Is scaling the fence over and over again where they should determine they’ll find joy? Or do such Sisyphean philosophies—that “the road is life”—turn out to be bourgeois luxuries indulged by those safe enough to pretend this is all there is? Does the hunger and hope of the migrant show us something more fundamentally human? Maybe our craving for rest, refuge, arrival, home is a hunger that can’t be edited—the heart an obstinate palimpsest that suggests there might be another way. If there’s a map inscribed in the human heart that shows where home is, the fact that we haven’t yet arrived
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