As the sirocco blows from the Sahara into Barcelona, the men and women step into the arena to forge flesh into iron. Some risked their lives to get here, crossing war zones, blistering deserts, and the unpredictable churn of the sea. Thin new arrivals shift shyly, hoping to be accepted, to connect. Friendships formed at the security perimeters of Melilla, the Spanish enclave on the coast of North Africa, became like family bonds. United by “suerte o muerte”, luck or death, they now strive to never feel so weak again. “Estoy hecho polvo” (“I'm exhausted”), he said, kneeling to rest. I turned myself into dust.