A train towards a new life

Meanwhile every day thousands of migrants converge on the station, built in 1873. The only toilet is kept locked for the use of staff; alternative facilities nearby have struggled to cope and are unusable.

Migrants arrive after crossing the border by foot. Their aim: to travel the 200 km or so from south to north, as close as possible to the border with Serbia. Another border to pass.

An orange train from the 1960s, nicknamed “Gorbachev”, sets off on the journey amid sweltering temperatures above 40 degrees centigrade. A ticket costs about 6 euros ($6.54).

I managed to squeeze my way through the train packed with people to a place where I could just stand on one foot. Viktor, 22, an economic migrant from Sierra Leone, asked: “Is the air conditioning going to start working?”

A few seconds of silence and everybody around started laughing. That train had no air conditioning…

Viktor, who was travelling with four friends all from home, had been working in Greece for the past few years. He decided to move on because of economic conditions there and is hoping to resettle in France or Switzerland.

When the train set off, I did all I could to move through the carriages to see the whole situation. People were generally numb from the heat and from lack of fresh air. Most of them were sleeping wherever they could find a place.

After two and a half carriages the way became impassable; babies were asleep on the floor and I could go no further.

In the journey of more than four hours, from one border to another, I witnessed scenes charged with emotion.

A woman cradled her baby, only 30 days old. The mother looked so tired: at one moment she was holding the child firmly and then started to nod off. I thought the baby would slip down and fall on the ground - thankfully not.

I fell into conversation with a well-educated gentleman called Mahmud, also a journalist, from a small village near Aleppo in Syria.

Thirty minutes later there we were, beneath a flickering strip light, talking Nietzsche and Fromm. I hadn’t expected to discuss philosophy of life when I set out on this assignment.

Mahmud, in his early 40s and travelling with his wife and child, has his sights set on Germany or the Netherlands.

“There’s no life in this country,” Mahmud quoted his father as telling him. “Go and make a better life for your son.”

Looking for a better life and for a brighter future for themselves and their children, this train journey of several hours was just one more step for these migrants. In many respects I found the time I spent travelling with them to be sad, so sad.

What I saw, heard and documented were cries for water, pained expressions on tired faces amid sleeplessness and hunger. Fathers looked nervous and mothers scared while children cried and shouted.

As the train stopped in a place called Tabanovce, close to the border with Serbia, Mahmud gathered his family and luggage, rushing to keep up with the group they were travelling with.

“How long does it take to Hungary?” he asked me.