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Tomas Bachot : Beyond the Border of Tabanovce

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The digital display on the dashboard reads 29 °. My large pores open due to the warm air on my face, I sweat so much that my thermal underwear is sticking to my skin. Down in her seat to my left, Aleksandra tries to get some sleep in her car during the night, like some other humanitarian workers. There is a crunch of wheels on the rails, “This is the train,” she tells me.

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