Elisa Ruiz

Living in Melilla, a Spanish exclave on the border with Morocco, has always been a unique experience. My father managed to get over the border fence many years ago, applying for asylum and eventually meeting my mother, who is Spanish. I’m 22 now, studying law at the local university, much to my parents' pride. To support myself, I take on part-time jobs.

Recently, I saw an ad for a waitress position at a restaurant near a golf course. The pay was good, so I applied and was accepted straight away. However, I only lasted two days.

The golf course is beautiful, with its lush green grass and pristine atmosphere. But just behind it lies the border fence. Every day, people, like my father once did, try to get over the fence. Many die in the process, and many are deported, often in violation of their basic human rights. The stark contrast between the desperate attempts of refugees and the leisurely activities of privileged golfers was hard to ignore.

On my second day, I saw a group of men making a desperate attempt to scale the fence. They were caught almost immediately. The fact that my father had once been in their shoes, and that I now stood on this side serving drinks to golfers, felt like a bitter irony. I felt a pang of guilt, realizing how different my life could have been if not for my father's success.

It was impossible for me to work there any longer. I quit that evening and returned home, feeling a mix of relief and sadness. That night, I couldn't sleep, haunted by the faces of those men and the thought of my father's journey. The experience left me deep in thought about privilege, struggle, and the thin line that separates them. My decision to study law felt more significant than ever, as I hope to make a difference in a world that often feels so divided and unjust. As I lay in bed, I promised myself that I would work to ensure more people could have the opportunities my father had fought so hard for.