“The following are excerpts from a digital zine that was made from December 2022 — February 2023 while I worked as the Advocacy Officer for Collective Aid’s Subotica branch. The zine is composed of photos, a small amount of contextual information, and stories of distribution and the people we work with. This is an attempt to paint a small picture of some of the experiences that we have in the field, and that people on the move have shared with us about their journeys.”
- Jericho.

December 4

Distribution to Majdan.

There were only about 20 people this time, all men and one nine year old boy, Aamir. His uncle told us how they walked 20 km in sandals until 1 am, how he was arrested by Hungarian police and held in jail for two days with no food before being dropped back over the border. He says he is a geography teacher. He asks me to show him on the map where I live in Washington.

One of the guys who made us chai last week has a cut and stitched lip now. He is the best at football, dancing around us as we try to steal the ball. When we leave, we leave the football. We gave it to Aamir.

Now, fast forward two days to December 6, and Majdan has been evicted. We heard the news today from one of the guys that this morning police came and rounded everyone up. Our contact was in the back of a police van with no windows and no seats, being taken somewhere. When we arrived back the following week, the football lay deflated in a pile of trash.

December 14

We headed out on distribution to River. The day was frigid cold as we packed up tents and sleeping bags at the warehouse. Snow patches litter the ground and a little sun breaks through the winter grey. We get to the end of the paved road, and see the kilometre or more of muddy farm road heading down to camp.

A man is heading into town and sees us, comes over to Oscar and I and points at his feet, black muddy socks in plastic slippers. An obvious question.

We gave him a pair of boots from the emergency shoes. Black, size 43. He kisses me and Oscar both on the forehead and sits down to try them on.

December 22

People gather around the charging station and watch their phones. Two guys kick around a deflated softball in the cold afternoon sun. There is a smell of smoke from the stoves and freshly brewed chai drifting across to us. The ground is wet.

I stood talking with Nabil, a man from Morocco, around the table of chai. He borrowed my lighter, told me how stressed and scared everyone is from the constant police evictions. He said they come sometimes three times a day just to show their presence. He said he can't sleep well and is always worried, most are. When he does sleep, he wears his shoes and all his clothes so he can run at a moment's notice. He tells us that the people can’t go into town most times to buy food because the police stop them and make them go back.

Nabil thanks us for the chai, the lighter, everything we do. He tells us that in Morocco, you never forget someone who helps you, no matter how small. “I will never forget you” he says, “One year, five, 10, 20 years. No matter where it is or how long it has been, I will remember you.”

Names have been changed to protect identities.
You can view and download Jericho’s full zine here.

Winter at the Hungarian-Serbian border