White House

A big white house, up there, on the edge of town. There live the characters of different Balkan story.

Crossing the threshold for the first time is like entering darkness. Long narrow corridors, low ceilings, dark corners oozing years of dampness and loneliness. Small hands with cold fingers lead me into their world. I wanted to tell their story. One of children abandoned yet filled with strength and energy that won’t let go of you.

Wake-up call, half-asleep, steps gathering pace, looking for shoes, hands trying again to make a paltry bed, cavalcades towards breakfast. The start of a new day. Outside, at the foot of the mountain, winter is here, hard. Their days pass waiting and playing. They play, they wait. Attentive, bound to each other, bound to that house, shadowy, ever present.

They scrutinize you, they challenge you, they interrogate you. Yet they seem to have seen understood so much already. Like windows and mirrors.