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?