Easter in Idomeni, where the border remains closed, but hope never dies

“Happy Easter to all the Christians.” Young Mohamed is in the camp of Idomeni, a small village along the border between Greece and Macedonia that has become the symbol of the Balkan Route. He is holding a placard. Despite his traditional Muslim name, Mohamed is Christian. He was born in Syria, on the border with Turkey, from a Kurdish family. He arrived in Idomeni twenty days ago with his parents. In these green mountains, transformed into an immense open-air camp, the paperboard he is holding in his hands is the only visible sign to remind us of Easter Sunday. It’s almost normal in a place where almost all the population is Muslim. There are Syrians, Iraqis, as well as Afghans, Pakistanis, Moroccans, Tunisians, Algerians, Somalis.

Eleven thousand people share the hope that the border that almost eight hundred thousand people passed through in the course of 2015, will be opened up for them too.

Opening the border. Mohamed wears a bandanna on his head, his face illuminated by a typical teen-age smile. He walks his way through the crowd, standing a few meters away from the riot-geared policemen, holding up the placard. For a few seconds he manages to attract the attention of photographers, cameramen and journalists arrived to follow the developments of a day that foreboded tensions, since from the previous evening rumours on the opening of the border had circulated from one tent to the next. Dangerous voices that multiplied despite the volunteers’ attempt to spread the truth: there was no intention of opening the border. Thus from the early morning, entire families present in the camp, as well as families staying in encampments near Idomeni, put together their scant personal belongings and thronged the railroad tracks connecting the two Countries.

Lack of information. In front of the crowd the youngest sing and cry out “open the borders!” Among them Jamal, Moroccan, arrived in Greece two months ago and stopped from continuing his journey just like many of his fellow countrymen, considered economic migrants. When he arrived it was too late: only Syrians, Iraqis and Afghans were being allowed in, a prelude to total closure. There are many like him in Idomeni, sent back here from Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia and Macedonia, and, one day, perhaps, they will be sent to Turkey. A few meters behind this group there are entire families, old people, women holding small children. Some of these mothers are alone, like Rym, almost forty, with her three children. She wants to join her husband who arrived in Germany last summer passing through this same route. There is a possibility thanks to the family reunification plan of the European Union, but the woman doesn’t seem to be aware of it and like many others she prefers to stay here, in the hope that the border will be opened: unfortunately

the lack of information is one of the major problems in the management of the crisis and the work of the activists is not enough to

Fill the institutional vacuum characterising “makeshift” camps that are not run by the authorities.

Backpacks on their shoulders and children in their arms. We move away from the crowd and from the railway line, towards the metal fence that runs for kilometres to protect the Macedonian territory. Five young Somalis are resting in the grass, oblivious of what is happening a few hundred meters away from them. They arrived a few hours before, with a hanging question: “When will they open?” This same question is keeping families standing for hours on the border, with backpacks on their shoulders, and their children in their arms. We walk back towards the railway, and the climate seems to be more serene. The line of caution has prevailed: the border is closed, but at least nobody is hurt. I meet Hussein, a Syrian boy from Aleppo, among the first ones who told us about the rumours on the borders’ opening. “We have failed”, he sighs, with a half-smile that conceals his delusion. But there’s no resignation. After all, he probably had hoped it was true. Policemen slowly remove the protective barriers and lessen the burden on the frontier guards. Nobody is going anywhere, not for today. Everyone else goes back to what they were doing: the volunteers return to distribute meals, clothing, and information. The inhabitants of Idomeni cue up for lunch, for tea, or for the lavatories. I try looking for Mohamed and his placard. But he too has gone away. Only the border is still there, immobile. Protected by a small group of policemen, outlining a humanity that today more than ever before, has nothing more to loose.