Crying for freedom - inside a detention centre

Aliu Mega peers curiously through the latticed metal gate and smiles shyly before backing off as army gunner Jesmond Goodlip unlocks two heavy padlocks to open the door to Block B.

A gentle breeze sweeps through the corridor bringing respite on a clammy July morning. Three men sit on cushions on the cool tiles, absorbed in a homemade board game, as a television flickers in the background.

Mr Mega plucks up the courage to come forward seeing the rare chance to make his voice heard. Born in Nigeria, he lost both his parents and, with no family to turn to, he had to sleep on the streets.

"One day we started a bonfire to keep warm, but we forgot to put it out and it engulfed a car. The owner wanted to kill me and I had no choice but to escape or he would hunt me down," he says.

Mr Mega says he is 17 years old, but Safi manager Captain Mark Borg quietly points out that medical tests established the boy is actually 19: "They usually lie about their age to qualify as a vulnerable case and earlier release."

With nothing anchoring him in Nigeria, Mr Mega followed the worn track from Africa to Libya, before hopping on to a small boat to get to Europe. Once he reached Malta, a few months ago, he was whisked to the detention centre.

"It's very boring here. We sleep, wash, eat, sleep and sometimes play football. I'm unhappy here. I want my freedom. I would like to go to school and learn English better," he says, in a wistful voice.

Was he missing anything, except his freedom?

"We need mosquito spray; they disturb us at night. And we don't like to eat the same food every day," he complains, as his three friends nod in agreement.

Commander Brian Gatt, who oversees all three detention centres that house over 1,300 immigrants, is quick to volunteer an explanation: "They are scared of the malaria mosquito, which we don't have in Malta."

In reply to the unvaried menu, Col. Gatt says the provision of food had been outsourced in a bid to resolve the immigrants' cultural issues over food.

The tall, slim commander in civilian uniform has been entrusted with giving the media individual tours of the Safi Barracks, together with Capt. Borg and the Justice Ministry's spokesman.

After years of receiving humiliating bad press from international humanitarian organisations and NGOs over the sub-standard conditions of its detention centres, the government has chosen to lift its media ban. A change in minister meant a change in policy and four months into his new post Carmelo Mifsud Bonnici has opened the door of the Safi Barracks wide open to journalists, in a bid to quell the negative perceptions.

The picture of the situation inside, which could never be verified in the past, was built through several reports penned by witnesses.

In May last year, Amnesty International issued a scathing report, saying a delegation of an EU committee which visited four detention centres, described the Safi detention centre as "a cage".

There were "no sheets on the beds, broken and dirty mattresses, and no heating. Hygiene conditions were intolerable, with broken showers, no hot water, and toilets without doors and in a state of disrepair".

Then, last September, Fr Paul Pace, Jesuit Refugee Service director, said immigrants at Lyster Barracks, another detention centre, including women and children, were allowed a few hours of fresh air a week.

However, in a matter of months the picture that unfolded during the three-hour visit contrasted sharply with previous caustic reports, raising several questions: What happened? Was the Safi Centre spruced up simply for the occasion, or is this the way the government is planning to go to clean up its image?

"Amnesty's report is based on second or third-hand information since no member ever requested to visit a detention centre. This is not a 'reversal of the situation' because conditions were never as drastic as reported," a ministry spokesman says.

Approaching Warehouse 1, a smell of welding lingers in the air as an immigrant repairs the gates that keep him locked in. A few metres down, another immigrant is giving the rusty bars a fresh coat of cream paint. "I prefer to do something and keep busy. I'd go mad sitting around all day doing nothing," says Ibrahim Rudin, 28, who has been inside for 10 months.

Capt. Borg says it would cost a lot of money to employ somebody to do the welding and painting at the centre. In return for volunteering, immigrants receive cigarettes and phone cards, but Col. Gatt would like to devise a system where he can set aside some money, which they can use when released.

The morning sun is pounding down, reflecting off the shiny paint of the gates that stand two storeys high, finishing off with reels of barbed wire at the top.

A small reception area is set up outside a metal door, which has four narrow slits cut out at the top and bottom for the guard to peek in. On the other side is a small room, which doubles as a clinic, where every day, except weekends, a doctor and nurse see to the immigrants in the morning.

Opening the metal latch, the door opens into a small corridor, where another door leads to the barred detention centre. The immigrants are all huddled in one corner, pushing against the metal grid, curious to see who the visitor is.

Blue crates of small Benna milk cartons wait to be distributed as part of breakfast, which includes a hard-boiled egg, four slices of bread, sugar, coffee, tea, and butter... tubs full of the yellow artery-blocking spread that they love.

"They preferred more butter over cheese and jam," Col. Gatt says with a smile, as he observed an overweight immigrant with an ice cream-sized tub of butter, already adjusting to Western ways.

A small black phone lies in a corner on the floor. There is no reading material in sight, except for an idle copy of The Times. Pop music blares from the 21-inch television set, tuned in to MTV. A few are sitting on the picnic-like benches, eating and drinking from hard plastic cups and plates - they don't bother with cutlery - staring at the images of the music videos.

The boredom feels like a stifling blanket and the group are wrapped in it. It's 10 a.m., but some are still lying in bed; there is nothing motivating them to get up. Time drags on endlessly.

Others refuse to let lethargy and boredom rule their life, and small groups of friends can be seen sitting on blankets on the floor, behind the bunk beds, playing with cards or dominoes, provided by the army and NGOs.

A few have been inventive and created their own ludo board, using a disused cardboard box and the small pieces of red plastic pieces that seal the loaves of bread as tokens.

Abdul Kadir, 35, who escaped the civil war in Somalia, has been in detention for 10 months and he yearns for freedom. His friend joins in, waving an empty box of tablets, saying he needs more medication.

Osuman Isek, 28, from Somalia, detests the numbing boredom and would cherish the opportunity to learn English while inside.

The dormitory is split into huge rooms with a dividing metal sheet, barred windows and ceiling fans that bring some reprieve. There are six bunk beds in each room, all with sheets and pillows, under which immigrants store their sparse belongings.

Soap bars and shampoo line the narrow ledge of the metal divider. There are no wardrobes, lockers or shelves, but Col. Gatt said they plan to install some furniture.

He explains that the army tries to keep Central and West Africans separated as much as possible because problems often arose due to a clash of cultures.

"While West Africans are tidier and the ones who usually volunteer for work, the others are the opposite," he says.

"Overall, we don't have problems, but there's always one who is a troublemaker and the rest follow," he adds, leading the way to the showers and toilets where partitions were recently installed.

There are no mirrors and the shower pipes are often replaced because the immigrants sometimes rip them to use as a weapon should the need ever arise, Capt. Borg says, walking into the yard, which is about half the size of a football pitch.

Col. Gatt says the yard is open from sunrise till sunset. The metal bars that keep them locked in double as washing lines and sheets and clothes flutter freely with no pegs.

An immigrant is cutting his friend's hair, snipping away at the tight black hairs.

"We provide them with a pair of scissors as long as they don't abuse the privilege. We work with mutual respect," he adds.

Just across from the yard is an overgrown field where some 300 wooden and fibreglass boats lie like corpses, with the 'date of death' hammered in. If they could talk, the boats would tell some horrific stories of rough seas, scared immigrants holding on for dear life and souls lost in the depths of the Mediterranean.

"You don't need to be a rocket scientist to see that it's the same people who are manufacturing these boats to smuggle people from Libya into Europe. In the past year they've started painting them black or blue to avoid detection at night," Col. Gatt says.

"In 1996, a foreign journalist had predicted an exodus of 10 million people from Africa. At the time I had shown it to my superiors, but nobody took it seriously. Nobody believed the alarmist warning so we were ill-prepared for the huge influx that hit Malta in 2002," he says, with a pensive look.

His thoughts are distracted by the movement of people preparing to deliver lunch. Boxes of fresh bread rolls wait outside. A soldier uncovers the foil container: inside is a sizeable portion of rice topped with a gooey, unappetising brown sauce. It may look better served on a plate.

Time is running out. The last stop is to meet the army's star immigrant - Yakubu Ramanu, a 26-year-old from Togo, who is an expert technician.

"Jacob can repair anything, from television sets, telephones, DVDs, appliances. We had certain items, which we were told could not be repaired, but Jacob fixed them," Col. Gatt says, smiling with pride. A qualified technician, back in his country Mr Ramanu was beaten by his competitors who were scared he was stealing their work. His parents dead and no future in his country, he sold his technician's certificate for $150, which bought him passage to Libya.

There he worked to earn $1,000 for the boat trip to Italy: "The crossing was very dangerous. It was bad weather and I thought we would die before reaching land. Luckily everyone survived," he says, adding that he wants to continue studying once he gets out. The tour is over. Back outside, an army truck trundles by with 38 immigrants inside. They're the lucky ones who have been granted humanitarian status and are free to go.

"I've been inside for two months and I am so happy to be out. I plan to go out there and work," says Mohammed Sahel, a 21-year-old from Somalia. Wearing a suit jacket over his T-shirt, Mohammed beams and waves good-bye as he settles back into the truck for his journey to freedom.