Migrants from Africa reaching Spain in record numbers 

Twenty-year-old Amadou Bari, from Guinea, in western Africa, has tried over and over to cross into Europe from Ceuta, a Spanish enclave on the northern tip of Africa, since 2022.

“I tried so many times I stopped counting,” said Bari, who was fleeing political turmoil.

He has participated in what French-speaking migrants called a frappe, which roughly translates as a “bum rush.” Hundreds of migrants will gather in the hills, rush the fence en masse and climb for their lives. 

In one attempt recorded three years ago, 1,100 migrants took part. They fought with Moroccan and Spanish agents, got tear-gassed, truncheoned and shot with rubber balls. In the chaos, dozens got caught and lacerated on the razor wire.

For the past couple of years, Spain has been seeing a rising number of migrants trying to enter the country — including 63,970 irregular migrants last year (mostly in the Atlantic archipelago), up from 56,852 in 2023, according to Interior Ministry numbers. Although the 2024 number fell short of the 2018 record of 64,298 arrivals, it surpassed the 56,852 migrants who reached Spain illegally in 2023, France 24 reported.

Along the way, the migrants — most of whom are from Africa, fleeing conflict — are encountering the heavily fortified barrier at the border at Ceuta, which Morocco surrounds on one side and the Mediterranean sea on the other. 

In recent years, boosted security on both sides of the border is making it much harder to enter illegally, and that’s pushing migrants to take greater and greater risks. 

In the mountains of Ceuta, migrants can camp for weeks, months, even years before finally crossing — if they make it, because down below, Moroccan security forces patrol the one coastal road.

Coast guard boats patrol the harbor.And at the border itself stand two 20-foot-high fences topped with razor wire. There are cameras and thermal sensors. On the Spanish side, brigades of Civil Guardsmen stand at the watch.

Bari said that he eventually gave up on the large-scale assaults and went stealth — sneaking to the fence with just one other person.

“It’s all about luck,” he said. “The last time I tried, no one came to hit us with truncheons. It was hard to get over the fence, but we made it. We’re here now, safe and sound. It was destiny.”

That was just four days earlier. Now, Bari is in the Ceti, an overcrowded complex where migrants are held until they either get asylum, get deported or are just released because Spain can’t figure out where they’re from. 

Bari’s story of giving up on the frappes squares with what local authorities say.

Civil Guard spokesman Alfonso Cruzado said, “These days, we’re seeing fewer and fewer migrants getting trapped at the fences. Or getting stuck on the razor wire.”

But the heavily guarded, fortified fence line isn’t exactly a border-control success story because, according to analysts and observers, it’s created what’s called a “balloon effect,” pushing migrants toward a far more dangerous route—traveling to Spain by sea from Africa’s west coast. 

One morning this past summer, some 140 mostly Moroccans braved strong currents, swimming far out to sea to by-bass border controls. 

In a video online, it looks like the start of some triathlon. But by the time the migrants reach the beach in Ceuta, several appear unconscious. Police and Red Cross workers race frantically into the surf, pulling people to shore. 

Red Cross spokesperson Germinal Castillo said it’s been a dramatic year. They responded to 2,163 calls and provided emergency care to 868 migrants, he said, adding, “It’s an enormous number.” 

Castillos said too often, they find cadavers when they arrive. A far larger number of migrants are swept out to sea and never found.

“It’s the most lamentable way to die, out there in the silence, in absolute anonymity,” he said. “The Straits of Gibraltar is one of the largest mass graves in Europe. And no one talks about it.”

Migrants talk about it, but not the way Castillo does.

TikTok is filled with selfie videos of upbeat migrants dressed in wetsuits with fins on the Moroccan side of the border. They buy them in shops there and then slip into the sea at night for a swim that can take up to 10 hours.

Algerian ljaponi, who asked that only his handle be used, made a video before swimming off. By morning, he’d posted a second clip of himself walking barefoot on a Ceuta street, still wet from his swim and giving a thumbs-up to his online followers.

“I’m not trying to encourage people to come,” he said. “I’m just chronicling my journey.”

He said he did so for himself and for the loan sharks to whom he owes a lot of money for a business that went under during the COVID-19 pandemic.

“They came and sliced my thigh open with a sword,” he said, pulling up his pants and showing a long, clean scar. “I’ve come to Spain because I can earn more here and pay them back faster. Only then can I return home to take care of my elderly parents.”

Those parts of migrants’ stories — the trauma, the separation — don’t tend to make the socials. What gets posted are the victories, the good life on the other side — even if it’s fake. 

And that’s drawing more unaccompanied minors, said Pedro Nunes, who volunteers at a foundation in Ceuta called San Antonio, where child migrants transitioning to adulthood can live and learn skills — like cooking.

“We always say about how the revolution will not be televised, but the migration is being televised. Like, it’s being TikTok-ized. They get through the internet the curated experience of a friend or family member who went to Europe. And all he posts about is his amazing luxury life next to a Ferrari that’s probably not even his. He just found it on the street and took a selfie.” 

These visuals lure others north with illusions of a better life. Here in Ceuta, there’s another illusion that no one seems to share: that building tougher borders will dissuade people from trying to cross them.

The Red Cross’ Castillo said, “When we say to a potential migrant, ‘Do not try to swim to Spain. You’re going to lose your life. They usually answer, “Just what sort of life do you think we’re talking about?” And that’s where the conversation ends.”

Back at the Ceti, a dozen migrants who had just been released posed for selfies outside the shelter with suitcases and duffle bags in hand.

A ferry will take them to mainland Spain down the road toward the port. They sang as they went, even if they didn’t know exactly where they’d end up or what kind of life really awaited them. Because for now, at least, that doesn’t matter — they’re in.

This report was produced in collaboration with the Global Reporting Program at the University of British Columbia.