To the Injured Men Walking Down Yacoub Mansour on Sunday Morning

I left to catch the tram for church at 8 am on Sunday morning. Just before crossing Yacoub Mansour, the busy street nearby, here is what I saw:

One man, then another passing a few meters in front of me, walking up Yacoub toward Ghandi (the next perpendicular main road). These two young men were carrying a heaviness that held my attention. They were solemn, silent, sub-Saharan. Just behind them limped another such man with no shoes, holding a blanket around himself, tattered cape for an exile. But where was he going with no shoes?

I crossed Yacoub, and noticed that in front of these three men walked a long, flimsy line of young men with a similar, slow plod. I followed them with my eyes, and couldn't see the beginning of their sad train: maybe 50, maybe 70 men. And then I began to notice their bandages and dried blood. At least every other person walking had sustained visible injuries. But where were they going, so many?

I was walking faster than they on the other side of the street, and saw several men with no shoes; some carrying blankets, one carrying another man, but most carrying nothing. Not even a bag. Their clothes were in tatters. They looked like they had escaped a battle with only their lives. But where were they going, with nothing?

The men in the cafes I was passing were craning to get a better look. Shopkeepers were standing on their stoops, men cleaning the street were standing with mouths open, brooms suspended in air. I saw two police cars driving slowly, keeping an eye on the strange march. I didn't stop to ask. I don't remember seeing another woman in the whole of the walk, and it feels inappropriate to approach men.

I called a friend who might know what was going on, but she said the situation I described was extremely strange in some ways, and then, rather common in other ways. Sub-Saharan Africans are treated very poorly in this country. I will probably never read why or how these men were wounded on Sunday morning, or was it Saturday evening? And they walked kilometer after kilometer to find a safe place to lie down? Maybe the whole way past Casablanca, to another place? Where will you go?

To those men,

I tried to think of how I might help, and could think of nothing in the moment. But I did see you. I don't think it's worth hardly anything at all. But you are not invisible to me. Where did you go?