His name is Aliou. In 2021, he arrived in the Canary Islands on a small boat. Twenty-two days later, he was arrested, as he was considered the captain of the vessel, although he denies it. After being transferred to Palma prison, he was diagnosed with leukemia and underwent a bone marrow transplant. Along the way, he learned Spanish—he speaks it with a slight Canarian accent—and earned a kitchen assistant qualification. Since he's already been granted the third degree of imprisonment, he works in a restaurant. He's only 23, but thinks he's already "wasted a lot of time": "I don't know if I'll be able to get it back."

The Minister of Social Welfare of the Menorca Council, Carmen Reynés, reported this Wednesday that two of the three minors who were rescued last Saturday in a small boat 35 miles off the island's coast "can't even walk." "They arrived in a very delicate physical condition and extremely weak. All were discharged from the hospital, but tonight one of the minors was readmitted. Regarding their psychological state, it can be said to be somewhat worrying," said the island official.

The distribution of unaccompanied migrant minors has become a key weapon in the crossfire between the Spanish government and the PP in recent weeks. In this case, it was Prime Minister Marga Prohens, who emerged as the front line of the majority of the Popular Party leaders who united against Pedro Sánchez, in a new episode of tension between the regional administrations of the PP and the Spanish government. Last Friday, the Executive announced the filing of a second appeal against the measure, which aims to relieve the burden on the Canary Islands, overwhelmed by the wave of migration. Meanwhile, nearly 3,900 minors who arrived in that territory by boat are awaiting a solution to their situation. 49 would be assigned to the islands, a figure that neither the Balearic PP nor its partner, Vox, are willing to accept.

The sun rises and Abdou is already bent down, picking fruit from the Mallorcan countryside. He knows when work begins, but never when it ends. His boss, who runs a family business, will let him know. If he's in the greenhouse, Abdou calculates when to escape for fresh air and a quick soak in his shirt to avoid heatstroke. At the end of the day, with the sun already setting, he will receive 50 euros. A tax-free black market ticket for the boss; but a safe passage so that Abdou, like thousands of irregular immigrants, can survive on the margins of society. He is not registered with the authorities. He has no residence or work permit, but he has been living and earning a living since arriving two years ago from Senegal. He is 25 years old. He left behind his wife and son. "Being separated from them is like being dead," he says before recounting the ten-day journey by boat.