeyed. He couldn’t do otherwise. The number of lights doubled. Presently he could clearly make out the headlights of two vehicles. They must have seen the fire. They approached slowly, dazzling them with the full beam of the headlights. Sid-Ahmed neither moved nor said anything. The vehicles stopped by the Land Rover of the Nomad Troops. Three or four men came out and walked very slowly toward the acacia. As they proceeded they recited the customary series of greetings, and Sid-Ahmed replied to them casually.

‘Yak-labess.’

‘Yak-labess.’

‘Yak-biher. Baracala.’

‘Baracala.’

‘Al jamdu lih-llah.’

Suddenly, when they were near the fire, Santiago’s heart jumped. The man leading the group was Lazaar. He was dressed as a soldier, but not in the Nomad Troop uniform. He was smiling broadly. Corporal San Román couldn’t muster the strength to stand up. Lazaar greeted the old man respectfully, placed his hand on the man’s head, and then helped Santiago up. He gave him a heart-felt hug.

‘My friend. I knew I would see you again. Thank you.’

‘Why “thank you”?’

‘For looking after my family. They’ve told me everything.’

‘Told you? What have they told you?’

‘I know you were taken prisoner for collaborating with us. Andía is very proud of you.’

‘Andía? How do you know what Andía thinks?’

‘She writes to me and tells me everything. Besides, Sid-Ahmed is a good source of information.’

Santiago did not inquire further for fear of sounding stupid. Sid-Ahmed remained calm, as if the encounter were perfectly normal. He set about making more tea. No one seemed to be in a hurry that night except Santiago, who grew frantic in the face of the men’s laidback attitude. For hours they discussed the cold, the wind, foxes, potholes, sheep, goats and camels. And for the first time he felt acknowledged, since they did so not in Hassaniya but in Spanish. Sid-Ahmed’s father slept through the conversation. The cold became very intense, yet no one complained. When all topics of conversation seemed to have been exhausted, Lazaar addressed Santiago San Román.

‘You’re here for a reason, it was not only to drive Sid-Ahmed and his father. I asked him to bring you along.’

Santiago knew that asking questions only meant delaying the answer, so he didn’t interrupt him in spite of his curiosity.

‘I need to ask you a favour, San Román: I’d like you to get my family out of El Aaiún and take them to Tifariti. We’re gathering everyone we can there.’ The legionnaire still refrained from asking any questions. ‘They’re invading us from the north, and, if certain reports are true, the Mauritanians want to enter the territory as well.’

‘And you want to take them to Tifariti? All of them?’

‘Yes, my friend, all of them. My mother, my aunt and my brothers. Sid-Ahmed’s wife too. His children are already with us.’

Santiago thought this would be quite a mission. For the first time he realised how serious the war was. An array of possibilities crowded into his mind, and he felt a considerable weight on his shoulders.

‘I’m not even sure how I’ll get back. The tank is empty,’ he said naively.

Lazaar did not stop smiling.

‘We’ll take care of that.’

‘And will I know how to get to Tifariti?’

‘Allah will help you.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be asking you.’

The legionnaire did not sleep a wink that night. He felt the cold in his bones, and his stomach was tied into a knot. The Saharawis cleared everything up with utmost calm, and then filled the tank of the Land Rover, using a hose to transfer diesel from their vehicles. When it was time to say goodbye, Santiago felt the need to be frank, even if it meant looking pathetic.

‘I don’t think I’ll be able to find the way back. All the bushes look the same to me. Besides, I couldn’t see a thing last night.’

‘Forget about last night,’ Said Sid-Ahmed. ‘We took a short cut, but you can go back following the river.’

‘What river? There’s no river here.’

‘Look, do you see that hillock over there? Go over it and carry on facing the sun. You’ll come to a dry riverbed. You can recognise a dry riverbed, can’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Follow it towards the north. Do not veer off. After some ten kilometres you’ll see water, which will take you to the Saguía. Follow the current and you won’t get lost.’

‘What about Tifariti? Won’t I get lost on the way there?’

Lazaar cut an acacia branch and placed two stones on the ground. He traced a line and gave him directions.

‘Don’t take any roads. Always drive across the desert. If you bear east you won’t get lost. Carry on towards Smara, and as soon as you come across tracks going south east, follow them. Always keep to those tracks. All the people who are escaping to Tifariti leave their marks in the desert. Everyone’s going that way. We’ll see you in three days. Also, don’t enter into any villages, however small they may look: they might be already occupied, which would be very dangerous.’

Santiago drove away in the Land Rover, keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror. Once the vehicles were out of sight he focussed on the hillock. Not even when he’d been caught carrying the explosives had he been as frightened as he was now. He carefully followed Sid-Ahmed’s directions, trying to drive as confidently as the Saharawis. He thought that the men had placed too much trust in him, but after two hours driving, when he made out the white houses of el Aaiún, with their eggshell-like roofs in the distance, he knew that nothing would prevent him from reaching Tifariti with Lazaar’s family.

They welcomed him as if he’d been gone for months. Santiago recounted the encounter with the eldest brother in detail. Lazaar’s mother and aunt listened without even blinking. As soon as they were told they had to leave, they started preparing themselves. In the main room, boxes containing clothes, food and all manner of utensils started piling up. Sid-Ahmed’s wife came into the house too. The legionnaire tried to organise the escape as if it were a military operation. He first reviewed the troops. Three adult women, four girls, and six young men. The youngest girl was about three, and the oldest boy over eighteen. Fourteen people, in any case, was a lot for one vehicle. He told Andía, trying to remain calm, but the girl did not think a detail like that mattered.

Santiago decided to go down to the city and steal a car. The eldest of Lazaar’s brothers went with him. This time, however, it wasn’t so easy to move freely in the streets. There were legionnaires posted on the pavements, as if they were about to start a parade. The Territorial Police stopped any vehicles which contained more than two people or looked excessively loaded. Few cars circulated along the main roads, and there were even fewer parked by them. Some had broken windshields or busted locks. Others had been robbed of spare parts and their dead engines were clearly to be seen under their open bonnets. At a junction Santiago stopped dead and made the Saharawi take cover round the corner. A few metres from there, at a street control, they were searching a group of Saharawis, whom they had ordered out of their car. The Spanish soldiers, with their Cetme rifles slung over their shoulders, had them against the wall with legs and arms apart. Santiago froze on hearing a painfully familiar voice. It was Baquedano. Santiago experienced both fear and a crise de conscience. The sergeant was furious. He shouted at the Saharawis as if they were dangerous animals. Suddenly he slapped the youngest one of them and threw him onto the floor. The lad tried to escape, but Baquedano placed his boot on his face and then started kicking him. Santiago San Román wished he had a loaded gun. Anger replaced fear.

‘I’m going to kill him,’ he told Andía’s brother, but the Saharawi stopped him.

‘You have to drive us to Tifariti. We can’t leave on our own.’

They went back to Hata-Rambla, ready to leave the following day as soon as it got dark. The family’s luggage seemed of greater volume than the vehicle.

‘We can’t take all that. It won’t fit. And where will you go?’

‘On the roof,’ said Andía calmly. ‘We’ll squeeze up.’

Santiago knew it was impossible, but was reluctant to disappoint her. Although he didn’t say anything, he had a night-long nightmare in which people, luggage and animals came in and out of the car’s window in a sort of never-ending game of tag. The following morning he went to look for diesel. It wasn’t easy, but he managed to obtain three cans in exchange for a goat. Yet their problems had only just started. Some rumours were confirmed by the locals: El Aaiún had been sealed off by the military. On the 1st of December explosives were found at the Parador Nacional. It was initially thought that the Polisario was behind the attempted attack, but it was later discovered it was the work of a Spanish mayor and a sergeant who was an expert in explosives. The explosives, in fact, turned up next to some cans of butane on the courtyard of the Parador. After that the news spread that a few dignitaries from Morocco and Mauritania were staying there, ready to take over the administration of the territory. Security was tightened. Stop-and-search became indiscriminate. On that December day it was impossible to go around El Aaiún without being stopped and frisked by troops. Santiago had to inform the family that it was impossible to leave the city.

The legionnaire’s new plan was to escape on foot, crossing the river in the middle of the night. With a little luck they’d all manage it, even the small children. He would then come back and try to leave the city in the Land Rover, dressed in his corporal’s uniform. He tried to make them understand that, if they saw him loaded with all those boxes and people on the roof of the vehicle, they would not let him through. Lazaar’s mother seemed to think he would manage it anyway. Yet, after the thwarted attack, it became completely impossible to flee. All San Román could do was wait for a more propitious moment. In any case, they would not make it to Tifariti within the stipulated period of time.

Days passed in anxious uncertainty. They all asked the legionnaire what he was waiting for, and although his precautions were justified they would not understand why he did not honour his word. On the 10th of December, one of the rumours circulating in the city was confirmed. The news was broadcast loud and clear on Mauritanian radio: the Army of Mauritania was invading the Spanish province from the south. El Aaiún, from that moment, was like a mouse-hole. As soon as Santiago learned this, he opened the bonnet of the Land Rover and started talking to the engine as he would to a person. He checked and double-checked the hoses. He cleaned the terminals of the battery. He made sure the oil and the water in the radiator were at the right levels. He let some air out of the tyres. Then he took a walk around the city. Before midnight he was back. He went into the house, nervous, and told everyone now was the moment to leave. No one had gone to sleep. It seemed that the Saharawis had guessed what was about to happen.

‘Quick. Everyone in the car. We’re leaving.’

‘And the guards?’

‘There aren’t any. It’s an open city. Something serious is going on.’

When Santiago saw how they all squeezed into the vehicle, he could hardly believe it. The three women and the two little girls climbed in the front. In the back were Andía and her three sisters. Every bit of free space was filled with bags and supplies, so that the girls were squashed against the windows. The six lads clambered onto the roof with the rest of the luggage and held on to the baggage rack. The eldest one positioned himself at the front to stop the little ones from flying off if the breaks were slammed, and the second eldest did the same at the back. The legionnaire didn’t say anything, although he knew it was madness to travel in those conditions. He climbed in and, just before turning the ignition, felt something at his feet. He almost screamed. It was two chickens. At the women’s feet he saw a shape that looked like a dog. He recognised the goat. Lazaar’s mother smiled to him with a calm that seemed wholly inappropriate in the circumstances.

‘We cannot leave the city without any food,’ she said.

Santiago did not raise any objections. The vehicle moved with difficulty. The legionnaire thought it would grind to a halt before they reached the end of the street, but it didn’t. Then they took an earthen road strewn with rocks and drove across the neighbourhood. There was not a trace of the Spanish troops. The Land Rover struggled on, spewing out black smoke. Santiago took the Smara road out of the city, with the headlights off. They advanced almost as slowly as a man on foot.

San Román remembered Lazaar’s warning never to follow the road. As soon as the terrain levelled off he started driving across the desert. The rocks under the tyres were like sharpened knives, but the vehicle kept on going. Santiago knew the way, at least up to the crossroads where the road to the phosphate mines of Bu Craa started. Although the path was lost from view, Santiago oriented himself by the hillocks. He’d done the journey several times, and was familiar with the sparse bushes and the line of the horizon. It took over three hours to reach the crossroads where the Smara road forked in two. In normal circumstances he would cover the same distance in half an hour, but the vehicle barely crawled forward. Judging by the tracks in the desert it was obvious that many Saharawis had decided to stay off the road. Even though they were driving at a snail’s pace, Santiago could not afford to take his eyes off the terrain. A patch of soft ground might turn into a soft pit, and when he drove onto sand to avoid the sharp rocks the vehicle started to sink and skid. The boys would then jump off and push, or clear the sand with their hands from under the wheels. No one said a word. Everyone looked into the horizon as if they could speed up the journey with their gaze. At the Edchera junction, on the way to Gaada, Santiago decided to leave behind the stony ground and take the road, otherwise it would have been easy to get lost. He had the impression that, across the desert, they moved in a tortuous zigzag. And if they continued that way they wouldn’t have enough diesel to cover the four hundred kilometres to Tifariti. Miraculously, the Land Rover lurched on in spite of its heavy load.

The road looked like a car cemetery. Every few kilometres they came across an abandoned car or truck, all going towards Smara. Santiago, well aware of the need for spare parts, stopped every time. Yet the vehicles had been taken apart by their owners or by other drivers who’d had the same idea. If there was a tyre left it was because it had burst. The tanks had no fuel. Batteries, carburettors, headlights, even steering wheels, had been plundered. When a vehicle broke down, its owners took it apart and continued on foot. Small groups of people camped by the road to recover their strength before journeying on. One could see entire families with their belongings loaded onto a donkey and a goat in tow. Every now and again a truck or a van overtook the Land Rover, but none kept to the road. San Román, however, did not dare leave it. Every hour he stopped and opened the bonnet to let the engine cool off.

In ten hours they did barely fifty kilometres. By midday Santiago knew they couldn’t go on like that.

‘We have to leave some stuff behind. The Land Rover is about to burst.’

Sid-Ahmed’s wife shook her head. Santiago found the family’s stubbornness exasperating. He tried to fill the radiator of the vehicle with water, but one of the boys dissuaded him.

‘If you pour water into the car, we’ll die of thirst. Better for the car to die.’

‘But if the car dies, we’ll die too.’

After arguing with each and everyone of them, he was allowed to pour in half a litre. Eventually he decided that for that morning they could not go any further. It was too hot. The bodywork was on fire and the tyres were going soft, even though it was only December. The cars abandoned by the side of the road were a compelling argument for stopping. They drove a kilometre off the road and settled at the bottom of a hillock. While Santiago checked the tyres, the family improvised a tent. Everyone appeared to know what to do. Santiago sweated more than anyone else. When he realised how quickly the water left his body, he decided that he would not fill up the radiator without making sure that there was a well nearby.

He soon understood that the goat was a lifeline. Its milk and some dates provided a meal for the whole group. Afterwards everyone lay in the shade, trying not to move or waste energy. Not even the sound of the wind disturbed their peaceful rest. Santiago fell sound asleep.

A light breeze started blowing which relieved them of the heat but also carried a disconcerting noise. The Saharawis alerted Santiago to it. He listened intently.

‘Trucks,’ said San Román.

He climbed to the top of the hillock and lay flat on the ground, trying to find out what it was.

A column of military vehicles was coming down from Gaada. As soon as he saw them he guessed the reason.

‘They’re headed for El Aaiún. Coming from the north. They can only be Moroccan.’

‘What are we going to do now?’ asked Andía, who had come to lie down beside him.

‘We can’t move. If they see us they’ll make us turn around.

Either that or they’ll take us prisoner.’

They waited without moving until well into the night. Then they broke camp and resumed their journey. From then on they could only travel across the desert. The road was too dangerous.

It took them six days to cover the two hundred kilometres to the sacred city of Smara. Miraculously, the vehicle only once got a puncture. When the city came into view, Santiago breathed out in relief. But his worries were not over. He had to press on further south-east, to the border with Mauritania. And he feared coming across the invading Mauritanian vehicles. Every now and again, a vehicle would overtake them, or they would see whole families fleeing on foot. Some had left El Aaiún more than a month previously. At every encounter they would stop, pitch camp, prepare tea and catch up on the rumours that travelled from one corner of the Sahara to the other. Meanwhile, Santiago would pace up and down, nervous, hesitant, worried. He felt very guilty of the fact he had not honoured his word. He’d promised Lazaar to take his family to Tifariti within three days, but at the pace they were going there wouldn’t be anyone left at the military camp by the time they got there.

But the worst was still to come. In the middle of the night, battling against a sandstorm, Santiago lost sight of the tracks. Suddenly he found himself in front of an impassable hill. He went back the way he’d come from and again got lost. Now he couldn’t even find his own tracks, and the terrain became steeper. When he realised he should stop it was too late. His heart sunk on hearing a peculiar noise coming from the engine. He heard it over the wind. The radiator was running out of water. He got out, but the sand blinded him. At first he couldn’t lift the bonnet, and when he finally managed it the sand covered everything. He fell on his knees and started repeating a prayer in Arabic that he’d picked up having heard it said so often.

The storm didn’t blow over until mid-morning. At least it wasn’t too hot. The Land Rover was by then almost buried in the sand. The women once more set about pitching camp, while the young men gathered dry branches to make a fire for tea. They’d been living on dates and goat’s milk for over two weeks. Lazaar’s eldest brother stayed with the legionnaire to help him with the vehicle.

‘We can’t fill up the radiator,’ said Santiago.

‘Why not?’

‘It’s got a crack somewhere. Even if we poured in all the water we’ve got left, it would leak out again.’

‘No car, no water. We can’t go on my friend.’

Santiago slumped onto the floor, defeated. Andía, who never left his side, wiped his brow. She was sure the legionnaire would get them out of there. Judging by her smile, she didn’t doubt it for a moment.

The first thing Santiago did, after getting his strength back, was try to find his bearings. The boys started walking, and he followed them with some difficulty. Although it took time, they eventually came across the tracks left by other vehicles. They had strayed four or five kilometres off course. San Román tried to remain calm. It would still take a few days to get to Tifariti. He thought they should all rest for a while and then set off, leaving the baggage behind. By now he knew the goat was their only means of survival. On foot they might reach Tifariti in a week. As he was wondering how to broach the subject with the family, he had a brainwave. On getting back to the camp he took one of the empty fuel cans and urinated into it. Lazaar’s mother grew very serious, but the children burst out laughing, as if the legionnaire had gone crazy. He then asked everyone to urinate into the can. It seemed like a stupid idea, but soon everyone accepted that the Spaniard must know what he was doing. In an hour, Santiago collected the urine of fourteen people and, with a funnel, filled up the radiator. Fortunately it hadn’t emptied completely, and so Santiago was able to calculate where the crack was. The children, as in a game, looked under the chassis until they found the exact point. It was easy. A puddle formed on the floor right under the leak. Santiago took out a bar of soap and crawled under the vehicle. He’d never thought he would use this crazy trick he’d learned among the Nomad Troops, but he rubbed the soap on the radiator until it formed a paste.

For nearly two hours he rubbed the soap over and over, the caustic soda chafing his fingers. Then he squashed it onto the metal with the palm of his hand. He came out from under the car and lay down, exhausted. The Saharawis watched him uncomprehending, as if he was putting on a bizarre show.

‘Now we’ll wait a few hours for it to dry. And after that, everyone will need to pee again.’

It took them two days to fill up the radiator: as they didn’t drink much water, they didn’t urinate much. Eventually Santiago turned the ignition and the engine rumbled into life. He waited to make sure the leak had stopped. Andía kept laughing and shouting things to him in Hassaniya. In under an hour they took down the tent and loaded the vehicle once again.

Five days later the landscape began to change. The number of vehicles and people on foot indicated that Tifariti wasn’t far. They arrived on the 24th of December, thirteen days later. It had been the hardest journey that Santiago had ever undertaken, and they were almost a month behind schedule. Several kilometres before Tifariti, the Polisario Front tried to impose some order in the reigning chaos. Their trucks picked up those who arrived on foot, they removed broken-down vehicles from the road, handed water to those who didn’t have any left, and indicated where they should go from there. Santiago San Román let Andía’s mother deal with the soldiers. He was convinced that his cropped hair, and the fact that he was a legionnaire, would not go down well with the people from the Polisario.

The Spanish Army had abandoned the Tifariti square. The soldiers’ barracks and the souk had been captured by the Saharawis. Around these, in an area of several square kilometres, the new arrivals were settling down. The nomads who already lived in the area offered their jaimas to others. Each family tried to organise themselves as best they could. Corrals for the animals were cobbled together. They even built a precarious hospital for small children. Trucks and vehicles of all kinds kept arriving. Although the newcomers spread encouraging news, some Saharawis had been there for two months. Little by little they were beginning to move east, in search of security on the other side of the border, in the not very hospitable Algerian hammada.

On the evening Santiago reached Tifariti a sandstorm broke out such as he had never seen in the whole year he’d been in the Sahara. The whirlwinds pulled out the jaimas and whipped up clouds of dust. Their camp came apart in barely a few minutes. The women dug holes in the sand, put the children in and lay on top, trying to protect themselves with their melfas. One couldn’t see further away than two metres. Santiago and Andía stayed inside the Land Rover. Wind and sand came in through every tiny aperture. The lack of water vapour was so pronounced that he felt his eyeballs were drying out — a very unpleasant sensation. He told Andía, worriedly, and the girl licked his eyelids, but a moment later they were dry again. For a while he thought he was going blind. The dryness was unbearable. Andía tried to calm him down. At daybreak, when the wind had finally abated, Santiago couldn’t open his eyes. He lay still, and very afraid, under the tent the boys had promptly put up, while Andía stayed, caressing his arm.

The girl’s brothers looked for Lazaar everywhere, but he was nowhere to be found. They asked around for him for three days. It was almost impossible to find a single person in the camp. The number of Saharawis living there increased daily. Although no official estimates existed, there must have been about fifty thousand refugees. In the daytime the sun blazed on the sand, and in the hours before dawn the dry cold would creep into the bones of those forced to sleep more or less in the open air. The army got water from those oases which had not been poisoned, but food was scarce. Under the circumstances, everything they had managed to transport on the Land Rover was considered a treasure. The few eggs laid by the chickens and the goat’s milk continued to feed the family. The tea was also much appreciated — until it ran out, as did the sugar.

Santiago’s eyes got better, but he was very weak. The water from the wells gave him terrible diarrhoea. Andía did not leave his side. His body did not adjust to the rigours of the desert until mid-January. By then he was pretty sure he would never see Lazaar again. But one cold morning the Saharawi turned up accompanied by one of his brothers, with an old Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder. He kissed his mother and a moment later hugged his close fried Santiago.

‘They tell me you’ve been ill.’

‘No, no. It’s the water from the wells and the wind, I’m not used to them.’

Lazaar looked at his sister, who was, as always, smiling.

‘Does Andía look after you properly?’

Santiago was overcome with emotion. His eyes filled with scalding tears.

‘Better than anyone…’ he trailed off. ‘I didn’t keep my promise. The roads in your country are not as good as you think.’

Lazaar hugged him again.

‘Look who’s here.’

Only with difficulty did Santiago recognise Sid-Ahmed. His eyes were not as good as they used to be. The former shopkeeper now had a camera hanging from his neck.

‘Are you going to take a picture of me, Sid-Ahmed?’

‘Right now if you like.’

‘Sid-Ahmed works for the Polisario now. He’s in charge of documenting what’s happening, for the world to see.’

‘Stand over there, in front of the car.’

The friends did as they were told. Behind them the Bedouins’ tents flapped in the wind. Santiago adjusted his blue derraha and undid his turban, letting it down over his shoulders. He smoothed down the moustache he’d grown in the last month. Then he took Lazaar’s Kalashnikov and held it up in his left hand. The Saharawi, in turn, lifted his hand and made the ‘V’ sign. They both threw an arm around the other’s shoulder and, beaming at the camera, held their heads together, as though they feared they wouldn’t fit into the picture.

That evening, sheltered under the awning that served as a jaima, they related their difficult exodus to Lazaar and Sid-Ahmed. Lazaar filled them in on the current situation. The Saharawi population was fleeing towards the Algerian desert, many of them on foot. News of those who’d stayed in the cities was in short supply, but no one envied them, in spite of the suffering experienced on the journey.

Once the wind died down, a deadening silence seized the camp. Neither the goats nor the dogs made a noise. Someone said, a long time later, that that silence seemed like an omen of what was to come. But on that night no one could imagine what the new day had in store.

At nine in the morning, on Monday 19th of January, nothing indicated that that day in Tifariti would be any different for those who had already lost everything. Except for the absence of wind, the morning was identical to so many others in the last few months. It had been a very cold, restless night before the wind abated. Lazaar’s brothers had already gone to fetch water and were tidying the jaima. Santiago was still asleep, cuddled around Andía to keep her warm. The girl was awake but liked to stay like that, lying still until the legionnaire woke up. Yet a sudden noise shook her out of her stillness under the blanket. Santiago awoke.

‘What is it, Andía? Do you want to get up already?’

‘It’s not that. Listen, Santi.’

Santiago didn’t know what she meant. All he heard was the clinking of the teapot and the glasses. Or a goat braying in the silence. But Andía knew what she’d heard. She knew what planes sounded like.

‘I can hear a plane.’

Once again Santiago failed to hear it. He only realised how serious it was when one of Andía’s brothers came running into the jaima, shouting.

The attack came from the north. The planes flew in low from behind the rocks, where no one would be able to see them until they were almost above the camp. They didn’t even do a reconnaissance flight. It seemed as though they knew exactly where they were heading. San Román went out and shaded his eyes with his hand so he could see them. Three French F1 Mirages. He knew them well: the best aircraft in the Moroccan army. They approached in a ‘V’ formation, accurately dropping their deadly load. The first bombs threw the whole camp into a panic. Napalm and white phosphorous razed the jaimas to the ground as if they were made of paper. The noise of the explosions was followed by the flash of flames and gusts of hot air that swept everything in its wake. As the planes flew over they left a scar of fire and destruction in the village. But they were certainly coming back, and everyone ran for cover. The craters made by the bombs were so big that they could comfortably hold a person standing upright. For some the fire blocked the escape. Santiago looked for Andía, but she wasn’t there. A hundred metres off he saw some tent canvases on fire. Suddenly it was very hot. There was a nauseating smell of burnt things. Santiago ran the other way and saw what was happening. The planes were once again discharging napalm over Tifariti. Whoever was caught near the explosion died instantly, but even several metres away the women’s melfas would light up on contact with the hot air. Some people, burnt from head to toe, managed to run for a bit before dropping dead, charred by the phosphorous. No one knew where to run. They all bumped into one another. Amid the confusion Santiago stopped and looked at the sky. He felt the ground shake beneath his feet. Then a blast threw him into the air. He landed on his back, but couldn’t sit up. His body felt heavy. He knew his face was scorched. The voices died down in his head until he was completely deaf. His left arm, he realised, was badly burnt. He looked at it and saw a mass of flesh and blood. His hand and half his forearm were missing, but it barely hurt. He understood how useless it would be to stand up and run. The sky became red with fire. A moment later he felt someone grab him by the neck, trying to make him sit up. It was Andía. Her face was filled with horror. She was crying and shouting, although he couldn’t hear her. He told her that he loved her, that it was going to be all right, and his words echoed in his chest as in an empty box. Andía pressed her face to his chest and hugged him as if she were trying to keep him from going over the edge of an abyss. Then Santiago San Román no longer felt anything.