A short story from the occupied territories
The Desperate Fishermen
By: Khalil Asmar
We set off in the late afternoon to the other side of the river open to the Atlantic sea.
We knew that the water had gotten a little warmer and that was a sign for a good fishing night. We packed up our rods and the fishing materials in our bags, passed by the nearest shop to get the necessary food before we drove away to the “Zbeira” beach
- some 38 miles just down the other side of the peninsula river- we had to be there just before the sun down. From the cliff above and down the beach one could see the city lights just turned on ready to illuminate the streets and allies. We shared the luggage, me and my friend, so to be able to go down the cliff amid the big rocks down to the river waters. It was an adventure to go down that risky cliff with all the heavy burden of rods and bags on our backs and hands. A single slip would be painful and you can never tell what would really happen, but we had enough experience to get down safely. I set up the small tent, and started making a Sahrawi tea; the first thing to have to taste before a Sahrawi usually first get to do any work, while my friend, and as usual, prepared the rods adding a small light tube at the top of the rods so when they catch something you can spot it bending down declaring a fish catch even if you are laying down a long distance away. Before even drinking the first cup of tea, Swallam had already cast his line, fixed his rod on the rod holder pointed down into the beach sand, and walked back to have a cup of tea. It got a little cold and the wind began blowing gently from the North West side of the river. It was already dark when I cast my line connected to a double hooked line with different baits. At that fishing spot, usually Sahrawi fishermen caught “Corbina” or “Dorada”, and that’s what made us choose that particular place wishing to come back home with some good fish to make our families eat what their sea has always been able to offer. The coasts of Western
Sahara are among the richest coasts on the planet and contain the most valuable types and high quality fish.
They say that not all fishing days are good days, and that’s probably what seemed to be happening to us during the first hours. We were around midnight and not a single fish got tempted by our different baits. My friend said “If you want to catch fish, you have to think like fish”. We were unsuccessful to get a single fish and that meant for him that we had to change our tactics so as to be able to lure the fish to eat our baits.
Another two hours of tempting tactics failed to bring any results, and every time my friend used a new tactic he had to justify it hoping it’d have immediate results, but in vain. It was already two o’clock in the morning and nothing came out of that river sea.
I got tired and hungry and decided to relax, and have something to eat, and as I was preparing the food, there up the cliff, some men came out of a car that swerved just at the top of the cliff. They put on the lights of their head torches and came down the cliff. It seemed that they were familiar with the small dangerous paths between the rocky passages down the Zbeira beach where we were fishing. We didn’t panic as it was usual to see fishermen coming in the late night searching for a better fishing spot,

and that’s what in fact made them come to our place in that late hour. They were, in fact, Sahrawi men looking for a better fishing spot. They said it had been two days that they were fishing into different places but they hadn’t been able to catch any fish, and that they had decided to come to our place wishing to find anything. These men were professional Sahrawi fishermen and fishing for them was meant as a profession.
Unlike us, they fished to make a living; Fishing was the only source for them to get some money and feed their families. As they came down, they immediately set up their rods and scattered to different places; some chose to cast from over the rocks while the other two seemed to prefer to cast from the sandy beach. I served them tea and laid down in the small tent to find myself amid asserting calls to wake up and have breakfast. I suddenly had slept.
I joined them for breakfast the following morning, while the sun was just rising above us for a new day. I was still trying to wake up yawning through while all of them looked very desperate. It was the full morning and still caught nothing.
“They’ve left us with nothing” one of them said
“Who are they?” I asked
“These bunch of Moroccans” another replied
“Not only Moroccans, but also this huge fleet of European fleets scattered around our seas” my friend retorted
“At your age, fish used to come up the water waiting only for our baits, but that was in the old times when I was as young as you are now before we were invaded by the
Moroccans. These were beautiful times” the old man said and then proceeded
“Western Sahara waters is like the story of the stolen camel”
“What’s that story about” I asked
“There was a man who stole a camel he said he had found lost in the desert. He raised it until it became ready to be sold at the market. At the market, there suddenly appeared its owner who knew the camel from a mark he had put at his tail difficult to be spot. He recognized his camel and decided to call the judge. Standing before the court, the camel stealer said “Mr. the judge, this is my camel. I found it a small camel lost in the desert and I rescued it. This is me who watered it, feed it, and provided it with all the welfare till it became this big. It’s my camel and none is allowed to take it from me”
The judge looked at him and said astonished “God has created a camel to live in the desert because it can support thirst and hunger for months till its owner can find it. A camel isn’t a cow. It’s a stolen camel and you have to give it back to its owner; now or tomorrow, the camel can never be yours”
We stood silent for a moment.
“The Moroccan occupier has erased all forms of life from our seas and here we are left with nothing, and the remaining is wiped away by these unmerciful Russian and

European ships. How are we supposed to live and feed our families now while it’s the only source that we have?” another retorted
“Yes man”, my friend said “this fish is a poor fish and has even lost any logical sense of thinking, Moroccan boats on every side together with European, and the small boats of the Moroccan settlers erase all what is left, and here we are the indigenous Sahrawis waiting for any remaining fish to feed ourselves and our families left to our own destinies with nothing. I’ve been trying all kinds of techniques all the night long and I couldn’t get any thing”
“We’ve been doing our best to get anything a whole month now and we couldn’t get anything, the meager amount of fish we were able to get now it seems to have finished and all what we should do guys is either to speak out or risk our lives sailing illegally to Las Palmas Islands hoping to find a job”
“Well, for me personally, speaking out means prison and torture, horrible and unbelievable torture. If I consider going to Las Palmas it’d be for political asylum”
“The only looser from all this fishing game are Sahrawis. Look, Moroccans get a huge profit from the fish agreement with the EU and all the rest is taken away by the
Moroccan high officials or this army of Moroccan settlers fishing on our shores”.
The fishermen suddenly stood silent musing over the blue water as if they were trying to find an alternative to a business it seemed that they have lost for ever. Desperate, and without any prearranged planning, we packed up our luggage and headed back to town.