If there is one phenomenon that arises from the very belly of globalisation and simultaneously challenges its restricted expansion for the benefit of the world’s elites, this phenomenon is certainly the contemporary increase of migration flows. Derived from the old colonial order and linked to the new forms of coloniality that have been reinvented by neoliberalism, its two usual representations – either as a threat or as an experience of suffering – fail to do justice to the inherent diversity and complexity of migration. Nor do its representations manage to convey the fact that it is an exercise in upholding rights that go beyond even our received notions of rights and citizenship. A true cornerstone of a postcolonial and neocolonial world, migration is both an instrument and a conflict in international geopolitics after the Cold War. How, then, should we interact with migration flows? Not just with the abstract concept, but above all with the embodied migrant communities, now that neoliberal globalisation is collapsing.
Helena Maleno (El Ejido, 1970) is a journalist and researcher known primarily for her work as a human rights defender on Spain’s southern border. This standard description does not do justice to the work she does in what we can already consider one of the largest mass graves in European history: the water between Spain and Africa. Helena moved to Tangier almost twenty years ago, and she first received a call for help from a migrant boat almost by chance. She saved it from sinking by instantly demanding assistance from the authorities whose job it is to save lives at sea. Since then, through this seemingly very simple method and a belligerent use of social media, she has managed to save the lives of countless immigrants. But she has also broadcast such a huge number of deaths that the thought of it makes us realise scale of this horror. A catastrophe that is not just an enormous human tragedy, but above all an indefensible political infamy which Europe will never be able to entirely redress. Perhaps precisely because of all of this, because of the need to defend her spirit from the vileness of the current border regime, Helena Maleno is an admirably cheerful person. And probably also because, together with the organisations and networks she works with (such as Walking Borders / Caminando Fronteras, which she founded in 2012) she has developed a policy in defense of migrants that avoids paternalism and instead connects with the capacities, inventions, and knowledge of the people she refers to as “migrant citizens” and “migrating peoples”.
Helena Maleno is not altogether comfortable with being a well-known figure: aware of the power that comes with her prominent role in migrant struggles, she always seems to position herself in high-pressure front-line situations. But at the same time, it is interesting to observe the exemplary way in which she functions as a kind of multiple name: her discourse intertwines, it weaves things together. Her politically forceful and coherent public interventions are also an elaborate resonance chamber of names, stories, memories and experiences. She applied this modus operandi to writing Mujer de frontera. Defender el derecho a la vida no es delito (Border Woman. Defending the Right to Life is Not a Crime, 2020), a powerful book structured around the story of one of the most critical episodes of her life: her recent persecution in an (unsuccessful) attempt to prevent her from carrying out her activist work by criminalising her to aggressive extremes. During this time, I was fortunate to be able to monitor her case through our work in the Spanish Congress of Deputies. I use the word “fortunate”, though it may seem odd, because it gave me the privilege of closely observing the gently caring and politically determined support network that grew around her, out of an astonishing collective intelligence. We had this conversation on Sunday 17 May, 2020. Helena was locked down in Madrid by chance while I was at home in Barcelona.
Helena, thank you very much for receiving me on a Sunday and under these strange quarantine circumstances: you’ve been living in Tangier since 2002 and you not only travel frequently, you have also dedicated the past twenty years of your life to defending the right to cross-border mobility. But unexpectedly, you’re not in Morocco now. Where did you have to lock down, and how is it going?
It has been a difficult time for me personally. I was in Tangier and I had to come to Madrid on an urgent matter, travelling through two countries that had called a state of emergency. The Ceuta border crossing was totally deserted, ghostly. I had to show my travel documents at the Kingdom of Morocco and then Spain, with the paranoia of having to protect myself, to avoid touching anything and anyone. I arrived in Madrid with a suitcase with just a few items of clothing and I had to do the second part of my lockdown alone, with my family on the other side of the border. It has been a very intense experience of travelling in exceptional conditions. And of travelling and living with very little. Basically, of how migrants usually travel.
How are your family and loved ones in Tangier? Can you sketch a quick overview of the situation in Morocco with regard to the pandemic?
My family is in good health, Alhamdulillah. They're in Ramadan now and people miss being able to come together to break the fast. But Ramadan is also a time of introspection, so it’s easier to deal with isolation. And my daughter has a crazy amount of schoolwork! [laugher] Morocco closed its borders early on because, like many other countries, it has a fairly frail public health system, which makes dealing with a pandemic quite difficult. When the crisis started there were only around 1,000 intensive care beds so they had to close the borders and increase hospital capacity on the double. And they also imposed quite rigorous lockdown measures because of the fragility of the hospital system I was just talking about. Many Moroccan citizens who were in Spain or elsewhere haven’t been able to re-enter Morocco. People who were caught in Ceuta or Melilla are just starting to go back now. There are also Spaniards of Moroccan origin who were in Morocco and couldn’t go back to Spain because they don’t have a Spanish surname.
As you can imagine, this has also had a strong impact on migrant communities. The Moroccan government is issuing each house with a piece of paper signed by the local representative of the Ministry of Interior, authorising one person per household to go out to work or shop. But migrants without legal status can’t obtain this piece of paper because in theory they don’t exist. This means they can’t leave their houses even to beg. We are seeing very grim situations of social vulnerability and even hunger, in Morocco as in other countries, including Spain. Morocco has approved a series of measures to alleviate these situations, and migrants are, as always, the most neglected group. This is why organisations are stepping in to provide essential food and hygiene supplies to these households. Unfortunately, during the pandemic there have also been deportations of people arrested in the mountains near Nador and expelled to Algeria. Algeria did the same thing, even though you can’t just go around deporting, moving groups of people around, in a pandemic situation.
I am thinking of the contrast between what you’re describing and the sense most of us have of lockdown as a kind of mass stoppage. As someone who is constantly working to encourage mobility, I would like to ask you whether you think this is really the case. Has the world around us really stopped in such a strict sense? What has been happening with migration flows on the southern border over the last two months?
Today a cayuco arrived at the port of Arguineguín in the Canary Islands carrying 49 people, including 35 who may be under 18. They appear to have set out from Mauritania. The day before yesterday there was a boat that had left Tarfaya with 37 people, including nine women and five children. Last weekend, 116 Algerians arrived in Almeria after setting out from the coast near Oran. And these are not the only attempts. This pandemic is dismantling the fallacies in the discourse that has long hidden the business of movement control. There is a sense that the world has stopped, but today we saw images of 200 people who are sleeping on the streets, day labourers who travelled to Lleida to pick the fruit that the rest of us need in order to remain in lockdown. We saw images of the protests in Madrid’s Salamanca district [one of the city’s wealthy areas], where people were demonstrating against the government’s decision to extend the lockdown. At the same time, the workers who look after these people have been moving around for weeks, putting their health at risk. At first there was this idea that we are all equal in this pandemic, because the virus can kill anyone. But this is not true. We are seeing that some population groups are more vulnerable, partly because they do not have the right to isolate. And it’s not just the health workers, but also the slaves who continue to do the work that keeps the system going, and who have been placed in an even more vulnerable situation by the pandemic. The world of the privileged who do yoga at home is a relatively small percentage overall. Just look at the people who spend hours queueing in the street for food parcels in Aluche [one of Madrid’s most disadvantaged areas].
From a quantitative point of view, how have migration flows changed on Europe’s southern border? I heard you say in a recent interview that there had been an intensification of the route to the Canary Islands and a reduction in other parts of the Mediterranean.
It makes sense that migration flows have decreased at some points because mobility controls are not only in place on the border itself, but also between districts and between cities, so it’s much harder to get to a border to try and cross. But the opening up of the route to the Canary Islands (and the Algerian route, which has always existed but was not as visible as it is now) is a result of the migration policy that has been in place since 2018. This policy is framed within the deterrence measures that the United States has been implementing for many years, and Europe is finally following suit. They consist of closing migration routes, as has been the case in northern Morocco, through Ceuta and Melilla, the Strait of Gibraltar and the Alboran Sea. Routes are being militarised and huge investments are being made with the participation of arms manufacturers, who have taken over the migration business. But this does not mean that the migrants aren’t there. They are there. We can now see even more clearly – in this pandemic situation, with much greater controls on freedom of movement – that there is no such thing as a “pull effect” drawing people to Europe. Rather, there is an “exit effect” of people being forced to leave Africa. As migrant women say, “we don’t have the right to migrate, but we don’t have the right to not migrate either.” They don’t have the right to stay in their own countries and live in acceptable conditions.
This is why this other route opened up in recent years, and why its migration flows have been increasing over the last few weeks. The exit effect exists, so as soon as you close one route, money-making networks appear and find ways to open other, tougher routes. What’s the story with these more dangerous routes? They’re no longer like the Strait of Gibraltar, where you get together with ten friends, buy a “toy” boat and some paddles and try to cross over. In the other routes you need larger networks to get across, because they’re more dangerous. So war companies have made money by closing the Alboran Sea as part of Operation Índalo, which cost around nine million euros last year. The criminal industries that open up a much more difficult and tougher route, like the Canary Island route, also make much more money than they did before. And right behind them, there will be more investment by war companies to close these new more dangerous routes. But the flows won’t stop existing, because nobody wants to stop them anyway. It’s a business in which they all win, the weapons industries and the criminal networks. But they need to justify their business, and the argument of the “pull effect” is their justification. Which is why no politician, from the left or the right, has governed in Europe without having used it. The losers are the migrant communities, the people who risk their right to life and the families who have to live without hearing from many of their loved ones.
You mentioned two language clichés in defense of toughening border policies and restricting migrant numbers in Spain. These clichés need to be dismantled, firstly because we keep using them even though they are dangerous in that they justify sometimes criminal anti-migration policies. And also because they are an obstacle at this time when sectors of society are calling for a large-scale regularisation of migrants who are in a situation of administrative irregularity. This general regularization is an eminently sensible demand. And it is essential if we really don’t want to leave anyone behind when it comes to applying the necessary social bailout to mitigate the effects of this multiple crisis. For example, as lockdown is rolled back, how will people who are afraid of being arrested and deported for not having their papers in order be able to leave isolation, particularly now that public space is even more heavily policed?
So, the first cliché you mentioned is the “pull effect”, that is, the idea that a large-scale regularisation of the status of migrants in Spain would attract even more illegal immigration. This is a fallacy, as you just explained. The second clichéd argument is that of “immigration mafias”: large-scale regularisation is supposedly not an option because it would encourage human trafficking networks. This is an idea we have been encountering constantly for years in everything from journalism to Frontex (European Border and Coast Guard Agency) reports. However, as you repeatedly counter-argue, the attempt to seal the border is precisely what produces the phenomenon that the dominant discourse refers to as “mafias” in order to stigmatise migrations as a whole. Why is this so? What are the characteristics of these heterogeneous practices that are criminalised by homogenising them under the general name of “immigration mafias”?
Yes, the term “mafias” covers a very broad spectrum. In Libya, for example, the mafias are part of the groups that are still fighting each other. We don’t know whether the mafias are the armed groups or vice versa. They control slavery and trafficking. In the past, criminal groups kidnapped migrants from buildings in ruins or other places where they hid, and their families would have to pay a ransom. But they no longer have to go and find them in their hiding places: the kidnapping takes place in the migrant detention centres financed by the European Union, because the mafias operate inside them. So there are two processes that feed off each other: the more you crack down on a migration route, the greater the need for a criminal network to lead people through that route. And then, using this very heterogeneous world of mafias as an excuse, a whole lot of arrests take place at the border. For example, if there is a shipwreck and some people are rescued after their siblings or friends have drowned, the protocol for assistance to victims of multiple tragedies is not applied when they reach Spanish soil. They are immediately questioned by the police, and one of the first questions they are asked is: “who is the captain of the boat?” The captains are arrested because the police see them as mafia. But the real mafia that makes money doesn’t travel in those boats. And we’ve seen some absurd stories, such as people who have spent eleven days at sea being threatened with deportation if they don’t name the captain, and the captain has died, so to save themselves the survivors name some guy who doesn’t speak French or English. This happened with a shipwreck in the Canary Islands. One of the women who survived later went to her social worker to tell her there was an innocent man in jail, facing a sentence of eight years for each person who had died. The woman had not dared to speak out earlier at the border, because she was afraid of the police. Terrible. The whole mafia discourse only serves to whitewash the human rights violations that take place in the mobility control system. It is an overly simplistic discourse that needs to declare that everyone on this side of the border is good, but there are some very bad people on the other side. And there are, of course: those of us working on the border know this better than anybody. We are persecuted by the criminal industries on one hand, but at the same time we are also persecuted by the security forces and policies that support those other industries, the weapons industries, that could also be described as criminal.
The movement against European migration and border policies began to coalesce in the early 2000s, as we entered the new millennium. One of its particularly inspired slogans was: “We don’t cross borders, borders cross us.” And borders do run through certain subjects in such a way that even when they cross a geopolitical boundary, we could say that the border remains inscribed in their bodies. Pilar Monsell, who was an important activist during that time and is now a wonderful filmmaker, made a film called Distancias (Distances, 2008), which shows how Sub-Saharan migrants carry borders with them on journeys that sometimes cover thousands of kilometres and months of travel. The lives of migrant subjects in general, and particularly of those who have been pushed into situations of administrative irregularity, are a border experience even when they are right in the centre of our big cities. There is a book by Sandro Mezzadra and Brett Neilson called Border as Method (2013), which argues that borders are not merely geographical boundaries, but a device to control life in globalisation. In what new ways are borders being imposed on migrant lives during lockdown in cities like the ones you and I are in now?
One thing that plays a big role in establishing borders in cities is your body. A black body is more susceptible than a white body to being blocked or stopped in its tracks during any activity. Racialised bodies carry borders that they must cross every day, and they must also cross various borders as they make their way home from work every day. And as we were saying earlier: Who is doing the care work? Who is working to sustain life at this time? You can see it very clearly in the cities, you can see it in the bicycle couriers, for example. When old people go for a walk, who accompanies them? Who is picking the food we need to eat in lockdown? In the supermarkets, what group makes up the majority of workers? In short, who does the most vulnerable work, day after day? The answer is migrants. What’s more, they are forced to catch public transport because it is the only way they can get to their workplaces, even though public transport also puts them at risk. Migrants have also been hit hardest by the pandemic, because they were already in a situation of vulnerability that has just gotten worse. On the other hand, migrants have long been developing strategies for survival, so they were the quickest to respond with resistance practices based on the solidarity forged during cross-border migration journeys. This was the case with the manteros (street vendors) in Barcelona, for example, who quickly started to deliver food and manufacture face masks. Why? Because migrants are very familiar with solidarity networks of resistance in situations of denial of rights and even necropolitics. Who responded when sex workers, exploited women, and victims of trafficking were expelled from hostels without warning and found themselves on the streets because they couldn’t work or their networks were no longer useful? The women themselves acted in response to these situations. Similarly, the ex-MENA association for unaccompanied foreign minors started distributing food to migrants in an irregular situation. These grassroots mutual support strategies that are now being taken up by the general population, by the privileged, have long been practised in migrant communities. And this is also apparent in cities. Both things are. You can see the people who are working in conditions of exploitation and slavery, who suffer the city’s internal borders in their own bodies. And you can also see those who are implementing the strategies developed in the cross-border migrant networks, which could give rise to a “new normal” based on epistemologies that revolve around words like “public services”, “human rights”, and “solidarity”.
This very powerful idea you raise about using migrant knowledge to build the “new normal” reminds me of an experience that I would like to share with you in this conversation. In August 1996, a hundred sans-papiers occupied the Saint-Bernard church in Paris to demand regularisation. The riot police expelled them, smashing down the door and firing tear gas into the church. The French government immediately responded with terrible repression: deporting, jailing, separating families. However, this incident triggered a huge wave of solidarity lasting months, which we now consider one of the founding events of the current cycle of migrant struggles in Europe. I was living in Paris in 1997, and I have never forgotten something very important that I learnt then. Of course, public opinion and citizen support for the sans-papiers was based on solidarity, but the philosopher Étienne Balibar gave a public speech that made an appeal to go further. It was during a meeting of intellectuals in support of the migrants, and its title was “What We Owe to the Sans-Papiers”. Balibar wasn’t just asking what we could do for migrants, but above all what we could learn from them about democracy, about their exercise of rights even when rights are denied them, disobeying the illegitimate laws we have enacted. I have always thought that this idea runs right through all your activism and the work of the organisations you collaborate with on the border, such as Caminando Fronteras (Walking Borders), which you are a member of. You do not just put the focus on what migrants need, but also on what migration teaches us. As I was saying, this reflection comes to mind when I hear you talking about what we need to learn in this extreme crisis we are going through, with a view to building the scenarios that will follow.
I remember those events very well, and how occupations of churches like the one in Paris were carried out years later by migrant movements in Barcelona and Almeria, which were very powerful. But social democracy struck back with something that seems to me as dangerous as racism. It is a trap that many social organisations and left-wing movements have fallen into: the trap of policies of compassion, which sometimes do as much harm as policies of confrontation. Compassion allows us to have a system of asylum seeker or humanitarian intake that is separate from other social systems and policies, thus segregating migrants. Even the questions they are asked when they arrive in Spain are brutally paternalistic. Migrant women say, “how can they ask me how many times I was raped?” Compassion policies allow us to criminalise unaccompanied migrant minors and take custody of the children of “bad” migrant mothers on one hand, and at the same time believe that it is okay to film a woman drowning at sea with a child and then publish the image with a caption asking you to make a donation. All of this creates a framework that exists in parallel to the resistance of migrant communities, and it has done a lot of harm to migrant movements. I think we have to understand something very basic, which is that migrant knowledge is an epistemology from the south: it is thought, not just testimony. Often when I’m invited to give a talk, the organisers say, “Look, we’re inviting you as an expert on this or that, and a black or Muslim lady will come and give her testimony.” Excuse me!!?? These people have placed their bodies on the line. And when the border has crossed their bodies, as you rightly said, they have produced knowledge that is just as valid as mine. Therefore, our next step has to go even further than just analysing what they are giving us. We have to open up a space in which to produce knowledge together on equal terms.
We need to reframe what we consider knowledge and know-how. And we have to broaden our received notions of what citizenship means. Historically, the emergence of the notion of citizenship was crucial for the development of rights, but it has become a straitjacket that leaves out too many things. In 2004, you collaborated with a project called Fadaiat, which involved creating a network of networks and associations on both sides of the southern border. The idea was to reinstate the Strait of Gibraltar’s historical role as a bridge, rather than a chasm between our continents, as it is now. At the time, you were part of a women’s collective called Aljaima, and for Fadaiat you wrote a text that I recently reread in preparation for this interview. As I read it, I thought that it seemed like the seed that gave rise to your new book. I’ll read the first paragraph now, because I think it’s beautiful: “I am a citizen of the border. I do not recognise states or nationalities. I feel I belong to a living and breathing space, the borderland. Here, on Europe’s southern border, where nation states impose their militarisation and provide the grounds for the neoliberal economic system, people create pockets of resistance. We respond to the rigidity of force and laws with movement and the creation of parallel social networks. I am one border organism among many, a small element that gives meaning to this space, from my status as a woman.” I have often heard you use terms like “migrant citizens”, which sound odd because in our notion of citizenship inherited from modernity, the enjoyment of rights is bound up with territorial origin, and with the possession of a nationality derived from membership of a nation state. How have you come to understand these “moving citizens” who force us to reconsider things like the enjoyment of rights in accordance with notions of movement or nomadism, to separate the idea of rights in a particular place from nationality of origin?
You’ve reminded me of Fadaiat. I remember being at my friend Meme’s house in Tangier, and fellow-activists like Nico [Nicolás Sguiglia] coming over from Andalusia to install an antenna – to connect the two sides of the border! It was no mean feat back then to set up an antenna and get it to work. I remember a lot of people came over, like Sandro [Mezzadra], who you mentioned earlier. I’m talking about these memories to bring up an anecdote that’s in the book, although I won’t go into it because I’d rather people read it. It’s about when, during Fadaiat, a patera (small boat) arrived at a nearby beach. In the book, I unpack what this migrant citizenry means. It is a citizenry that creates language. For example, the term “boza”, which comes from a particular language but has gone beyond it and is now used by migrants from different places to refer to the moment they crossed the wall or the border. To express joy because we did not die. You can imagine how a community forms during these journeys, made up of people from very different origins who share their frameworks of thought and resistance, so they end up belonging to everyone. And people share their means of communication too. Before, it was sending text messages on mobile phones, now it’s social media: Facebook is one of the most powerful media used in the construction of migrant citizenry, of the discourse of the migrant people. You can see it: that’s where people post disappearances, it’s where you can find out whether or not somebody has been online since they got on a boat, it’s where relatives look for information. Everyone explains where they are, what the situation is at each place, and there are also reports of violations of basic rights... And the places have meaning for these people too, but a different meaning: some are the “tranquilos” (calm places), some are the “ghettos” ... They say, “I’m in the metropol,” which means they are no longer at the border. And families are formed differently: your “mifa” is your travelling family, new family structures are created on the journey. It would take another book to explain all of this! [laughter] But what’s interesting is that these migrant people are a nomadic people. I once discussed all of this with a colleague who is a priest in the forest, in one of the ghettos. And he said, “But this is just like the people of Moses!” [laughter] People who move together for a reason. A shared heartbeat is created on that journey. That’s where we will find clues to a different epistemology, a new way of shaping the world. You said it earlier: we need to find a way to create an idea of citizenry that is not necessarily linked to a nation state, that encompasses all languages, that is ultimately united by common objectives such as the collective quest for rights. Because in the end, the act of moving is in itself a way of demanding freedom of movement. All of this should make us think that there are other ways of creating a people.
Your book is very beautifully crafted. You begin by telling how on 29 November 2017, as you were walking to your home in Tangier holding your daughter’s hand, you were approached by two Moroccan policemen who ordered you to report to the Court of Appeal. That was the start of an earthquake in your life lasting more than one terrifying year. The Spanish police Immigration Smuggling and Fraudulent Documentation Unit (UCRIF) wanted Moroccan justice to apply sentences that could have been as long as life imprisonment. And they tried to orchestrate it using a dossier assembled through a systematic violation of your rights that had been going on for many years, as you eventually managed to find out. Although it revolves around a terrible story, your storytelling is astonishingly beautiful: you weave the linear account of your legal case with stories from your two decades of experience as a human rights defender on the southern border. As you weave, names and voices appear and disappear, mainly the testimonies of migrants but also of the men, and especially the women, who have worked with you as activists. In this way you build up an exquisite and very complex pattern of dense networks of disobedience and resistance, which are also an autonomous space based on mutual support, solidarity, reciprocity, sharing, coexistence, and conviviality... In 2001, when the antiglobalisation movement was giving rise to a new generation of activism against the European border policy, Sandro Mezzadra published a book that made a very strong impression on us. It was called The Right to Escape, and it emphasised precisely this idea that there is a power in the global movement of people that we in Europe can learn from. To finish, I’d like to ask you for a final reflection: On the one hand, there is the affirmative power of migrant movements. Why, on the other hand, is there so much violence against something that should not only not be a threat to life, but can instead be a vitalist expression that we should learn from? Why this necropolitics (to use the term coined by Achille Mbembe that you often mention) that has made borders in the globalised world a space of brutality against practices that are essential for the sustainability of life?
[Sighs and pauses] I think the word "privilege" explains everything. We have built a system of privilege in which we paradoxically understand our privilege as the equivalent of persecuting life, ending it. The system is so predatory that our privilege is based on the death of others. On selective death, not just killing, but letting certain populations die. It is a necropolitical system, a system of slavery, that preserves the privileges of a very small sector of the world’s population. But despite its smallness, it is placing life in general at risk. When our comrades from the Tarajal crossing [she is referring to the events of 6 February 2014, when 15 migrants drowned at Tarajal beach trying to reach the Spanish border as the Civil Guard fired rubber bullets and tear gas into the water. A further 23 were subjected to “hot return” to Morocco] were making their way to the Ceuta border at night, they danced before attempting to cross. And they referred to themselves as “soldiers”, as migrant communities generally do: “Nous sommes des soldats”, because life is a battle: “La vie, c’est un combat”. Not long ago, a little boy died in a shipwreck at Larache. And when I posted the news on Facebook, many comments referred to him “little solider” ... All of this perfectly conveys the life of these populations who are destined to have no privileges, to be destroyed, to be stripped of their humanity when they die: not putting names on the graves of those who died at Tarajal meant stripping them of everything. You know exactly what happened when you were a Member of Parliament and we tried to organise some acts of reparation for those victims: relatives who wanted to come from Africa to visit the graves of their dead were denied visas. This is a way of denying their humanity. And I think that the paradox you’re talking about, regarding this migrant people, can be summed up in this harsh and also highly poetic image of a people who believe they have to fight constantly to defend life.
This conversation is part of The Pandemic in Germinal. Conversations on a Quarantined World series produced by Marcelo Expósito for El Aleph. Art and Science Festival and UNAM (National Autonomous University of Mexico), with the collaboration of àngels barcelona gallery, La Maleta de Portbou. Revista de Humanidades y Economía, Revista CTXT, Nodal (Noticias de América Latina y el Caribe) and L’Internationale.