SOMEDAY THINGS ARE GONNA GET BRIGHTER

GRAFOSREM (ŠID) 15.11.2019.

There used to be a publishing and graphic institution in almost every small place in SFRY. The most famous is, certainly, BIGZ, short for Publishing and Graphics Institution of Belgrade. During the famous transition process (in which we will apparently remain for eternity), when even giants like BIGZ shut down, what could be expected from publishing and graphic institutions in smaller places? Grafosrem was another institution of this sort, which went bankrupt and in administration, but it never recovered. There once was a time when during the day books were printed and stored under its caring and warm roof, which at night, in the safety of the big secured facility, still warm after printing and binding, would wait to go somewhere else, to see the world; while today, at the entrance to Grafosrem, there is a logo almost completely crushed by the strokes of time, and under the ruined roof of the destroyed building with no gate, door, and most of the walls, at night lie the fates of hundreds of people trying to reach the European Union and the famous better life. I doubt that a book was printed there as heavy as the lives of these young, persistent people.

Before arriving at the improvised camp, one has to go through improvised gates made by migrants in order to hold back the police when it comes to inspecting the place. With these gates, the police can’t approach as easily, so they have to remove the obstacles. During that time the guards (there are always guards at night because of the police) have enough time to wake up the entire camp, people have all their valuables close with them, they turn up all the lights in the tents and readily await police inspection, and everyone guards their tents, mobile phones, and valuables…

This time there are about 140 people, mostly Pashtuns from Afghanistan, placed in a bunch of blue tents, with some tents raised above the ground and placed on pallets, for extra protection from the rain and cold. Tents are everywhere, in small rooms, in former hallways – wherever they could be set up. The group is helped by volunteers of the organization “No Name Kitchen”, who help them with food supplies, electricity, and binding wounds. We arrived a day after 40 migrants were returned from Croatia. Over there, according to their testimonies, the police took their money, broke their phones, and beat them until they all ended up with some sort of physical injury. They were then transferred to no man’s land between Croatia and Serbia and forced to find their way back on foot to Serbia. A boy that was kicked in the groin barely stood while talking to me, but said with a painful expression on his face how he wants for everyone to know the hardship they experience at the border.

Then I met Džavad, a boy who arrived that day in Grafosrem. We talked about a lot of things. He, like most of the guys, has not reached twenty years of age. To my question how long does he plan to try to cross the border, whatever the obstacles, he said: “One day. One month. Six months. A year. Whatever it takes.” In the room where his tent was, on a damp white wall, there was graffiti written with black spray paint: Someday things are gonna get brighter. After we all read the sentence together, a couple of guys, including Džavad, asked what does “brighter” mean. I translated the word by showing them the “brightness” option on a phone screen and making a dim screen become bright. Džavad, his face shining, said he hopes days like that will really come. Then he translated the word to the rest of the group who said that that would be nice since so far, they had many dark days.

Every time I am on the field, I am mostly struck by how much youth there is in one place. Sometimes seven or eight refugees together don’t have a hundred years. They are children who never had the chance to be children. Over a small campfire, where they warm up and talk, a couple of dozens of young arms are stretched forward. These children gathered around the fire, playing the role of adults, because the moment forced that role upon them, speak bravely and boldly about their goal and their road so far, but when you see them warming their young, small hands over the fire, you see they are only children. Children who need friends, security, parental love, and a normal growing up. When talking to us, they are affectionate, they smile but they are also serious, and then, suddenly, during the same conversation, they become children and they start playing together while smiling, for no particular reason. Things will, maybe, someday really become brighter.

Story: Vuk Vučković

Photo: Miloš Stošić