It’s 6.30 a.m. on a late summer morning in Paris. Amid the rumbling coming from the Stalingrad Métro station, in the northeast of the French capital, hundreds of migrants, mostly men, sleep crammed under an overpass. Some rest on pieces of cardboard and old mattresses behind a urine-doused fence, others lie awake by the side of the street.
I was living in Vancouver at the time, it was kind of surreal. Now I’m living in one of the northern towns they shipped them to… it’s surreal in a different way.
I was living in Vancouver at the time, it was kind of surreal. Now I’m living in one of the northern towns they shipped them to… it’s surreal in a different way.