While politicians try to capitalize on the events in Ceuta, parents of Moroccan youths stand waiting at the fences at the border, because they do not know where their children are. I stand on the other side of that fence and look at their photos on my phone. ‘Maybe they drowned? Why aren’t they calling?’ I hear them thinking. I imagine their anxiety. Young people are sleeping in the bushes, in woods, and among the rocks of breakwaters. Chased by the police.