souls who had lost everything but the beating of their hearts came to grieve together in a vast and chaotic communion of pain and loss.
Thessalia’s camp lay along the southern banks of the broad Ganibe River, its surface frosted with a thin sheet of fractured ice floating on dark, frigid waters. Makeshift tents were spread as far as the eye could see, punctuated by thousands of camp fires burning anything available to stave off the bitter cold.
‘Hell on earth,’ Callum said as he and Megan walked amidst the pitiful throng. ‘I’d have brought the camera, if the world hadn’t already seen this all before and forgotten how to care.’
‘The people care,’ Megan replied. ‘It’s the governments that fail to do anything.’
Families huddled around fires boiling rice and grain, the meagre flames whipping and snapping on the wind. Voices filled that wind, but the commingled chorus of two hundred and fifty thousand people was a background murmur – no children laughed, no adults joked. Dark, empty eyes devoid of any emotion she could recognise stared forlornly at Megan and Callum as they weaved their way toward rows of large canvass tents, each flying banners or flags on poles that rippled on the cold wind. They were the command centres of the aid charities and medical organisations, islands of sanctuary amidst a moaning sea of human suffering.
‘That’s the one,’ Megan pointed. ‘Medicines Sans Frontiers.’
‘You sure you want to try this?’ Callum cautioned as they veered torward the huge hospital tent.
‘No,’ Megan admitted, hurrying as snow began to fall in tiny myriad specks that spiralled around them on the wind. ‘But right now it could be our only relatively safe means of access to the interior.’
A ragged queue of Mordanian refugees were standing in the cold waiting for access to the tent, the entrance to which was guarded by two UN Peacekeepers. Megan and Callum briefly flashed their GNN identity badges and slipped into the tent.
The interior was not a great deal warmer than the exterior, but it was sealed well enough to keep out the bitter wind. Megan advanced past rows of refugees standing in line with bowls and spoons as aid workers ladled hot soup from giant metal vats that belched clouds of steam onto the cold air.
Further on, beyond a wall of canvass with a transparent plastic door, was the hospital section of the MSF tent. Megan walked toward it, easing past ranks of emaciated children chewing on chunks of bread that they dipped into their soup. She pushed the transparent plastic flap aside and moved into the hospital.
A group of French MSF nurses were sitting beside tables stacked with syringes, inoculating children against whatever unspeakable contagions might threaten them in the camps. Other nurses were handing out blankets at the far end of the tent, where a large UN lorry had reversed up to another, larger transparent door. Soldiers handed the blankets down to the nurses, who diligently stacked them in neat piles nearby.
‘Qui etes vous?’
Megan turned to see a young female nurse approaching her with a stern expression on her features. She had barely a moment to register her face, beautiful in a simple way, long brown hair tied in a pony tail, one wisp of it dangling down over sharp green eyes.
‘Who are you?’ the girl repeated in heavily accented English.
Megan, on an impulse, extended a hand.
‘Megan Mitchell, pleased to meet you. And you are?’
The girl gave Megan’s hand the briefest of shakes before releasing it as though it were poisonous.
‘Sophie Vernoux,’ she said in her softly lilting French accent. ‘I am the head of this department. What do you think you’re doing in here?’
‘We were looking for someone.’
‘Well now you’ve found someone, haven’t you? You’re press.’
Megan blinked, quite taken aback both by the Sophie’s abruptness and by her apparently supernatural instinct.
‘Well, yes, but..,’
‘No buts,’ Sophie cut
Thessalia’s camp lay along the southern banks of the broad Ganibe River, its surface frosted with a thin sheet of fractured ice floating on dark, frigid waters. Makeshift tents were spread as far as the eye could see, punctuated by thousands of camp fires burning anything available to stave off the bitter cold.
‘Hell on earth,’ Callum said as he and Megan walked amidst the pitiful throng. ‘I’d have brought the camera, if the world hadn’t already seen this all before and forgotten how to care.’
‘The people care,’ Megan replied. ‘It’s the governments that fail to do anything.’
Families huddled around fires boiling rice and grain, the meagre flames whipping and snapping on the wind. Voices filled that wind, but the commingled chorus of two hundred and fifty thousand people was a background murmur – no children laughed, no adults joked. Dark, empty eyes devoid of any emotion she could recognise stared forlornly at Megan and Callum as they weaved their way toward rows of large canvass tents, each flying banners or flags on poles that rippled on the cold wind. They were the command centres of the aid charities and medical organisations, islands of sanctuary amidst a moaning sea of human suffering.
‘That’s the one,’ Megan pointed. ‘Medicines Sans Frontiers.’
‘You sure you want to try this?’ Callum cautioned as they veered torward the huge hospital tent.
‘No,’ Megan admitted, hurrying as snow began to fall in tiny myriad specks that spiralled around them on the wind. ‘But right now it could be our only relatively safe means of access to the interior.’
A ragged queue of Mordanian refugees were standing in the cold waiting for access to the tent, the entrance to which was guarded by two UN Peacekeepers. Megan and Callum briefly flashed their GNN identity badges and slipped into the tent.
The interior was not a great deal warmer than the exterior, but it was sealed well enough to keep out the bitter wind. Megan advanced past rows of refugees standing in line with bowls and spoons as aid workers ladled hot soup from giant metal vats that belched clouds of steam onto the cold air.
Further on, beyond a wall of canvass with a transparent plastic door, was the hospital section of the MSF tent. Megan walked toward it, easing past ranks of emaciated children chewing on chunks of bread that they dipped into their soup. She pushed the transparent plastic flap aside and moved into the hospital.
A group of French MSF nurses were sitting beside tables stacked with syringes, inoculating children against whatever unspeakable contagions might threaten them in the camps. Other nurses were handing out blankets at the far end of the tent, where a large UN lorry had reversed up to another, larger transparent door. Soldiers handed the blankets down to the nurses, who diligently stacked them in neat piles nearby.
‘Qui etes vous?’
Megan turned to see a young female nurse approaching her with a stern expression on her features. She had barely a moment to register her face, beautiful in a simple way, long brown hair tied in a pony tail, one wisp of it dangling down over sharp green eyes.
‘Who are you?’ the girl repeated in heavily accented English.
Megan, on an impulse, extended a hand.
‘Megan Mitchell, pleased to meet you. And you are?’
The girl gave Megan’s hand the briefest of shakes before releasing it as though it were poisonous.
‘Sophie Vernoux,’ she said in her softly lilting French accent. ‘I am the head of this department. What do you think you’re doing in here?’
‘We were looking for someone.’
‘Well now you’ve found someone, haven’t you? You’re press.’
Megan blinked, quite taken aback both by the Sophie’s abruptness and by her apparently supernatural instinct.
‘Well, yes, but..,’
‘No buts,’ Sophie cut
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