La sorra

February 1939. The sandy beaches of Roussillon are concentration camps. The sea and barbed wire fences surround the immense prison that houses the flood of people fleeing the ravages of war. They arrive devastated. Soldiers, women, men and creatures, whole families, were looking for new paths and found only sand. Sand in the nails, sand in the hair, sand in the skin and sand in the soul. They don't want to look back, but they do; they cannot have hope, but they have. The French authorities have separated the people and distributed them in sections. There are people as diverse as a fifteen-year-old girl, a mother and her four children and a pregnant militiawoman; a teacher, a republican volunteer or a cam soldier. While they wait, they look into each other's eyes, hear voices from the past, or escape into dreams. They look a lot at the horizon, which is the only part of the field that remains open. But where are the horizons if the ideals have collapsed? Between the desolation of a limbo-like space and the sea as a symbol of a promise of freedom, La sorra transports us to a not very explored past and also to a stubborn present, that of the epic of ordinary people who run away from the horror of war. Because, from where can the condition of the migrant refugee be constructed, explained, narrated?