The accounts we have collected reveal a disturbing pattern of border violence carried out by security forces from Algeria, Tunisia, and Morocco. These are not isolated incidents but systematic abuses, marked by racism, sexism, and extreme brutality – sometimes with fatal consequences.
In the desert village of Assamaka, people who have been deported are left in extremely harsh and unstable conditions. The limited support provided by the IOM camp or NGOs like COOPI falls far short of what is needed. Many individuals have no access at all to these services and are left to fend for themselves, completely alone.
Despite this, the testimonies also reflect something powerful: the strength, determination, and solidarity of people confronting unbearable circumstances.
Alarme Phone Sahara works to document these realities, not only to raise awareness but also to demand accountability from those responsible – including the states and institutions in the European Union that help fund and enable such practices.
Because information from within Algeria is so difficult to obtain, the voices of those who have lived through these experiences are vital. We are deeply grateful to those who have found the courage to speak out on camera.
Through their stories, we bear witness to the violence that people on the move are subjected to – and to the suffering we see firsthand when they arrive in Assamaka: exhausted, injured, and often in despair, only to face yet another struggle for survival.
We do what we can to offer support, but we also recognize our limits. We are a small organisation with modest resources, while thousands of migrants remain stranded in this remote desert outpost.
Analysis and description of the situation of black migrants in Tunisia and Algeria by Zange Mofo Jovin Oton
When you are a citizen, you can move freely within your continent. But here in Africa, there is no union. We are Africans, but we cannot move freely. That is the difficulty.
We crossed Niger, Nigeria, even Benin, all the countries of Black Africa, without difficulty. There are others, like Gabon, where I got my baccalaureate without difficulty. But when you get to the Maghreb, that's where everything changes. They don't have the African mentality, they don't want to be united, they don't want to accept that we are brothers. Because if they really accepted that we were brothers, the papers wouldn't be a problem for them. Because we passed through all the other countries. Some people even lost their papers because they felt safe and comfortable. Others even left them at home. They feel comfortable.
But once you're in the Maghreb, even if the locals see you, there are other people who are welcoming. There are other people whom the police tells not to help you. So you might arrive at an Algerian's house, and he'll help you, but then he'll tell you not to go to the police. The police won't let him help you. So that means it's the law of the government itself. It's the law of the government that when you have to help someone, you mustn't help your African brothers.
If the government is already telling the population that, it means that they themselves are instilling that division in the population. There is no love. If there was love, there would be a hundred struggles against authoritarianism going on right now. But if there is already love between us, and we can get somewhere, we are at ease. We can't always think about taking risks, because all of this is a risk.
We've been hurt, we're walking, we're crossing the sea, many of our brothers are dying. We're not proud, our parents aren't proud to see us taking on what we've got. Not everyone says they're not proud. So sometimes even the money we can give them, they might think about finding jobs to help the population get back on their feet, to change their hearts a little.
So that we can feel comfortable where we are. Then they'll want to come and visit us. We'll welcome them with open arms, because there are others who are in need. We don't even try to find out where they live. But we are welcoming, we know that Africans are a welcoming people. But already, at this level, we can see that they are no longer a welcoming people. Because you can't be proud to see our sisters and children. You take the children and throw them into the desert. The woman survived in the desert, just like me.
The mother of the child was pregnant. Sometimes we walk and walk and walk, and we leave a body behind. We give them water, but it's not enough. We end up leaving the body behind. We can't talk about everything we go through. We have to start by changing their hearts first. Because if they really have a little love in their hearts.
It's that love that will make things better for migrants. Because if I arrive here in Niger, the way we are being welcomed, I can walk everywhere without anyone asking me anything. As long as I haven't done anything wrong. If they can walk everywhere without anyone asking them anything. Alhamdoulilah, that's freedom.
Everyone wants to be free. Freedom is priceless. If you're in a country where you can't be free, when you walk down the street, you have to look around to see if the police are coming. That means you live with stress. You can't earn a living in countries like that. Those who manage to earn a living there don't want to.
Really, I take my hat off to them. But for us, it's too much. We'd rather go home. Because I didn't know it could be like this. I heard about Algeria, Tunisia and all that. In my heart, I told myself that it was also an African country.
When I got there, it was like a discovery. Migrants exist today. They've existed since the time of Moses. It's for today. It's always a discovery. For a man to go out, walk around, look around. Migrants are always another form of tourism. It's not because we've put up border controls. We've modernised it, we call it tourism. It's still the same thing. Someone walks, to discover, to learn. But you can't stay at home, because you don't go out. You think you have everything. No. You also need the things we have at home.
But you don't know us. In the world, you can have what you have. We are what we have. We share. We unite. Love reigns. But we are very disappointed in the Maghreb countries. I've never been to Morocco. But I've heard brothers praise Morocco. I've heard lots of brothers praise Morocco. Because they feel at home there. I'm not talking about those who are in the forest. But those who are in the city. Because in Morocco, even when you're pushed back out at sea, they can't leave you in the desert. They leave you in a city, but not near the sea. They leave you in another city. That's the mentality. They can't send you back, they can't take you, they can't leave you in the desert. You have no water, you have nothing. It's to kill you.
Zange Mofo Jovin Oton
Hello, my name is Zange Mofo Jovin Oton, I am Cameroonian, aged 30. I arrived in Tunisia with my permit and my passport. I was surprised that on the African continent, you cannot walk freely. If you cannot walk freely, why not?
When people see that your skin colour is different, even getting a job is impossible. If they give you a job, that's good. Maybe they'll put you in a concession where you'll really have to work hard. And sometimes, after working hard, if the police catch you, even if you have your papers, they take them, tear them up, and take all your money. Because we worked for months, we earned money, and we ended up with nothing. It's not bandits, it's not vagrant people who took it, it's the police in Tunisia and Algeria.
So even the population isn't welcoming. That's why sometimes migrants even want to leave, they don't want to stay in the Maghreb. Because if the population were really welcoming, we could work, we could live a little peacefully. Even the idea of wanting to cross the sea wouldn't come up so much. Everyone likes to feel at home on their own continent, free. Nothing beats freedom. But we have no freedom, and when they arrest us, if they don't put us in prison, they take everything we have. The only mercy they show is letting us walk away. Otherwise, they take everything.
But when they're not merciful, they put you in prison, they beat you up, they tear up your documents, and then they leave you in the desert. And sometimes there are other cases, when the national guard arrives in the middle of the sea, they are the ones who circle around the boat, rock it, and disturb the water. Then they leave us to suffer. And the Red Cross arrives late. There are maybe two or three of them. Whereas at the start, they're the ones who messed things up, they're the ones who caused the shipwreck.
So there are lots of things. When they left us, because I was taken in Tunisia, when they took everything from us, they left us in the desert. We arrived in Tebessa. There's a village very close by, even before you get to Tebessa. But already in Algeria. We worked there with my brother. We worked for about two months. We collected more than 14,000 dinars. When we got to Tebessa, we went to a shop to pay for something. The Algerian police came. They took all the money we had on us. We explained that we knew they wanted to leave us in the desert in Assamaka. "But at least leave us with something so we can get to the desert. We'll be able to feed ourselves." They said it was no problem. "We're not like the Tunisians. We'll give you your money." But we were surprised that they put us in a cell. Afterwards, they came and left us here with nothing. It's the same thing, the same tool. Everything we've worked for.
I've been out here for three years. Back home, I worked in management. We came here. We did almost everything we could to get what we could to send to our families. But we always find that it's the police who are supposed to protect the people. Because we didn't steal anything. The police catch you. They take everything you've worked for. You can't apologise to anyone. Because the people aren't on your side. Sometimes, when you stay, it's the people who call the police to say there's a black man there.
Arnaud
They put us on buses and took us to a National Guard base on the Algerian border. As soon as we arrived, they beat us up, they hit us very hard. All the police officers, all the gendarmes.
I ask the question, how? I'm a student in the country, I can prove I'm a student, I have my documents that show that you don't have the right to treat me like that. They confiscated our phones, confiscated everything we had that was valuable to us. They had what they were supposed to give us. They spoke to us and took us to the Algerian border. When they left us at the Algerian border, we entered Algeria. And now I can't go back as my wife is in Tunis and my children are in Tunis.
What did they do to me in Algeria? They are chasing migrants in their territory. I tried to get away. For three nights, I climbed and climbed. And finally, I found a village. I looked for a public cyber café and printed my documents that were in gmail. When I took them out, I walked around with them. If I ran into them, I could explain myself. I fell into the hands of the national guard that was looking around [...]. They stopped me and asked me, ‘What are you doing here?’ I showed them my papers and proved that I was in the country legally. And what happened to me on my way. They took my phone, they took everything I had. (...)
The commander told me, “Don't worry, you'll see your family today.” I thought he was going to send a car to take me back to Tunis. Or maybe call my embassy, my embassy. He's taking me to the military base where we're going to get beaten up, I was surprised to be there. And then, a few hours later, they said they were going to send us back to the border. That's how they sent us back to the border.
And my little brother came to find me, and we were rejected. We had to go into Algeria because we didn't have any place to stay in Tunisia. And our feet were already hurting from all the walking we had done. We had to figure out what to do next. And we entered Algeria and got lost. And we arrived in Tebessa. In Tebessa, we had to think. I decided to go to the Tunisian consul in Tebessa. When I got there, they told me I had no right to be there, given what we had done. They said they couldn't give me anything. But they didn't do anything for me. Instead, they sent me to my embassy. And my embassy is in Algiers. We, Subsaharan Africans, are not allowed to take taxis. It is forbidden to take a taxi to Algiers or even to travel within the city. I can't walk 700 or 600 kilometres on foot. I had to think about how I was going to get there. (...) And straight away, there were people who decided to help me with money to get me going. That's where I was kidnapped. I was kidnapped. At first, it wasn't easy. It's simple, it's tragic. They released me after two days. We had no recourse. The kidnappers released me after two days.
I tried to contact my wife. I had to find a solution, a way to get back to Tunis. Either go back where I could be safe. And I was waiting for an Algerian who could help me either go to Algiers or maybe return to Tunis in the dark. We were immediately arrested. The Algerian police arrested us. The same thing the Tunisians did to us. Without anything, without any reason. I said no.
I am in a regular situation. I had my documents on me. I had kept the scan I had made in my Gmail. That I am a student in Tunis. And I came to the Tunisian consul to try to find a solution. How I can get a travel certificate to return to Tunis. Or to go to my embassy. You arrest me to take with you. I told him no, don't worry. As soon as the boss arrives, the chief will arrive, he'll tell me there's no problem, we'll be judged. There's no problem, there's no need for a trial. We'll just end up back in prison. It was the same thing we had in Tunis. For days. It was impossible to sleep. Impossible. The food wasn't even food that you could call food. Three days. We wondered: When are they going to release us? They kept us there.
Afterwards, we saw they were going to put us back to the gendarmerie and send us off into the desert towards Niger. […] We travelled. We looked around. There was no administration, no access to water as we wanted. They left us a few kilometres away, 15 kilometres from Niger, to walk. There were pregnant women. I was amazed at how a pregnant woman could survive that kind of transport with all the jolting. How did we feel? I can't explain it. How could a pregnant woman cope? The children were put in trucks like goods and driven along. They were going to abandon us to walk. We returned from Algeria. We were well received, at least.
Well, because, given what we had seen, here we were at least in a familiar environment. We have at least some peace and freedom. When we arrived, we missed the help of the IOM. We haven't yet been given enough water to get supplies. But we hope that we will be able to start over and be reunited with our families. And it's up to me to go back and see my family because I'm their hope.
Kange Pasi
Salam aleykoum.
My name is Kange Pasi. I'm a young Cameroonian, 21 years old. I left my country two years ago. To get out, to be able to search to earn a living. To be able to help my family. And to my great surprise, it wasn't easy at all. Especially when I arrived in Tunisia. There were a lot of shocks. There were a lot of difficult moments. With the police. With the locals. There was too much racism. They put me in prison last year on 6 May. 6 May 2024. I spent four months in prison. It wasn't easy at all.
After prison, they take us. They throw us out from the United Nations. They throw us out into the desert. And then we don't know what to do. We try to get back on our feet. We try to rebuild our lives. We struggle a bit. We work a bit. We find a place to sleep. Something to eat. But then. They always come and break into houses. They break into houses. They come in. They were really tough. At 2 a.m., 3 a.m., 4 a.m. They come. They take our phones. They take our money. They take everything. Then they throw us out again. To other countries.
I met my mate Nino. It's been a year now, and he helped me a lot in Tunisia. But to my surprise, we ended up on this side. At the same time, he's not in the same situation. He has his wife and children in Tunisia. He came here legally. We're all the same. We're “the blacks” and they're Europeans. For me, we're Africans. They say no. They say we're here to dirty the country. They take us. They beat us up. They beat us up. And it's not good. They hurt us. They break our feet. They break our hands. Then they throw us back to the border. They take everything we have. The money we worked so hard for. They take it. They keep it for themselves. And then they tell us to get out of their country.
And then we spent six months in Algeria. Still in shock. Arriving in Algeria, we were very tired there. We were looking for a way to get back. Because my eldest son had to find his wife in Tunisia at all costs. So we stayed in Tunisia for a few months to keep ourselves busy. Our feet hurt. We had walked more than 400 kilometres. We stayed in Tunisia for almost a week. We looked for ways to get back up. And then there was the deportation back to Algeria. They caught us. They locked us in for more than four days. We barely ate. So they gave us water. A bottle of sugar. They gave us a bottle of water like that. For six people.
All day long. Like that? In the buses. They stopped along the way. We ate in the morning. They stopped to eat. We just ate bread. We ate one loaf of bread a day. The whole way. Yet this goes on like that constantly. They give one bottle of water to six people. And then we're always on the move to the borders until we got here to Assamaka. It's been almost three days now. that we've been here in Assamaka. But since we got here, at least we've been able to rest a little, but it's not easy. The IOM people haven't welcomed us since we got here. We have nowhere to sleep. We have nothing. We're just looking for a little corner. Somewhere to lay our heads. It's not easy. Really. We need some people to come and help us. To help us improve our situation. And me too, since I've been here. It's been almost two years since I left. I lost my father five months ago. I wasn't at home. Now they know they sent me back. They don't know how it happened. And then I asked my older brothers. We know who they are, if they can help us. Because it's really not easy. We “blacks” suffer a lot in North African countries. Thank you.
Tobé Djilane
[…] My name is Tobé Djilane, I am a young migrant from Cameroon. I left my country two years ago. I arrived in Tunisia. I was surprised by the way our African brothers treat us, us black people, us black Africans.
As soon as I entered Tunisia, I was kidnapped. They have an association and work in collaboration with sub-Saharan Africans. It is the Tunisians who work in collaboration; they are the leaders of this organisation. When I arrived, I took a taxi to Sfax.
I took a taxi, and the taxi driver, the Tunisian driver, sold me. He sold me to black people. Among the black people, there were Guineans and Ivorians who tortured me. They did many things, they took videos, they sent them to my family demanding money.
But thank God, I managed to escape. I ran away from everything and ended up on the street. I met a Senegalese man who helped me and kept me at his house for two months. I stayed with him for quite a while.
Even though I was staying with him, it wasn't always easy. With the racism and everything, we had Tunisian neighbours living around us. They got together with some Tunisian vagrant people and organised a break-in at our house, where we Sub-Saharan Africans were living. Our little house where we lived. The Tunisians didn't want us in their country. Every time we went out, maybe to brush our teeth or wash our faces, we got pelted with stones, kicked. They didn't want to see black skin. They tortured us a lot. The owners of our neighbours' house, they organised a burglary with the other young Tunisians and vagrant people.
They came, they broke the door down, they beat us up. There were women inside, there were pregnant women. Lots of women, people were jumping out of the window because we were on the second floor. Lots of women broke their legs that day, that night. They broke their legs. It was really horrible.
All because of racism, because of our skin. I don't know if we hurt anyone because we are black. We deserve this kind of treatment. After the tragedy, many women broke their feet because they came with lots of knives and machetes. Many things came to attack us that night.
That's how we left home, because they didn't want to see us, because of our skin and everything. We left home. I worked in the capital, in Tunis. I worked hard. I worked in Tunis for two years. All the money I saved, I worked to send to my family. Because when you leave, you're looking for adventure. It's to help our families. That's why more and more of us are leaving. I worked for two years in Tunis. I worked very hard. I worked in construction, building, as a labourer. I did odd jobs. I worked very hard, very hard.
One morning, I left to go to work. I was stopped by the national guard. They took everything I had on me. All the money I had saved, all the money I had saved for almost two years, they took everything. My phone, everything. They put me on a bus with some other black people. We were near Sousse, on the bus. They tied us up like animals. They tied us up. I still have the blue marks on my hands. They tortured us. They beat us. They beat us while insulting us. It reminded us of the old days of slavery, how black people were beaten.
That's when I realised that we are still living in slavery on our continent. We are not free to walk where we want. They always asked for our papers. I know it's normal, but beating us and treating us like animals is not normal.
Since that day, they've taken us away in buses. They threw us out in the desert. There were pregnant women. There were women with babies. I saw babies in the desert. I saw many women dying of thirst in the desert. Dying of thirst in the desert. All because of papers. It means that human life is no longer...
