Jesus in the pines

Refugees and border guards in the Białowieża Forest. Scenes of violence play out behind a thick cover of trees, in a remote corner of Poland.

I spot Amir walking along the forest road. It’s an airless, hot August morning and he’s wearing rubber rain boots, jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, and carries only a big Coca-Cola bottle with water. My companion and I are returning to the car after bringing food and water to nine Afghani and Iraqi men hiding in the Białowieża Forest. We walk behind Amir so we can’t see his face. He doesn’t know we’re there. He walks funny, wobbling to the sides, and I think that I just can’t take anyone in this area for a migrant. Perhaps he’s drunk. It wouldn’t be that unusual in the Polish countryside at 10am. 

My doubts disappear when Amir runs into the forest at the sight of an approaching car. Orderly rows of artificially planted pines make him painfully visible from the road. We run after him. He falls to the ground, shaking and crying. « Kill me, please », is the first thing he tells us. « No police, please. Kill me but no police. » We ensure him we’re not calling the police and try to calm him down. He’s 23 and from Iraq. He looks like a minor and is really skinny. He hasn’t eaten for four days and keeps crying with his head buried in his elbow, lying on the ground. All he has is his clothes and some water. No phone, no travel companions.