I have been feeling increasingly unsettled reading the news lately. Not just because of the events themselves, but because of what they reveal about how quickly we abandon compassion when fear takes hold. The recent crossing into Ceuta is a case in point.
On Thursday morning 30 July 2026, roughly 50,000 to 60,000 people crossed from Morocco into Spain’s enclave of Ceuta in a single day. To grasp how extraordinary that is, consider the Mediterranean context: Italy, Europe’s primary landing point for sea arrivals, recorded its highest monthly inflow in 2023 at 25,673 arrivals in August. That was already considered exceptional, spread across an entire month.
Ceuta absorbed more than double that number in under 24 hours. No major European entry point has documented such a concentrated influx in such a short timeframe. The crossing also claimed at least 67 lives. People who drowned or were crushed in the chaos as crowds overwhelmed border guards. That death toll alone deserves more examination than it has received.
Yes, people were likely aware of a recent Spanish Supreme Court ruling that made immediate deportations legally more difficult. Yes, smuggling networks probably facilitated some movement. But tens of thousands converging at a single border fence simultaneously still suggests more than spontaneous action. Such logistics typically require coordination: transportation, timing, information spread across networks, etc,.The scale doesn’t align with what we usually see from unorganised migration.
The footage circulating is striking: mostly young men, many entering the city, some forcing their way into buildings. I understand why this unsettles people. But here’s where I’m careful: desperation and chaotic behaviour aren’t mutually exclusive. People fleeing severe conditions don’t always behave with the caution we might expect. Trauma, hunger, and months of dangerous journeys wear down restraint.
Still, the pattern worth noting is this: the confrontational behaviour appeared immediate, even before people had encountered barriers to basic necessities. That’s unusual. It raises real questions about what people expected when they arrived. Whether they understood Ceuta is a tiny territory of 84,000 people, already overwhelmed, with no path to mainland Europe for most arrivals. Or whether the crossing itself was the point, regardless of what happened next.
Ceuta is only 14 kilometres by sea from mainland Spain, a short distance, a unique entry point. It’s been Spanish territory for centuries, yet this scale of movement happened suddenly. Why now? The legal change mattered, clearly. But Ceuta didn’t become newly accessible on that day. Something: coordination, desperation, organised facilitation, or a combination, shifted the calculus.
Whether the Ceuta crossing was orchestrated or spontaneous matters less than what happened next on social media. Across Facebook, Twitter, and comment threads, a consistent narrative emerged: Spain’s pro-migration policies caused this. The government’s decision to allow humanitarian entry created the conditions for chaos. Accept migrants, accept the consequences.
What troubles me most is seeing people who are themselves first- or second-generation asylum seekers now opposing new arrivals and criticising the government for humanitarian policies. On social media, Vietnamese diaspora across Europe and the US joined the chorus, people who came as migrants themselves, now demanding stricter policies with little empathy for those crossing. I understand the worry, about resources, safety, belonging, the fear that compassion will be read as weakness. But it’s difficult to watch communities that once needed help now refusing it to others.
This moment reveals something uncomfortable about us: how thin our solidarity is when fear arrives. How quickly we forget our own desperation. And how easily we turn vulnerability into a weapon against the vulnerable.
Malaga, Spain, 2nd August 2026.
Migration talks that matter 