The Global Workhouse

My name is Mustapha. I fled from Syria, from the war. I came to Europe to find a safe future. 
Instead I found the work zones. International Work Zones. Areas where National Law was suspended. Not belonging to any country. Ghettoes of alleged safety. Part of the TTIP agreement. A solution to migration. To survive, and live in the safety of Europe, I must work 14 hours a day, every day. For this I get food, shelter and clothing. No wages. No union rights. No support if I get sick. No days off. 
I see now why they bombed us. Those like me, who want to live in peace, will flee. We will be easy to control and resettle, easy to lie to and deceive. With nowhere to go, and no country to return to, we are the first residents of the new global workhouses. 
Soon, I think, others will arrive. The poor, and sick from European countries, the old who have had their pensions stolen. The unemployed. Anyone who opposes the marching advance of capitalism. Anyone from the wrong side of the wealth divide. 
Sometimes, my work involves recycling newspapers and magazines. The guards don’t know I can read and speak English. I used to see, sometimes, articles about us, our lives in here. The New Slavery, they called it, rather than the new safety we were promised. Journalists argued for our freedom, for human rights. There were protests and petitions. Then all that stopped. The names of the journalists changed, as if they had disappeared. As if they had never been. 
I wonder what ghetto they are in now. I wonder f they still think that protests and petitions are useful weapons, against brutal men with no morals, and guns. 


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