CROSSING THE RIVER IN THE RAIN

What are we talking about?

(Besides, we don’t really talk)

Gunshots in the distance, they flee with almost nothing and find themselves facing a river without a bridge.

On the other bank, a hut (border? checkpoint? or watchtower?) and armed uniforms (military? militia? guards?). It shoots far away; we have to cross!

On one side, a Belgian grandmother in a suitcase, dragged by her devoted Turkish son; a pregnant British woman, her Norwegian husband, and their big Swedish baby. 

They will manage, with their almost nothing, to find solutions; naive, quirky, weird, human.

On the other side of the river, two guards who try, no matter what, to enforce the order.

We also come across the goodwill of a humanitarian, a seriously injured person, a lost tourist and the essential reporter.

There is no inevitability, only circumstances and opportunities, and the means they find, together, to seize them.

There are, on each bank of this river, clown-jesters who speak their respective grumblelots.

They are not martyrs, nor executioners. 

Just victims without pathos but full of hope, of life, put in a situation which does not date from yesterday and which reproduces itself endlessly.