San Antonio Center – Ceuta
Between the waves, fear and hope
The guardian of the house
My name is Narllis. I am the one who opens the door for newcomers, who walks alongside volunteers, who translates when words are not enough, and who embraces the fear of so many young people who arrive lost and alone.
Sometimes I’m also the one some kids run away from laughing.
Why?
Because I’m the one who reminds them of the responsibilities of the house, “Hey, you! It’s your turn to bathe today… don’t think about running away.”
And they run away laughing, with that mischief that only appears when you really feel safe. Then, however, they come back and fix everything. Because they know that cleaning one’s space means taking care of one’s home. And San Antonio is just that: a Home.
A place where there is affection, the sound of life, the smell of food, discussions about who did the dishes and who didn’t… The kind of environment that makes kids, after so much pain, feel they belong to a community again.
I occupy a discreet but necessary space: that of a close adult presence, one that accompanies with gentleness and sets limits with affection, one that is there without encroaching, one that supports without replacing anyone, offering a small refuge where they can feel safe and at peace.
And among all the young people who have passed through this house, there is the story of a boy who has passed through me from side to side. His name is Mohamed.
The day Mohamed arrived.
One morning I was notified that a new boy was coming and would need translation. When he came in, I saw in his eyes fear, weariness and a silent strength that only those who have survived the impossible have.
We sat across from each other, and when he began to speak I had to restrain myself from crying. He told me about his family: six brothers, he the third, but always with the heart of the older brother: responsible and protective. Of those who feel they have to support the world with their own hands.
His father worked tirelessly, but there was so much poverty. Mohamed studied and dreamed, but need won out over dreams and he found himself saving money to leave Fez for Fnideq. He left alone, with little money and much hunger, but with the hope of a better future for himself and his family.
The journey into the unknown
In Fnideq he joined other boys in the same situation as him. They worked on the beaches selling drinks, always careful not to get caught by the police because selling on the street is illegal. They slept and ate wherever and whenever they could.
Mohamed saved up for weeks to buy a wetsuit and fins-his only chance to get to Ceuta was by sea. Reaching Ceuta, a Spanish enclave in North Africa, means, for so many migrants, reaching the European Union and claiming asylum.
In recent years, access to Ceuta has become extremely difficult; the borders are heavily controlled. The separation wall (about 12 km, extending partly to the sea) has been reinforced: in 2020 the upper barbed wire was removed and replaced with other deterrent systems, bringing the barriers up to 10 meters high.
Mohamed knew, therefore, that the sea was his only way.
One day, after praying for hours in the beachfront mosque, he decided to throw himself into the sea. And he remembered his friend who a year earlier had died attempting the same crossing.
Death hovered near, but Mohamed continued.
The night of the big jump
At midnight, when the police officers’ shifts changed, Mohamed thought:
“It’s now or never.”
He told me that the water was freezing, that the waves were hitting him mercilessly, and that the fog left nothing to be seen. But he kept going. He swam for more than six hours without stopping, with only two tools: his diving suit and fins.
In the middle of the sea he met a woman with two children and other boys. They had not left together, but they found themselves living the same fate.
The arrival in Ceuta
After more than six hours struggling against the sea, Mohamed could no longer feel his arms. His legs were shaking. His skin burned as if a thousand needles were piercing it. The cold entered his bones, because even diving suits lose their effectiveness after a while. There was a moment when he closed his eyes and thought:
“If I sink now, no one will know … no one will know that I have come this far.”
But he continued. To continue was all he had.
When he hit the ground, he fell to his knees and wept. He wept from fear, from pain, from relief. He had survived.
Fearful but determined, he went all the way to the police station. He thought they would treat him badly. But the opposite happened:
“Are you cold? Hungry? Come, sit here.”
They gave him dry clothes, warm food and transferred him to a Juvenile Center.
He told me, “That day I realized that even though I was alone, it was worth it to get here.”
The arrival in San Antonio
When he turned 18, he came out of the Juvenile Center. He spent cold nights and eternal days on the streets, waiting for an answer for his papers. When he arrived in San Antonio I told him, “This is your home. No one is alone in San Antonio.”
And in that instant his gaze changed. He didn’t cry, but I think his soul did. A small, shy, sincere smile drew itself on his face.
Weeks later he told me, “I felt like home here.
”
And yes: the games, the jokes, the meals, the cleaning shifts (even if they ran away from me), the calls to his mother to ask for recipes, the breakfasts with volunteers, the drawings, the Spanish lessons gave him back something that life had taken from him: the feeling of belonging to a home, to a family.
What Mohamed has left in me
His story marked me forever. Not only because of what she experienced, but because of how she tells it: with pain, with truth, with hope.
Mohamed taught me that welcoming is not just a roof: it is looking someone in the eye and telling them “your life matters.” It is restoring dignity, hope and a future. It is creating home where before there was only fear.
Mohamed has survived the sea, the loneliness, the streets. But in San Antonio he recovered something even more important: to be seen, to be heard, to be loved.
Since that day his story has been part of mine as well.
