Thursday was just another ordinary day at work – ledgers, invoices, statements and all the tools of an accountant’s trade, until that phone call. Yes, that phone call Alternattiva has been waiting for for so long. We were finally being allowed to visit the detention centres, and for a moment my heart sank. What would we see? Would we be safe? I was afraid of not knowing what to do, how to behave, what to say. All I knew is that I had to go. There are a few moments when history requires men to stand up and be counted…this was one such moment.

We arrived at Safi Barracks a quarter after three and following a quick briefing from the colonel we were escorted into one compound – the one attached to that football pitch – that damned football pitch, where exactly two weeks before, our own not-so-private Maltese hell had broken loose! On our entry Harry Vassallo and I were greeted with a host of “bon jour” and “bienvenue” – we were being welcomed – how ironic, how utterly ironic! We were escorted into a room where a makeshift boardroom (without a table) was put in place. After introducing ourselves the conversation begun and soon enough the talking was in French, the language of many of our refugees. I was only capable of understanding about a fourth of what was said – the word “liberté » was uttered several times – like a bell tolling. I cursed myself for having missed so many French lessons at my beloved De La Salle. If only I had known, if only I had cared.

The refugees had established a representative council of five men, selected from the five countries represented in the barracks. For a moment I thought “how civilised!” Even in such conditions these men had chosen to stick to the basic principles of democracy and fair representation. Despite their lack of freedom they chose to behave like free men. Their plight allowed them to forget any religious and national differences. The cause was one – “La Liberté”. That liberty which until yesterday morning I had taken so much for granted. The council appropriately consisted of men who still had enough energy and hope in them to carry the others along. One of them wore a fresh cast on his left leg, another on his right arm and then I remembered the football pitch – that god-forsaken football pitch. I could see that in the eyes of these five men there still shone that glimmer of hope which remains despite the hardship, despite the never ending months of wait, despite the boredom, despite those blows – those useless, senseless, inexplicable, despicable, unforgivable blows!

Then there was him, the man in the corner. His eyes caught mine and for that second in time I could feel his pain. Through his eyes, those sad, sad eyes I could see the havoc he escaped, the family he lost, the friends who perished, the village burned to the ground, that never ending journey to the north, the sigh of relief at the first sight of the Mediterranean, that glorious sea that would take him to Europe, the continent of liberty, of democracy, of equity, where all law-abiding men can live freely. Europe, the land of the French Revolution and the Enlightenment – once home to Voltaire and Zola, present home of Naomi Campbell and Zidane. Then I could see and hear it all, the outboard engine stopping, the sense of panic, the threat of death, the utter hopelessness, the women screaming as night fell, the sound of the waves slapping the boat. Then…. The rickety sound of our patrol boats, a glimmer of hope, that warm blanket, our soldiers’ friendly hand, the televisions cameras, that blue bus, hope was high, until… until, that hideous metallic sound of the gate at Safi barracks shutting behind him away from my world, out of sight, out of reach… a never ending ordeal that carried him from the killing fields of the Congo to the Military Compound in Safi. Safi, what an inappropriate name for a concentration camp! Then I cursed. I cursed the goddess of Fortune, who had discriminately planned that I, who deserve nothing, be given so much.

We took the 400-metre walk to the outdoor camp, where refugees are expected to live in tents. We were there to inspect the conditions these people were living in. What conditions? A ground of dirt, dust and filth that would turn to mud every time it rained, a tent with four-foot holes in it, dozens of men crammed into a sheet-metal hanger, no hot water, no heaters, three filthy sinks out in the open, one communal shower, chicken and rice every day, a makeshift football pitch, barbed wire for a clothes-hanger, for the smokers two cigarettes a month, courageous-gutsy-heroic volunteers of the Jesuit Refugee Service working tirelessly to help, a hideous radio playing “Feelings”, mattresses placed vertically to insulate the tents, loose electric wires hanging dangerously over their heads. They wanted to speak to us; they spoke at length – French to English and back to French. They hated their conditions, but they did not hate Malta, they could not understand, someone had cheated them; they just want to go free. Some declared that they had been locked-up for seven months without an interview – seven months, seven long months, two hundred and ten days and as many nights. Another claimed that the fragment of a bullet he got in the Eritrea-Ethiopian conflict was still embedded in his hand – apparently, no one had seen to it – the cold was causing him unbearable pain. That damned wretched cold! In that moment of desperation I, a Green, welcomed global warming, so that this fellow could have a day without pain. As we walked out of the camp, I turned to shake some hands, hands of men like me. Perhaps we had given some of them hope, perhaps others thought that we were there for a perfunctory photo shoot like so many before us. For a moment I wanted to stay. I could not leave them alone. I wished there were no one waiting home for me, who needed me.

I opened the front door of my home. The warmth from the gas heater rushed to greet me. My little Peter ran up to me and asked where I had been… as I hugged the innocent child, feelings of guilt and anger overcame me.

Edward Fenech is a committee member of Alternattiva Demokratika, The Green Party