stopping back where he started.

Nelson wrestles the second suitcase shut, its zipper straining the seams. He turns off the plasma television and closes the window. His girlfriend helps him carry both bags down 5 flights of stairs and out into the street.  3 hours are left till the flight's departure, and Mr. Zapo still hasn't arrived.  Nelson is preoccupied with brushing the dust off the pants of his white linen suit, and uses his handkerchief to shine the toes of his lizard skin shoes.  Drops from a light rain bead on his red felt hat. His girlfriend's eyes cloud with the threat of tears as the couple struggles to move the suitcases into the doorway of the neighboring building.   Nelson types on his palm pilot as he talks on the phone to another Sierra Leonan.  The man confirms with him his daughter's address in Freetown.  Nelson reassures him that he knows the neighborhood and will drop off the gifts.  As he hangs up the phone, Mr. Zapo pulls up to the corner in his Iveco Daily transport van.  The motor sputters, and there's a violent metal on metal screech as the emergency break is initiated.  The vehicle rises gently as Mr. Zapo's bulky body rolls out of the van to give Nelson a quick hug. Then he gives directions, instructing where to put the bags. Nelson's girlfriend takes a seat on top of one of the suitcases, while the men sit in the front.  Mr. Zapo is excited for Nelson. He begins a monologue that doesn't end until they arrive in El Prat International Airport. The monologue races through his memories of Freetown, and his first return visit home.  Its his preview for Nelson. 

In the drop-off zone outside the International terminal, the suitcases wait on a push-cart as Nelson and Mr. Zapo say their goodbyes.  The three laugh and Nelson promises to eat some fried fish for his friend.  As they part, Mr. Zapo asks him to wait one second... He opens the passenger side door and scrambles to reach something under the driver's seat.  Its a small backpack.  Its for his sister, there are mobile phones and computer parts, as well 200 euros.  Nelson initially resists, pointing at the overflowing suitcases on the push cart. Though when two Policia Nacional attempt to hurry Mr. Zapo along, Nelson concedes.  The two hug again and Mr Zapo drives off.  Nelson's girlfriend is distant, her facial expressions sad.  She clings to his arm and he promises her that once she gets her papers he will take her to visit Sierra Leone. She smiles sheepishly.  Just this time, no.

In the check-in line there are other African men and woman, each one maneuvering an even larger caravan of suitcases.   The line moves very slowly given the amount of excess luggage.  Nelson unpacks part of one of the suitcases in order to fit Mr. Zapo's backpack. As they approach the counter his girlfriend's grip grows tighter, though Nelson pays little attention his gaze focused on readjusting his gold jewelry. He pulls his necklace out from under his collar, resting it against his black shirt.  Finally it is his turn.  Nelson offers the ticket agent his passport, but she asks first to weigh his suitcases.  They are 20 kilos over the combined limit of two bags.  The ticket agent suggests Nelson repack otherwise the luggage will not leave Barcelona. 

Propped open against a bench the suitcases are rifled through.  Nelson stuffs his pockets with socks, batteries, digital cameras, underwear, and computer cables, anything to disperse the excess weight.  His girlfriend weighs one of the suitcases again, still too heavy.  Nelson begins to pick and choose items that can be left for the next visit.  This process is repeated over and over, quickly consuming the 30 minutes of the pre-boarding wait.  Finally just as the ticket agents prepare to close the counter Nelson's bags are under the mandatory limit.  His girlfriend's arms are full with clothing she's to take home with her.  As they kiss each other goodbye the damn that held back a wave of tears breaks, and she begins to sob.  But there's no time.   Nelson scurries up the escalator and into the security checkpoint. His girlfriend waits desperately for just one look back, but its fruitless.

In the security checkpoint the combination of Nelson's red felt hat, white linen suit and race calls attention.  Impatiently he tolerates a full revision of his carry on luggage and a complete pat down, which ends in the security official wading through the collection of things Nelson is carrying in his pockets.  However frustrated by the haphazardness of Nelson's packing style, the official waves him through.  Nelson hurries to his gate where the boarding is nearing its finish.  On board the same men and women from the check-in line greet each other and pass their bags through the aisles and into the overhead bins.  Nelson finds his seat and after organizing himself he too joins the festivities.  There is an excitement on this flight.  There are new borns, European passport holders, going home for their first time. Their cries and giggles part of the background noise of boarding.  Nelson introduces himself to a Senagalese sitting behind him.  The man is on his third trip to Dakar since he left Africa for Europe.  Nelson tells him this is his first visit in 25 years.  Gold frames the man's smile.  He encourages Nelson to enjoy but reminds him of their continent's continued hardship.  The stewardesses prepare the cabin for take off.  Seat-belts are checked and the journey begins with a quick flight to Brussels and then a longer leg to Senegal.

Nelson realizes the journey has begun.  Finally flying south he watches as Europe passes under him, falling further and further away.  Crossing the Strait of Gibraltar he can just barely make out Tangier, with its labyrnth of small alleys.  And then slowly a desert stretches out below. Touching the horizon in all directions the Sahara grows with every year. The Atlantic washes upon its beaches and for hours there are only occasional reminders of human existence, tracks in the sand, a collection of huts, a camel herd. And then the reminders become more frequent. Interrupting the monotony of the desert the tracks become roads, the huts villages, and the herds farms.  There's a buzz in the cabin, heads gather around the plane's windows. The Senegalese man signals to Nelson the proximity of Dakar.  Outside the city's skyscrapers jut up out of the rocky coastline. The plane touches down and a mass of bags and human bodies hurries off. Nelson's Senegalese traveling companion grins another golden smile and waves a goodbye as he ducks out the jet's doors. For an hour the remaining passengers sit on the tarmac chatting, recalling forgotten memories.  Sweat drips down Nelson's back, the white linen sticks to his skin. 

No one boards the plane, and the crew repeats its take off procedures. Once back in the air the dry earth of Dakar quickly becomes red, alive.  There are vast swaths of dark green vegetation, coconut beaches, and mosquito swamps.  Freetown is near. Nelson's fingers tap out an anxious rhythm on the arm rest.  He organizes and reorganizes his money until he's lost track of the repetition.  The jet lowers its altitude, as it flies over Buckingham and enters Lungi International Airport.  The wheels squeel as the touch the asphalt and then the plane taxis through a graveyard of dilapidated aircrafts, wings and engines missing recycled for another use.  The crew opens the cabin door and a wave of heavy tropical air enters washing the passengers clean of air-conditioning's impurities.  Nelson and the other passengers de-board only to sit on the runway waiting for a shuttle bus to carry them to Lungi's terminal.  Its only 50 meters to the building but airport officials insist the passengers wait for the bus. 

In the baggage claim porters in yellow jump suits compete for the passenger's business.  They push their way through each other to get their hands on the bags coming out on the conveyor belt.  They load oversized suitcases onto push carts and navigate the suitcases' owners through the confusion of customs agents, passengers and porters.  Nelson slides a 20 euro bill into his passport and passes it to his porter to give to an obese agent, dressed in navy blue polyester slacks and a red wool sweater.  A visual contrast to the celeste and navy of the Sierra Leone Police uniform.  The agent casually places the bill into his pocket and places sticker on both the suitcases. 

Beyond customs a mass of porters and unemployed men grab at Nelson, each offering their sweat for spare change. They follow him as he nudges his way outside to the street. He laughs, and tries to reassure them of his own modesty while he pulls a 10 euro note from his money clip. The eyes of the porter pushing his suitcases bulge when he passes him the bill.   Across the road a young man holds up a piece of cardboard with Nelson written across it.  Its the driver Nelson's uncle sent for him. He shows Nelson his national identity card- Joseph Ernest.  Nelson lets down his guard, his uncle had written him about Mr. Ernest.  Joseph explains to Nelson that the car is waiting in the port in the East End, Freetown, and that they´ll have to hire a vehicle to carry them to the ferry in Lumley.  Nelson agrees and passes him the necessary fees.  Joseph hails a green Mercedes van parked ten meters ahead, and then he cautions Nelson to keep his eyes on his possessions.  The van's driver and Joseph negotiate the fee, and Nelson tugs his suitcases from the men who insist they're the driver's helpers.  Finally Joseph signals to Nelson to let go of the suitcases, an agreement has been met.  The driver starts the engine and Joseph  climbs between the luggage recounting to make sure nothing is missing. Nelson takes a seat next to the driver.  Outside the van the group of porters and unemployed stick their arms through the window pleading to Nelson's generosity. The driver lunges the van forward out of the group in the direction of the airport's exit.  A police officer steps into the road blocking traffic, and the driver slows to a stop.  They begin to argue, Joseph joins the commotion.  Nelson sits back.  Finally Joseph digs into his pockets again and the officer steps aside.  Once on the road Nelson asks Joseph how much a beer is worth these days.  Twenty five years of inflation has changed dramatically the value of Sierra Leone's national currency, the Leon. 

Its an hour drive from the Lungi airport to the ferry docks in Lumley. The van rattles along, a 2005 issue of Eye on Africa blows in the wind in the dashboard.   Nelson rests his hat on the seat beside him and looks out the window.  A woman with a plate of mangos on her head steps out of the road just in time for the van to pass.  In front of a humble compound two children play next to a small fire.  The sun is setting and the road is busy with traffic, its a rush to catch the last ferry across the bay to Freetown.  Then van's driver slams on the horn, a stray cow has wandered into the road.  A UN Land Rover overtakes the van, its extra long antenna bounces as it weaves between traffic.  The line of vehicles slows as it nears the port, and Joseph reminds Nelson to keep an eye out for thieves.   Once in the port another group of men circle the van, they trip over each other's wooden wheelbarrows.  Joseph points out two boys, signaling towards the suitcases.    Quickly they mount the luggage on their heads take off towards the ferry swaying in the night.  Nelson runs after his suitcases. But the boys are oblvious, they jump from the dock to a weathered gangplank and step over two men sitting in the stairs that lead to the deck. 

Joseph pays the 2 euros for the first class seats and passes the change to the boys carrying the suitcases.  He hands Nelson his luggage and the two look for an open seat in the first class cabin.  But the benches are all full.  Men and women squeeze in between each other quickly taking whatever scrap of seat they can get.  Joseph buys a sim card for Nelson's mobile phone. The air is heavy with the cabin's collective body heat.  Nelson sits on his suitcases in front of two Portugues, its the driver and passenger from the Land Rover.  Arsenal is playing on a staticy television hung in a corner.  Its a Champion's League game.  Below the television two young men are trying to sell pirated dvd's and Christian reggae music.    The smell of piss and shit wafts into the cabin from the bathrooms outside.  Nelson leans out the window, lighting his cigarette against the wind.  Second-class passengers clutter the deck below him.  A mother nurses her baby, sitting her feet hang above the water.  Across the bay on the horizon where Freetown rests, the city of 2 million is hidden in darkness.  Besides a ficker here and there, there is little proof of human existence.  Nelson's cigarette burns to the filter, he returns to the thick cabin air.  The jetlag knaws away at his energy but the adrenaline keeps him awake. 

As the ferry nears Freetown the Portugues call their contact from the UN.  Nelson's portugues isn't what it used to be but he can understand they're checking on their hotel location.  Outside the cabin the rest of the passengers have begun to move towards the stern of the ferry.  As the gangplank is lowered the mass honks and pushes its way onto dry land.  Joseph convinces Nelson to be patient, together they carry Nelson's suitcases back down the stairs following the last passsengers off the boat.  Joseph leads Nelson to a green Land Cruiser parked on the dock.  A boy sleeping up against the right rear wheel wakes when Joseph nudges him with some spare change. The Land Cruiser is packed and they are off.  The East End of Freetown is a chaos of silohettes, men, women, mopeds, dogs, cats, children, carts, fish balls, cars, trucks, mangos and vans.  Nelson is staying in Aberdeen, on the other side of Freetown.  Following the route the RUF rebels took when they captured the city 1999, the two men cross the capital.  The streets remember Nelson, he's teleported back into his memories.  He passes the building where he was born.  They pass the empty lot where the family compound used to stand. Razed to the ground during the invasion of 1999, not even the ashes are left for Nelson to see.  A lonely apple tree the only testament to the forgotten building.  Roads have changed directions and new homes have been built.  Babies have been born, and funerals have come and gone.  The poverty is the same, but the war was gruesome and many are missing limbs.  Music blares from giant speakers, mixing one block with another.  Generators roar in the darkness, powering single light-bulbs in dirt floored shacks. Nelson smiles, the smell of burnt plastic feels familiar. 

The Land Cruiser leaves the East End behind, entering the capital's central district.   A candle lights a room on the third floor of a 10 story building.  The aroma of fried fish brings the vehicle to a halt.  The memory is two strong.  Nelson invites his new friend to some fish and white bread.  Sitting on the hood of the Land Cruiser the two enjoy the midnight snack.  Nelson quizes Joseph about old hang-outs and local politics.  The red felt hat Nelson's wearing has attracted a small crowd.  Joseph explains that people think Nelson is a “big man”. Red is the opposition's color, the APC, the political party that recently won the national elections after decades of SLPP rule.  A drunken beggar kisses Nelson's shoes. 

Once back in the Land Cruiser the two quickly leave the the center and pass through Morrisville, arriving at the Aberdeen bridge. In 1999 this 150 m structure marked the end of the RUF advance.  Nigerian, Ecomog, forces fought back the RUF with small arms and mortars.  As the pair cross the bridge they pass Paddy's on their right.  During the war Paddy's was an unofficial base for international forces,  infamous for its prostitutes, good drugs, and better diamonds.   The Portugues are here, their Land Rover sits parked in the lot.  Reggae music thunders from inside.   After a small football field on the right Nelson signals to Joseph to slow the Land Cruiser.  He strains his memory, looking for something familiar.    If Joseph is right somewhere nearby is the alley that leads to Nelson's sister's new house.    Joseph parks the car and cuts the engine, minding to leave the headlights on.   Both men get out of the vehicle, and approach a group of women gathered around a water fountain in darkness.  Nelson asks them if they know his sister.  He uses her Christian name, and then their last name.  But the women shake their heads. Nelson looks up at the stars, and straightens his jacket.  This time he questions them in Mende, his mother tongue. A shoe-less boy steps out from the darkness, he replies there's a Mende family new to the neighborhood living two blocks.  Joseph asks him to the lead them there, the boy agrees.  All three get into the Land Cruiser and drive down the alley.  Besides the SUV's headlights only the occasional candle interrupts the night.  The boy signals to stop.  On either side of the path is a collection of small shanty houses organized around the walls of larger villas.  The boy jumps out and runs ahead to three elderly men sitting on the cadaver of a Land Rover.  They talk together for a moment and then the boy calls for Nelson.  One of the old men tells him he knows his sister, but at this hour she's sleeping and probably won't open the door.  Nelson insists he take him to her house.  The old man crosses the street and knocks on a steel door recycled from scraps of shipping containers.  Inside there's a scuffling sound as someone moves about.  A women's voice asks “who's there?”.  The old man explains that someone has come from Barcelona to visit her, smiling like a small child making a prank call.  The door swings open.  A pudgy round body steps out of the doorway. Its a women's body, her hair wrapped in a hairnet, her pijamas twisted to the right.  Its Nelson's sister.  Her eyes squinting she covers her face with her hand.  The headlights are too much waking so abruptly.  Nelson calls her name from behind the Land Cruiser.  Elizabeth stops dead in her tracks.  Her eyes open fully.  Where is he?  That voice is too familiar.  Nelson steps into the light from the headlights.  Elizabeth stops breathing. The voice doesn't match the face from her memory.  Nelson calls her sister, and Elizabeth falls against Land Cruiser in tears.  Nelson's arrival is more than a surprise. 

immigrant.

In Europe there exists an understanding of immigration defined by a polarized political reality, divided between the Left and the Right. In the public's eye these political discourses are interwoven to form an essentialized and clichéd understanding of the immigrant as the other. For the Right the immigrant is the delinquent barbarian, an enemy of sovereignty.  Through its rhetoric the Right, describes a backward subject attracted to mother Europe by its wealth and potential for individual gain.  The immigrant is understood to be not only a leech on society but also a threat to public safety and racial purity. The immigrant is the thief in the night, the cheap labor stealing jobs from nationals, the rapidly reproducing families sucking dry the public coffers, the dark men that seduce daughters. For the Right it is the immigrant that threatens Western imperialism with its terrorism, religious fervor, its primitivism. 

For the Left the immigrant is the exoticized victim, a charity project.  The Left imagines a subject forever struggling for an opportunity in the “promised land” of democracy and multiculturalism. The immigrant is a war refugee fleeing atrocity, an exploited migrant worker, an illiterate exile challenged by assimilation.    For the Left the very existence of the immigrant is a manifestation of its own tolerance and diversity.  Yet the immigrant is worthy of only pity and sympathy, token participation exchanged for obedience. For the Left it is through the appropriation of the immigrant's subjectivity, that Western imperialism can truly claim that its horrors of war and excesses of consumption are just, a bi-product of human advancement.  

Both understandings of the immigrant are inherently reductionist in their essence, and are factually based in nothing more than anecdotal stereotypes, individual part-truths. But together they serve to create a one-dimensional subjectivity that is effectively superimposed upon the immigrant. The polarity of discourses creates the illusion of complexity, and societal acceptance of this subjectivity is rarely challenged.  Robbed of his own history both national, cultural, religious, and political the immigrant is transformed into an agency-less puppet of history,. The immigrant's very otherness justified is by his  one-dimensional subjectivity. A vicious cycle that is forever guided by the Left and the Right.  And thus the European is reassured of his own superiority, through a recognition of his subjectivity as multi-dimensional, complex... The opposite of the immigrant, the other. 

This paradigm is inescapable given the material history of Europe and its relation to former colonies and current sphere's of influence. Through the massive reallocation of resources, Colonialism and Imperialism molded the world's political landscape to forever privilege its benefactors- the West. The rest of the world has since found itself obligated to pay for the West's privileges. This dynamic is material, and manifested in Europe's modern infrastructure, academic institutions, medical facilities, military apparatus. It is realized through steady economic growth that is dependent on the influx of cheap labor- immigrants.  The one-dimensional subjectivity superimposed upon the immigrant acts to buttress these histories and privileges and vice-versa, creating a relationship between the two that makes them one.   Thus no discussion of immigration, or the subjective experiences of immigrants can claim some sort of rational objectivity, outside these histories and subsequent privileges, especially one written from within Europe.  Such a claim or discussion is a denial of history and acts only to reinforce the very privileges that sustain global inequality.