Joke
Two volunteers talking in Zákány:
- When did you arrive?
- Eight trains ago.
I am folding some smaller blankets, maybe the children will need them. Some of them are damp from all that rain. Would be nice to dry them somehow. There is a small area not far from the train station, it is surrounded by concrete pillars. Some rope, a knife and Norbi: the rest goes like clockwork. Blue and brown blankets drying under the weakened autumn sun. The only normal moment in this chaos.
After this we prepare the usual food packets. There is a lot of uncertainty in the air, whether they would really close the border. But for this time we focus on this train. Always on the train that comes next. The three Palestinian volunteers brought pizza and grilled chicken. I share mine with a medical student from Manchester who came to help for a few days. He visited Budapest and then came to the border. We grab the drumsticks. I am eating the meat in huge mouthfuls: I am hungry and in a hurry as well. I need the energy, but there is not much time, and I really don't have the patience to eat at all, I am only doing it for the energy. I want to work.
Rain starts falling slowly, like teardrops in the air. The blankets. We run and gather them. They didn't get wet and the rain stopped as well. The sun is setting. Orange, red, then lilac and pink, yellow and blue, in the end it's the dark sky. This is what we can give them to take away with the food. An amazing sunset. The train is there. The penultimate train. Food and water is already near the rails, we walk. The train is in reverse, we go forward and still in the same direction. And despite this I get the feeling that we are the ones who are in reverse. For them the only way is to go forward. Lots of people, also on the corridor. I am handing out the food as part of a routine, I know what to do. Germans came as well from Berlin, Bonn and Munich.
A bearded man leans out the window: water, baby, water. It takes me a few seconds to realise that this time the 'baby'... well, that's me. This is the easiest way to say it. Young guys try their luck with 'sweetheart', although my heart doesn't need to be softened anymore. They smile. Some are shy, some are more courageous. In other circumstances this could be called innocent flirting. Some wash their hands and faces with the water. I don't mind: it's theirs, they received it. And maybe this is the first act since days or weeks over which they have total control. At least some normality for that day: their hands and faces are clean. This could be an average family evening: washing hands and having dinner together. One of the volunteers brought plush animals – they put them into the baby packs. The Palestinians help hand out the formulas and the diapers. I will never forget that guy who walked along the train shouting 'bambers'. (There is no 'p' in Arabic, and it's easier to call diapers that way.)
My colleague tells me about a little baby of 30 days, she (he?) was gray. Probably from not eating, because she had a blanket. She gave her formulas. And then says out loud something which is there palpably in the air: I have no idea if she'll survive until they reach Hegyeshalom. We will never know.
There is no more water, and we go back for new ones in vain because the train starts moving when we get back. We hurried but it wasn't enough. We try to calm ourselves saying that it'll be enough until Hegyeshalom. People are waving. We wave back. They are shouting thank you. I wish I'd know why... Those measly cheese cubes, a few slices of bread, a muesli bar, an apple and a bottle of water? Because we smiled at them? They go into the unknown and we will never know what happened to them, we only have hope. And then the uncertainty. Will there be a next train before midnight? 'We are parts of a historic moment', says A. with a sad smile. My shoes killed my feet, I have blisters all over. I wear them since 12 hours already, but I don't feel any pain anymore.
We are standing there in the historic moment near the rails, the train already left, her eyes are filled with tears. I dare not look at her, I dare not hug her, although I feel that she would welcome it. I am a coward, I dare not move. I feel like I have to be strong for her as well. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe I missed an opportunity to comfort someone. I regret it in a few minutes and I ask for her forgiveness in my mind. I sigh, I shake myself and I start to gather the carrier bags without saying anything. Maybe we will need them. Maybe there will be another train.
The other ones are talking standing before the tent. We don't know a thing and it's already 8.30 p.m. If there is going to be a new train at midnight, we have to start making new food packs. I take 20 minutes of me-time. I go to the car and eat something. I go to the toilet at the train station. I am washing my hands when a young soldier comes in. He blushes, says sorry. He cannot be older than 22, he doesn't even have a real beard. As I look at the other policemen and the soldiers standing there, I suddenly feel very old. They are children compared to me. Who did think that they should do this? Entirely unprepared from a psychological point of view. Me-time is over.
There are lots of volunteers still standing outside the tent. The Germans have no more food, but they offer their help in packing. There will be another train. A last one. Someone says that it is rumoured that the border will be closed exactly at midnight, and if the families are separated then they will be separated. We hope that this is only for show, but we decide that should this happen, we will rally before the train. Or in place of the barbed wire. Anywhere. The Mad Max carriage is already in the station, it's near me. If I would extend my hand I could touch it. I dare not. Not even photograph it. I suddenly feel fear. I don't know how... maybe it was my refugee grandmother from WWII from whom I inherited this animal-deep dread of the barbed wire.
We are packing the new portions. A thick slice of bread, 2 cubes of cheese, a muesli bar, an apple, a small milk. We are running out of bags so we decide double the portion and then people share it on the train. The apples were in the rain, they are a bit muddy. There is no time to wash them, only to clean them. There is no towel at hand, and no time to find any. We have maternity pads, they cannot be handed out by piece anyway. I open a package and give one to the British guy, who doesn't realise at first what it is, and wants to open it. I start to giggle. Then I explain to him what he is holding in his hands. He gets a bit embarrased, then starts laughing. We are in an absurd situation with absurd solutions. The Germans come to help as well. I ask the Australian ecobuilding expert to hand me the knife, I start to cut the bread. I try to relax by cutting. We pack in silence. Sometimes someone starts to talk, then we talk. The press conference is taking place only a few meters from the tent. Someone comes into the tent to tell us to be silent because we disturb the press conference. Someone starts a forced laugh. Loudly. To make them hear. At least this.
Meanwhile the train comes in. The last one. We start bringing the food near the railroad tracks. The cameras are still there, we are in the background of the speaker. As if we would have agreed upon it: we carry the food and the water (18 l/person) in slow motion. In silence. Not to disturb, no. But to make them see at least. I hear someone saying 'this is the most humane...'
Yeah, bullshit – the words just come out of me loudly. That's all for today's political activism, the rest of my energy needs to go elsewhere. 18 liters of water are really heavy, my hands are full of blisters ('I told you to bring gloves' – I can hear the concerned voice in my head), and it needs to be carried far, on a muddy road.
They start to load the train. 'One line, one line, fuck it. Please, one line' – the police is nervous and polite at the same time, but mostly tired and tense. This is the last train, they tell themselves. A children are completely silent, they just bear it. They proceed slowly with their parents. Strictly in one line. A little girl sits on a bag, resigned, not a word. There is a policeman beside her. I ask him what's wrong with the girl and if I could help. She lost her family. They are here somewhere. Maybe. But there comes an Arabic interpreter so I go on. We look for a 9 month pregnant woman, she could go into delivery anytime. We bring her a wheelchair. An old lady needs one too. She sits down, thanking her God in Arabic, alhamdulillah, looking at the starry sky, then at us, she grabs my hand. The others look for the pregnant woman with another wheelchair. There is a child who cannot get on the train, so I lift her. A soldier helps her mother.
People are muddy, exhausted, and weary. The mud is high as the calf in some places, a child doesn't have any shoes. Someone runs off to bring socks and a pair of shoes. There is no time for pity and to be moved, urgent help is needed, and then to look for new people to help. I ask one of the soldiers how long we have until they load the train. An hour for certain, he says. So we get a few more bottles of water and some food packs as well. Lots of children, we need more baby packs. The train is loaded, the doors are closed, the train starts to reverse. We're walking. Sometimes I start jogging, although it is sure that I will not miss this train. The feeling to get on it and not to stop until I reach Germany is growing strong inside me. I feel something warm pouring down my feet. My shoe must have scraped a fresh wound.
We distribute. There is a 6 year old boy in the window, just standing there, looking at us. I offer him a food pack, but he refuses politely. He shows me with gestures that he already ate and then points at the other carriages, telling me to take the food there. 'Are you sure you don't want any? There is chocolate in it' – I say smiling and my nephew comes to mind. There is nothing common in those two, except the fact that they are both children and that they love sweets. The word 'chocolate' makes him unsure, but he still doesn't know what he should answer. He looks behind him with a question on his face. I hand him the pack again: 'take it, it's yours'. He leans out the window and takes it. I have a sesame snap in my pocket as well. Wanted to eat it as a snack, but I forgot about it. I give him that as well. The policemen are not rushing anybody anymore, we practically walk calmly along the train. And then this train starts moving as well. The last one. Around 1.47 a.m.
No more, it's over. And we stand there, empty bags in our hands again, worried and exhausted. And yes, suddenly without a task. Although this is an illusion, since the only thing that happened is that there are no more tasks in Zákány. There are tasks someplace else, in places even more difficult to reach. I am ashamed and proud at the same time. I am standing there with those empty bags, feeling empty inside. No need to rush anymore, no more food packs to be made. I could stand here till kingdom come. I could even cry, but I have no tears. No more. Or not yet. I feel there is a crust around me. I stink from sweat, I am muddy, my hair is damp from the rain, my socks dried into the wound on my foot. I am standing in the middle of the mud, talking on the phone, trying to explain in an incoherent way what just happened. I am clinging to the voice from the other side. I try to get myself together, but I only feel immense fatigue, I am at a loss for words. I still continue to talk, because inside I am terrified that if I stop talking I won't be able to speak anymore. The stars are sparkling up above. Cold and away. The only connection to other people. I hope that many of them watch the sky tonight.
In a few hours I am in Budapest, in another world, too beautiful to be true. The Western Railway Station is literally civilised. For instance, there is a platform and no mud. Buffet. It's a strange feeling that there are no policemen or soldiers with a handgun. I buy the ticket partly asleep, I get on the train, arrive home at around 6.30 a.m. Shower, bed. I sleep for four hours. I am ridden by remorse.
I need to rest.
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