JUNE

BORDER 1 : CALAIS-DOVER

On my way to the Spanish–Moroccan border, I stopped in northern France, where one of the EU’s most significant borders is located.
The refugee situation in the English Channel, particularly on the Calais–Dover route, has become a major humanitarian and political issue in recent years.

Many refugees and migrants—especially from the Middle East and Africa—have gathered in northern France, particularly around Calais, hoping to reach the UK. Their goal is often to seek asylum or find better living conditions. Crossings are attempted using small rubber boats (dinghies). The distance is short (as little as 34 km at its narrowest), but the journey is extremely dangerous. The weather conditions are challenging, the boats are overloaded, and fuel is often insufficient. Another way to attempt crossing is by hiding in trucks or other vehicles near the Eurotunnel. To prevent this, tall fences have been built around the tunnel and ferry port areas.

I cycle around the coastal area, looking for signs of all this. The coastline is lined with high double fences. When I come across the first camp—people waiting in tents for their next step—I feel an overwhelming sense of shame. I don’t want to just waltz in and start talking, as if I’m feeding off other people’s despair. It’s very hard for me to comprehend all this. I look out at the freezing, windy sea and think about those who risk their lives for the hope of a better future. It’s clear that people don’t make such life-altering decisions on a whim: leaving everything behind, paying enormous sums for a deadly journey, without even a guarantee that things will be better on the other side. That hope for something better is such a powerful driving force—nothing can stop it.

People have the right to seek asylum, so in that sense the crossing itself is not illegal. But the Dublin Regulation, which allows asylum applications to be submitted only in the first EU country a person enters, pushes people into illegality. An asylum seeker can be deported back to the first country they entered. Since the UK left the EU, the Dublin Regulation no longer applies there—making the dangerous Channel crossing more attractive.

Europe is like a fortress, strictly guarded.
It’s also shocking to think that the EU has the deadliest borders in the world. I find that shameful. How can nations that consider themselves civilized close their eyes to this? On my way here to northern France, I drove through multiple borders: Finland–Sweden, Sweden–Denmark, Denmark–Germany, Germany–Netherlands, Netherlands–Belgium, Belgium–France. Crossing for me is easy.
“Willkommen in Deutschland! Auf Wiedersehen! Bienvenue en France! Welkom in Nederland! Sista stoppet före Danmark!”
The EU flag stars flash before my eyes. Every time I cross a border, it feels somewhat grand, almost like a ceremonial, symphonic moment. And at the same time, it’s so easy for me—no questions asked, just drive into the next country. It’s completely absurd that, for example, the Netherlands, under its new right-wing government, is now starting to talk about closing borders. Are we really going to start building fences between European countries now?

Some nationalist Dutch groups have even organized and started illegal private patrols conducting border checks—just like Finland had the “Soldiers of Odin” group back in 2015. This kind of behavior really makes me despair at people’s ignorance.

While driving, I listen to Taina Tervonen’s audiobook “We Are Not From Here.” It discusses a fishing boat that sank off the coast of Libya in April 2015, killing 800 people. Four years later, this boat was exhibited at the Venice Biennale. The piece was called Barca Nostra, Our Boat.
Tervonen also wrote a full article about this in the magazine APU. The article describes how people take selfies in front of the piece.

I continue driving, and Krista Putkonen-Örn reads from the audiobook:
“These people lived through hell before their death, simply because they wanted a better life. This morning, a film shoot is taking place in front of the wreck. An Italian man in a suit and tie speaks to two cameras: ‘This is not a work of contemporary art. This is a grave.’ Clap. ‘Did that go well?’ the man asks the director. ‘Pretty well,’ replies the director, ‘but it would be even better if you paused slightly between the sentences, the message would come across more strongly.’ ‘Alright, take two.’ Clap. ‘This is not a work of contemporary art.’ Silence. ‘This is a grave.’ ‘Perfect, that was better,’ says the director. A middle-aged couple, looking in love, takes a kiss-selfie in front of the wreck, checks if it turned out well, and sits down for coffee on the terrace.”

I scream alone in the car: “What the fuck, seriously?”
I’ve always hated how people photograph everything in art exhibitions, but this is something even more grotesque. I want to go shake that couple—maybe yell that exact phrase in their face: “What the fuck, seriously?”
What are people capturing when they photograph that piece? What moment is that picture meant to preserve? I’m completely shaken.

Border stories in the news bring news fatigue.
That’s very common when the world feels so full of everything else. People disappear without a trace during these crossings, amid complete indifference. This must be addressed. And responsibility must also be taken when one chooses not to address it—that too is a decision.

Finland’s border policy violates human rights.
The “pushback” method—literally pushing people back—violates international human rights agreements, which guarantee the right to seek asylum. Emphasis on the word human.
The entire term “instrumentalized migration” forgets that we are talking about people, who—just like the rest of us—are hoping for a better and safer life.

“The eastern border remains closed: The threat is still considered likely, according to Finnish authorities. On Wednesday, the government renewed its decision to keep eastern border crossing points closed. The decision is in effect until further notice. – The decision centralizes the process of applying for international protection. – The government justifies the closure with a security threat.” (Helsingin Sanomat 16.4.)

I feel ashamed.
This is also the reason why I wanted to create this project.

In Denmark, I stayed in the small village of Haderslev, where the campground owner—an older man—reminded me of someone from a British claymation series, Wallace and Gromit. For him, the world’s borders are the fences surrounding his little campsite. His glimpse into the “big” world is the guests who stay on his property. That’s it.
I wonder how he feels about immigration? Why is nothing ever enough for me? I constantly push my own boundaries. I’m sometimes envious of how easily satisfied some people seem to be. Or does it only seem that way?

While cycling through southern Denmark, I think—there is so much space here, so many fields. Why couldn’t a few more people live here? I see the same thing in the Netherlands, Germany, and Sweden. Where does our fear and hostility toward immigration come from? Petteri Orpo talks about “security threats.” Then I look at a photo of 15 people on bicycles at the Finnish border. A security threat?

Yes, I know—people often explain it with fear, envy, terrorism, etc. But for me, that’s not a satisfying explanation.
Why is it illegal for some people to pursue a better life—and a given right for others? Why can someone like me, a Finn, even think I have the right to decide what someone else should hope for in life?

CENTRAL FRANCE: INTERVIEW WITH TAINA TERVONEN – 16 JUNE

After listening to Taina Tervonen’s book We Are Not Here, I was deeply moved and decided to contact her. I knew she lived in France. She responded immediately and invited me to visit her in the countryside of Central France, where I later interviewed her. In this piece, I’ll share insights from that interview. The photos are observations and various forms of documentation along the way.

Taina Tervonen is a Finnish-French journalist, documentary director, author, and translator. She specializes in migration and has received awards for her work both as a writer and a documentarian. Tervonen lived in Namibia and Senegal until the age of 15.

When a person stands out from the crowd physically—even before they’ve said a word—it’s about the gaze. The gaze carries with it power, history, and attitudes. Taina lived with her parents in Senegal until she was fifteen and experienced this phenomenon firsthand. In Finland, she attended high school and felt like an outsider, even though her appearance no longer set her apart. After high school, Taina moved to France.

“I came to France for the same reasons as many Senegalese: to study, to build a life. But a Finnish passport opens doors that others can’t even knock on. I was never questioned, never suspected of forged documents. Even though a visa was still required then, it was just an administrative formality. My place of birth and Finnish passport were privileges,” says Taina.

Today, EU membership makes movement even easier. For EU citizens, borders are not barriers, just minor bureaucratic stops. At the same time, people from outside Europe risk their lives in rubber boats—because they have no other choice. We ask, “Why do they leave?” or “Don’t they understand the risks?” The truth is, they don’t have options. They can’t get a visa. When legal routes are closed, the choices are a forged visa or a deadly sea crossing. Illegal travel is not only dangerous but also many times more expensive than legal entry.

Life forces people to leave. There are as many reasons as there are people: war, poverty, domestic violence, hopelessness. The desire for a better life—for oneself and one’s family—is universal. For these same reasons, Finns once left for Sweden or America.

When a European goes abroad to study, work, or seek adventure, it’s seen as bravery and enrichment. When an African comes to Europe for the same reasons, we ask if their reason is “good enough.” This isn’t accidental—it’s the legacy of colonial history. We place ourselves at the center and push others to the margins. We hold the power to decide whose reasons for leaving are acceptable. That power is tied to human dignity. Europeans often unconsciously believe we are more valuable and have the right to decide who gets to come close and who doesn’t.

Movement is not a right—it is a privilege. This is often forgotten. When we consider our own mobility, we see it as a given. But we’ve done nothing to earn being born to Finnish parents or holding a Finnish passport. Mobility has always been part of human nature. Cultures, science, art, and conquests—all come from movement. In today’s world, however, the ability to move is unevenly distributed: for some, it’s easy; for others, nearly impossible. A European crosses a border with a passport—an African needs a visa that will likely never be granted.

The problem is not only structural, but human: the difficulty of encounter. Prejudices, fears, and misinterpretations prevent us from seeing others as people. From recognizing their human dignity. Integration is often spoken of as a technical process, but in reality, it’s about power: who gets to be visible and in what way. Often, people are expected to become invisible.

Border Politics and the Erosion of Human Dignity

In the past twenty years, border policy has tightened significantly. Frontex, the EU border control agency, has become the Union’s largest agency. At the same time, legislation has changed: human rights are being subordinated to border security. Pushback practices have become commonplace—people are forcibly returned without the chance to apply for asylum. Finland has been at the forefront of such legislative changes.

This is no longer about paperwork. This is about life and death. What does a pushback mean in practice? At worst, it means people who land on Greek islands are put back into rescue boats, taken to Turkish waters, and left there. It’s a moral question: can we look another person in the eye and say their human dignity is worth less than ours? That question shouldn’t even need to be asked.

Beaches and Borders – Two Realities Side by Side

In the Canary Islands, Greece, Sicily—the same beaches where tourists enjoy their holidays—rescued rubber boat passengers and drowned hope wash ashore. One flew directly, the other paid with their life.

These parallel realities force us to ask: how can they exist in the same time and place? Why is one person’s journey tourism and another’s a tragedy? Borders are controlled so that one reality is hidden from the other. It’s an active political decision. At border crossings, these two worlds coexist. Keeping them apart is a constant effort. Camps are relocated, people are pushed aside—so tourists don’t have to face the truth. It might make them feel bad. And maybe it should.

Ultimately, it’s about encounter: how do we meet another human being? Encountering is difficult, but necessary. It involves fear, shame, and prejudice—and that makes it meaningful. This kind of encounter can’t be manufactured by social media or AI. There’s a kind of magic to it. Only a human can truly meet another human. It takes courage to step out of your bubble, to be uncertain and imperfect for a moment.

We don’t have the right to decide what’s a “valid” reason to leave or the “correct” way to integrate. We do have the responsibility to look at ourselves and see what our privilege has hidden from view. Our task is to listen, to learn, and to walk alongside. To meet. Because human dignity knows no borders.

Spontaneity diminishes when people don’t meet. Not everything can be scripted for social media. Meeting others is complex. Facing another person is scary, exciting, and it requires vulnerability. A bit like this interview: I had to cross a certain threshold of discomfort, awkwardness, or self-criticism.

Next, I’ll be interviewing Manuel, a sea rescuer with whom I share no common language. Once again, I must cross a boundary. What to call it? A comfort boundary? I’m in unfamiliar territory and have to put myself out there. Of course, I’m not comparing this in any way to life-threatening border crossings—but to the challenge of human encounter.

Why do I do this work? Taina loves stories—that’s her personal driving force. Her other hope is to bring people closer to those stories, so that their understanding of the world may grow. I fully share this goal with her.

What all has happened before us? What is this present world built upon? How can we trace the marks of history? What stories have been told—and how are they being told now?

The world is vast, and there are countless stories and perspectives that deserve to be understood. As a storyteller, you can guide the reader to these narratives. And hopefully, that inspires the desire to meet another human being—with dignity. The interview was incredibly rewarding, and I enjoyed the beautiful idyll of the French countryside and Taina’s hospitality. These days stayed in my heart and were the highlight of my journey so far.