It’s 6.30 a.m. on a late summer morning in Paris. Amid the rumbling coming from the Stalingrad Métro station, in the northeast of the French capital, hundreds of migrants, mostly men, sleep crammed under an overpass. Some rest on pieces of cardboard and old mattresses behind a urine-doused fence, others lie awake by the side of the street.
I felt like putting millions at first, but thought a bunch of people might try to argue with me, so I thought, no one can deny it fucks over thousands of people at least.
I felt like putting millions at first, but thought a bunch of people might try to argue with me, so I thought, no one can deny it fucks over thousands of people at least.