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Snow is falling over Lipa. After Lipa, snow will never look the same again. It was not so long ago that the first group of migrants began to arrive. And they did: the restaurants cooked and passed out food, individuals offered accommodation, the media dutifully followed all of this; many proudly read of their heroism on the portals. Over time, the news of help decreased and the number of arriving migrants increased. What used to be a driver of solidarity, because these people were at the end of the world, left and forgotten by everyone, just like Krajina from Sarajevo, became a factor of objection. There were summers when full buses came every day. It cannot and will not feed an army of the unloved from its resources. Perhaps the beginning of this negative feeling was the moment when they started to be called migrants. As long as they were refugees, we could have identified with them: we all remembered the refugee blankets and everything that came with them. When they accurately named them and determined the geographic coordinates of countries that were at war and those that were not, things changed. Solidarity began to melt. It seems that certain words lead to limited rights. They determine to what extent you have the right to dream and what and how much you will be given in life. If you are a migrant, according to that classification, you will get less than a refugee. Maybe it was the moment when someone complained: they steal our crops. They were hungry. Do we remember the last time we were so hungry? We did not always have it easy, we gave, so if some saw that we had more, they would steal from us during the night. Perhaps it was the moment when parents became frightened for their children who were unable to play outside because they were afraid of migrants. Even though migrants clashed only with each other. We have forgotten about our world of violence, we forgot how kids blackmail businessmen, how school children not only participate in bullying but also record it. We are not afraid of our kids, but we are afraid of the migrants. We have underestimated the intelligence of people who have come so far and decided, so close to their goal, to plant fear and violence in our neighbourhoods. Maybe it was the moment when someone exclaimed: what about keeping our streets clean and safe? And what happened was what happens in all cities that are proud of being clean. First, the stray dogs come, then the migrants. So, you open a shelter for them, an asylum for dogs, put them into concrete cages. On the outskirts of the city, far from our eyes. Where no one can smell them, and where their population can decrease in controlled conditions. Likewise, this needs to be done to migrants, move them out of the city centre. However, when you have travelled so far, your legs will not let you remain in the security of the reception centre: they wander around, seek, scout, and are restless until they reach the air of the European Union. Only the air of the Union will set you free. Especially if that air is just a kilometre away from you. And as I walk, I see and hear stuff. Sometimes this hurts, but sometimes it heals. I look at their scouts peering over the edge of the border. Their eyes assess the density of our forest. And our forests are not as dense as they used to be. They were cut down mercilessly. In some cases, the cruelty is very obvious, like in the protests by our citizens these days, or the herding of the migrants into tents; in other cases, it is more sophisticated, just like the border control equipment. They have given us money to bear the weight of the migrant crisis; they gave us money to take them in and not cause too much of a stir. But that does not get us off the hook. I love my people, so I want to justify the actions of our generation, but there is no justification for this. And goodness always finds us instead. For example, yesterday, my small neighbour, a widow, who lives alone, was returning from the city with two pillows that were bigger than her. The promotion is back in town, I already know. They called her and offered her a welcome gift and a presentation without obligation. She explained to them nicely that she is retired with a minimum pension of three hundred and eighty DEM. Now, to be fair, she makes it work, pays her bills, and wants for nothing. But she has no money to throw away. Anyway, she did not refuse them but went to the presentation. And then when she came to that presentation, they worked on her, welcomed her with juice and chocolates, and she did not have the heart to refuse them. And she bought those two pillows. The retired have special discounts, they can pay in instalments; all of this she is telling me to ease her conscience. She looks at him with a worried look and asks: son, are you OK? How are you doing? Is it in the big house under the road? He nods his head, and gestures that it is indeed in the house under the road, but on the left rather than the right side. She shows with her hand how tall he is and that he has a lot of hair — and he gets it. How could he explain to her that he passed through the mouse hole and that we will not see him anymore — if he was lucky. There are some well-known faces in the city, we get used to them, they learn a bit of our language, and then one day they are just gone. It takes a few months, sometimes a lot of futile attempts. There is no justification for our behaviour. It is true that Bosnia, compared to the other, richer countries, is short on cash, just like my tiny widow, but still — this just does not justify our behaviour. Sometimes up to three hundred horses and donkeys loaded with goods would rest here and then move on, through yellow asphodels and wild olives, to the city. During the immediate danger of the plague, the donkeys and their goods would be kept in Lazareti, just outside the entrance to the city, waiting for the prescribed time for quarantine to pass. The unfortunates would face difficult conditions of life on these severed islands, fighting disease and imminent death. Alone, surrounded by the sea. During Easter, I look at the islands, and as faith would have it, they too were created by death — the death of the sea. There are fewer and fewer visitors. I talk mainly with lizards. For a while, I entertain a comforting thought: that the borders are just provisional, the wind erases them all. But the borders are hermetically closed at those moments. This pleasant isolation in the world of wild grasses and animals will last seventy two days. This confirms what we all know: for some people the borders will remain closed, and there is no wind and no economy that could move them. They will remain separated, lepers at the door of Europe. These people, and they ARE people, call their attempts to cross our borders from their distant islands and into a better world The Game. What else would you call it — it reminds you of a virtual game, in which a player has several lives, maybe three, six, or nine. The more money they have, the more lives they get. Maybe next time they will beat that level. Maybe they will find a better go-between. They still have lives left. Perhaps on the next level, they will not talk to them as though they have syphilis, AIDS, scabies, that they are vagrants, vagabonds, thieves, rapists, children of ISIL. They might grow wings, and then at the border they will tell them: welcome, angels. After seventy-two days, I crossed the border and saw Bosnia and my folks again. For the migrants, the borders did not move. The border remained equally impassable for the migrants. Somehow, before Lent, on the eleventh of February, in an attempt to cross the state border, the body of one migrant disappeared into the river Glina. They found him, a young Turkish citizen, on the fourteenth of February on the Croatian side. In death, he made it to the European Union. That night, when the snow fell, the seven of them believed that they were able, or knew how, to cross Glina. In the summer, the river is almost shallow. But in the winter, it is filled with snow and becomes a torrent. When do not know what really happened. If we could feel what makes a man jump into a cold river with no one waiting for him on the other side, our hearts would freeze. And who could live with such a heart? It is far easier and more comfortable to take shallow and superficial breaths. They all have mobile phones, where did they get the money for them, what will be left for our children when these guys run us over, they are all thieves…. When we see them begging, and passing their money on to a third party, we will not wonder why and how they fall into debt on their journey, or how they can buy back their freedom. We are on the edge. We entered the category of third countries, but when we look over their edge, we could discover that the edge is even steeper there and lose ourselves in the chasm. The news of the drowned migrant faded completely, quite silent and insignificant, as though it never happened. Lent passed and we entered the week before Easter. On Holy Saturday, we entered a dark church. A candle illuminated our way, the light grew bigger, until all was clear as day. God spoke to us at length about Himself, the bells chimed and announced the last border has been crossed: we are no longer with one foot in the grave but in eternity. The news on the local radio confirmed it: one stray bullet was stopped by the chest of a boy from Iraq. It was evening, the sun had not yet set. Father and son were walking. That much we know. That news is in second place, the first place belongs to the conflict of the migrants. If someone else but an Iraqi boy bit that bullet there would have been a lynching. As it happened, that child saved many. Along the road, everything flourished: the mayflower bloomed, the fields were ploughed, chopped, the dandelions were like small suns on the ground. The first aid vehicle rushes through landscapes full of hope. Even with optimal road conditions, it should take fifty minutes. And time also has an eternity. On Easter morning, in the nearby bakery, it smells of fresh bread rolls, radio Velkaton is on. Everyone is following the news but nothing is said about the boy. What kind of destiny is it to get to a city that lives from the local store due to the throughput of people moving through the border? To try to sell stuff there yourself and wait for the opportunity to cross the border? On the faces of the migrant parents, you can see that they deliberately deleted their biographies. All they were, all that they have achieved in life: they will give all that up, just to reach the promised land of Germany. This is the time of unimportant, erased biographies. Children always find reasons for being happy. On Easter morning, not one of them was there. His family is OK. The Easter mass is nice, as it is every year. He fed on his body, crunched him with incisors, chopped him, fragmented him to the last atom, the protons sailed around the core and formed the perfect halo. The halo is too heavy for our heads, so sometimes we take it off in front of certain people and in certain situations because if we wore it, things would be even more difficult for us. The halo knows borders, too. When it sees a migrant, it moves into the closet. It hides in the deepest corner of the closet because if it would allow itself to be around lepers, it too would catch the disease. During the day, we hear on the radio that the boy is in stable condition. In some films, this bullet would have made a great man out of him and would take his family to the promised land. I wonder who is in his hospital room, who is comforting his parents, is there such a thing here for migrants wounded at the edge of a third world country? Where do child migrants recover from mental and corporal ails and where do they go after their hospital stay? Who knows, maybe someone will push that border stone for them? Their days are spent in private lodgings or in local forests. At this moment, father Perica is contacting various people in an attempt to bring them together. The Public Discourse Award. In 'Life with migrants,' Roberta explores the solidarity migrants are met with upon arrival, which, they quickly learn, is only temporary, as acceptance grows into dissatisfaction and, eventually, rejection. In the background of this story is the marginality of the locals themselves, the marginality of the country as a whole, and the hypocrisy of the European Union. In 'On Easter, borders and a cosy 'isolator' in Bosanka,' Roberta follows the tragic fate of migrants whose misfortunes are reported on in local Bosnian newspapers but soon thereafter fade from the media as though they never happened. Due to their complementary nature, the Preparatory Committee decided to nominate these two articles as one. They are not angels These people, and they ARE people, call their attempts to cross our borders from their distant islands and into a better world The Game. On Easter and one lost bullet The news of the drowned migrant faded completely, quite silent and insignificant, as though it never happened. One halo and removing a rock from the border On Easter morning, in the nearby bakery, it smells of fresh bread rolls, radio Velkaton is on. More about the authors.

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