Children from Moria camp do not go to school because the educational system does not recognise them. These non-existent children laugh, play with marbles, run and shout greetings to us. At one time, after who knows how many months of journey, their parents placed them in rubber boats and headed towards the shores of Lesbos not knowing if they would reach them alive. These people left behind certain conditions I know nothing about. Now, they are in Moria. For months. Years. Living.
Although we too practically lived in the mud of the Balkan route during the refugee crisis, apart from a few reporting stills, I don’t have many photos from those places. I remember well three of them, primarily because of the associated feelings: • The Berkasovo-Bapska border crossing between Serbia and Croatia. Hundreds of buses are crammed with refugees. The surrounding cornfields have become a waste dump. On those mountains of trash, a young man squats, looking in a handheld mirror and shaving before he steps onto European Union soil. It is an unreal scene.
272
Made with FlippingBook Online newsletter