Once upon a time in Idomeni.  Not so far…

She wake up in the morning, washed, dressed, polished her shoes and settle again on the back side of her mind, all those difficult moments that she  lived up to reach Greece. She’ll refresh her memory again and she maybe cries, when she reaches her destination. When she will feel secure. Somewhere in Germany, Sweden, France, Austria, or wherever she has friends and relatives. Along with the three companions arrived in Idomeni. Three girls and one young man. Timidly approached the line that separates Greece from FYROM. To the left of the entrance, gathered hundreds of refugees from Iran, Bangladesh, Somalia, and Burkina Faso, Pakistan and other countries, protesting about the closure of the borders. The Syrians, Afghans and Iraqis are crossing without problem because they are coming from areas that there is war.  They all showed their documents to Skopje police and … shock. The three of them were ok to cross. She does not. It is late afternoon. Behind the barbed wire her friends look on anxiously. They are begging the soldiers. They are adamant. Those looking as lost. Frozen in front of the barbed wire. She cannot do neither forward nor back. “That cannot be happening” she thinks. Looks ahead. The barbed wire. The soldiers. An armor vehicle. The train tracks and 500 meter away, the station. The train carriages await refugees. The train that is waiting there takes the refugees closer to their destination.  So close and yet so far away for her at that moment. She looks back. The mud of the camp of Idomeni.  The Iranians with sewn mouths.  Everywhere tents and trash.  Chemical toilets and smells of piss. No one speaks.

 

 

Time has stopped and everyone watching silently the drama of the girl. They have forgotten their own drama. They have forgotten their own feelings. Their jealousy when they see the Afghans, Iraqis and Syrians to cross the wire and continue their journey. All of them are looking at the girl. She is making few steps back. Comes back from the rails and starts crying. She looks around to find support.  She is another number plus in the warehouse of souls in Idomeni.  Pity for polishing her shoes in the morning just before left her hotel. In Idomeni there is no place for shiny shoes. In a little while, in Idomeni storm will erupt and sludge will be more and more for all the refugees packed there

No Comments

    * Checkbox GDPR is required

    *

    I agree

    20 − 6 =

    This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

    Subscribe To Our Newsletter
    Subscribe to our email newsletter today to receive the latest news!
    No Thanks
    Με την εγγραφή σου συμφωνείς να λαμβάνεις τα νέα και τα ενδιαφέροντα θέματα του HumanStories και με την Πολιτική Προστασίας Δεδομένων. Μπορείς να διαγραφείς από την λίστα οποιαδήποτε στιγμή.
    Don't miss out. Subscribe today.
    ×
    ×
    WordPress Popup Plugin
    Subscribe To Our Newsletter
    No Thanks
    Με την εγγραφή σου συμφωνείς με την Πολιτική Προστασίας Δεδομένων.
    Don't miss out. Subscribe today.
    ×
    ×
    WordPress Popup Plugin