Evros, it is argued, is on the frontline, sharing, as it does, a land border with Turkey. I have yet to ask any of my prepared questions about surveillance technologies, the fence being built, operational decisions and working relationships. The Greek police commander’s wry smile comes in response to the question: ‘Will these rescues ever stop?’ I get no more than the wry smile. It is gone midday now, and over the course of the morning, I have been introduced to an aspect of border control I had only recently started hearing about: the humanitarian side.

This book’s journey begins here in this smoke-filled office in Orestiada lying just 5km west of the border with Turkey. This border, marked, for nearly its whole length, by the fast-flowing Evros river, is dangerous. Between 2000 and 2017 it is known to have claimed 352 victims, only 105 of whom have been identified.¹ The inability to identify the dead is not only caused by the often severe decomposition of the bodies. In many instances, the dead were not carrying identity documents or had become separated from their families, choosing to travel in smaller, less detectable groups or divided into smaller groups by the smugglers that are used to cross the border. In Evros, this inability to identify victims because of a lack of documents, the attempts to cross the border undetected and the use of smugglers are intimately related to a border that starkly differentiates between European citizens and non-European citizens. Migrants, if they have identity documents at all, may choose to travel without documents to make it harder to be deported. They aim to travel undetected because they are not allowed through the two official border crossings, and, in many instances, Europe will not let them stay, or, at least, does not want them to. Smugglers are on hand to assist in these clandestine journeys, responding to a market created by people’s desire to seek lives in Europe and a system that aims to prevent them from doing so. It is impossible to know how many people have crossed the river in little boats or by clinging to ropes. Numbers collected by European authorities only count those detected by border control.² Often, these detections occur when migrants find themselves in need of rescue by people like the aforementioned police commander and his colleagues.

The day after my encounter with the police commander in Orestiada, I spent the day at Kastanies, one of the official border crossings between Greece and Turkey. Here, I watched Greeks travel backwards and forwards to go shopping in the nearby Turkish city of Edirne. Cars and buses passed freely through the border post adorned with a ‘Welcome to Evros’ sign and a collection of flags from various European countries. Here, some people chose to stop and pick up last-minute purchases at the ‘Hellenic Duty Free Shop’ with its sign of bright blue and white lettering and a large orange smile. Cartons of cigarettes, bottles of whisky and large humanoid M&M figures emerged from under the orange smile, contrasting sharply with the previous day’s footage of migrants being pulled out of the treacherous waters of the Evros river, running only a few hundred metres away. This contrast, like the 352 people known to have lost their lives in this region, is the result of unequal mobility. That is differentiation in who is allowed to move and how they are allowed to move. Put simply, it is who gets to buy M&Ms in duty free shops, and who, at best, gets rescued from drowning or, at worst, becomes an unidentified corpse.

The 352 people who are known to have died in Evros between 2000 and 2017 are only a small fraction of those who have lost their lives at borders. During the same period, over 46,000 people are known to have died at the world’s borders,³ and there are, no doubt, many more unaccounted for. As well as drowning, these deaths have been caused by: gunshot wounds; dehydration; starvation; suffocation; hypothermia; lack of access to medicine/medical care; physical abuse, including sexual violence; accidents involving unsafe transportation such as being hit by or falling from trains, electrocution on rail lines or road-related accidents involving vehicles; and even one recorded death by hippopotamus.

Within this tragic catalogue, a geographical pattern emerges that hints at unequal mobility and how that unequal mobility shapes what type of border people encounter and how they are put at risk. For instance, drowning causes the majority of deaths in Europe and the Mediterranean; other deaths are caused by fuel burns from unsafe boats, being hit by vehicles, suffocation in sealed containers and electrocution on rail tracks. This tells us about the geographies of Europe’s borders and how unequal mobility shapes how people move, in unseaworthy vessels across the Mediterranean, in the backs of lorries, through hiding on trains or walking along roads and train tracks. In Central America, the most common causes of death are falling from trains – the usual form of transportation – murder and sexual violence, most often gang-related. Here, people denied access to the luxuries of air travel journey north on the roofs of the long, slow goods trains, known as Tren de la Muerte, La Bestia or El Tren de los Descondidos. Their precarious status makes them easy targets for sexual predators and the various criminal gangs in Central America that facilitate their journeys. On the US-Mexico border, dehydration and hypothermia caused by exposure to the harsh elements of the desert landscape are the most common causes of death. In South and South East Asia, alongside murder by criminal smuggling networks, border guards regularly shoot and kill, especially on the India-Bangladesh border.⁴ Even the death by hippopotamus on the Zimbabwean–South African border speaks of people having to traverse rivers in risky ways rather than use official crossings.

These deaths speak to the need to save lives at borders. These deaths are what mobilise rescues on land and sea. Since my time in Evros with the Greek police, rescues in border spaces have increased, responding to the risks of death and suffering. There have been Italian naval search and rescue (SAR) operations, such as Mare Nostrum, in the central southern Mediterranean and humanitarian organisations have also engaged in SAR. At various times since the Migrant Offshore Aid Station (MOAS) began operations based on the apparently simple claim that ‘no one deserves to die at sea’,⁵ well-known humanitarian organisations such as Médecins Sans Frontières, Save the Children and Médecins du Monde as well as other newer and smaller organisations such as Proactiva Open Arms and Sea-Watch have launched one or more search and rescue vessels in the Mediterranean. Meanwhile, when, in 2015, increasing numbers of people arrived in Greece seeking futures free from war, human rights abuses and economic precarity, thousands of volunteers mobilised in solidarity to provide basic needs including: clean, dry clothes; warm meals and bottled water; small tents; practical information; and basic medical care. Similar volunteer actions extended through the Western Balkans and into Hungary, Austria, Germany and elsewhere, following the refugees and migrants as they moved, waited and stayed.

In Calais, long a place of migrant encampment for those trying to reach the UK, activists and volunteers from across Europe (including the UK) have assisted the migrants who have created informal migrant camps known as the ‘Jungles’. Attention towards the Jungles reached a peak in 2015–16, during the height of the ‘refugee crisis’, and among worsening conditions and threats by the French authorities to clear the Calais Jungle once and for all. Celebrities from the UK, including Lily Allen and Jude Law, crossed the Channel to raise awareness and pressure Westminster to do more to assist asylum seekers, especially children. Meanwhile, Médecins Sans Frontières built a refugee camp along the coast in Dunkirk.

All of these actions to save lives and reduce suffering rely on the ability to identify with and feel empathy for the physical and psychological suffering of strangers alongside a cataloguing of suffering by, for example, counting and publicising the dead to mobilise compassion.⁶ However, this compassion and cataloguing does not highlight the causes of such suffering. In the case of borders, the need to save lives is caused by unequal regimes of mobility.⁷ These unequal regimes underpinned the wry smile of the Greek police commander in answer to my question about whether the rescues would ever stop. His smile told of a reality of hardened borders, or what political geographer Reece Jones has recently called ‘violent borders’.⁸ The wry smile told of a global structure of inequality underpinning the daily work of the Greek police that was much larger than them and their small, everyday acts of intervention. It told of a politics in which the haves of the world increasingly secure themselves and their privileges from the have-nots through mobility controls because it is thought unchecked mobility threatens privileged ways of life.⁹ This politics, in turn, structures the very possibility of needing to spend your working days on the Greek-Turkish border rescuing the have-nots from the river. However, unequal mobility is not caused by inequality in and of itself. Unequal mobility is not the natural outcome of the disparities between rich and poor, but, instead, is the outcome of particular histories, political decisions, and the everyday work of border guards, local government officials, transport officials, landlords, healthcare workers, teachers and a host of other people who help to make borders an everyday, material reality.¹⁰ Unequal mobility is why people take unsafe boats across the Mediterranean, hide in sealed containers to cross the Channel, brave the elements of the Sonoran Desert, or stow themselves away in the landing gear of airplanes, freezing and suffocating to death and sometimes falling out of the sky.

José Matada, the man believed to have fallen from the landing gear of a Heathrow-bound plane onto the leafy and affluent streets of East Sheen in West London in 2013,¹¹ and many others like him, are not able to travel by plane. This is unequal mobility. It is not known whether José Matada could have afforded the ticket for flight BA76 from Luanda, Angola. However, even if he could, to be allowed to board the flight by ground staff in Luanda if he was not a UK citizen, an EU citizen or a citizen of a country covered by the UK visa-waiver scheme, he would have had to show proof of a valid UK visa. A tourist visa would have cost José Matada £89, and he would also have had to provide the following information/documentation in order to obtain a UK tourist visa: a current passport; his current home address and length of residency; his parents’ names and dates of birth; proof of a return ticket; details of where he would stay in the UK; proof of being able to support himself during the duration of his stay, including bank statements and pay slips for the previous 6 months; evidence of how much his trip would cost; and details outlining how much he earned in a year. He might also have needed to show: details of his travel history for the past ten years (as shown in his passport); his employer’s address and telephone number; his partner’s name, date of birth, and passport number; the name and address of anyone paying for his trip; the name, address and passport number of any family members he had in the UK; and details of any criminal, civil or immigration offences he had committed. All of this documentation, if not in English or Welsh, would have had to have been translated and certified.¹² He would have had to have filled the information in online and then have his fingerprints and photograph taken at a visa application centre. In Angola, there is only one centre in Luanda.

It is not known whether José Matada could have obtained a visa. Little is known about him, in fact. According to a report in the Guardian newspaper, he died on his twenty-sixth birthday, on 9 September 2013. It is thought he was originally from Mozambique, though authorities have been unable to trace his family for official confirmation. José Matada was only identified as José Matada, also known as Youssoup, after analysis of an Angolan SIM card found in his pocket, along with a single pound coin and some money from Botswana. On this SIM card were old messages between him and his former employer, an Anglo-Swiss woman for whom he had worked as a housekeeper and gardener in South Africa. One of the messages on the SIM card included a conversation in which he talked about wanting to ‘travel to Europe for a better life’. Interestingly, the report in the Guardian concludes with discussions not about the security of ‘stowaways’ like José Matada but about security concerns for aircraft.¹³

As much as the need to save lives in border spaces is the product of unequal mobility, saving lives is not an inherent response to this crisis. The concern for the security of aircraft over concern for and questions about why a man would climb inside the landing gear of said aircraft to get to the UK attest to this. Instead, the need to save lives is the product of particular rationalities about life and our role in relation to each other and our societies. This need to save lives is perhaps best known as humanitarianism. Humanitarianism is most widely understood as saving lives, relieving suffering and upholding human dignity through the provision of life’s basic needs in emergency situations by NGOs.¹⁴ The motivation to save lives, relieve suffering and uphold human dignity is based on compassion for those who suffer, beyond the bonds of kinship, friendship or community. Put simply, this motivation grows from attempts to catalogue and articulate suffering combining ‘as a moral imperative to undertake ameliorative action’.¹⁵ Such compassion for distant strangers that grows from the cataloguing of suffering – how can you care if you are not aware? – and undertaking ameliorative actions are intimately related to the growth of a distinctly European, modern liberalism over the previous 500 years. It has had an impact on everything from fighting wars to governing colonies.¹⁶ In conjunction with this growth of compassion and the cataloguing of suffering, European liberal modernity has been concerned with processes of rationality and efficiency that would aid the growth of capitalist markets and alleviate inequality created by such markets, thus protecting profits, societies and states from upheaval and revolution in the process.¹⁷ It is, according to historian James Vernon, at the heart of how, for example, Britain came to be modern and achieve imperial domination.¹⁸ Therefore, humanitarianism should be understood as occurring within particular Eurocentric, colonial and white supremacist contexts and histories. The appearance of rescues and humanitarianism at borders as a response to global inequality generally and unequal mobility in particular is a continuation of these processes or what anthropologist Didier Fassin has called ‘humanitarian reason’¹⁹ – a particular way of seeing and acting in the world.

In the popular imagination and in the fundraising calls of humanitarian organisations, humanitarianism remains something linked to moments of emergency or crisis. Humanitarian, life-saving missions are mobilised in moments, such as natural disasters and wars, that overwhelm existing systems, infrastructures and modes of governing. Humanitarianism responds to the effects of such disasters and conflicts on displaced populations or refugees. There is a long history of providing life-saving facilities to refugee populations within humanitarianism, and displaced populations are a common feature in complex emergencies. As an emergency undertaking, humanitarianism is meant to end when the crisis is over and the safety of affected populations guaranteed. However, as the United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) estimates that most refugees are displaced for an average twenty-six years,²⁰ this suggests anything but a temporary emergency or crisis situation. So, for all the shiny fundraising brochures with their emergency imagery, humanitarianism has a more complex relationship with moments of crisis. When Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1999 they explained that ‘humanitarianism occurs where the political has failed or is in crisis’.²¹ Such a contextualisation is important, suggesting that emergencies and crises are less than accidental. Instead, it points to the central role of the political in the existence of emergencies and crises and subsequent human suffering.

The events and actions that have become popularly known as the ‘Mediterranean Migration Crisis’, ‘Migration Crisis’ or ‘Refugee Crisis’ are not limited to the past few years. In the Mediterranean and European context, humanitarian concerns for the well-being of refugees and migrants from Albania were a regular feature of the 1990s and early 2000s.²² Meanwhile, the contentious politics of humanitarian rescues at sea came to the fore in July 2004 when the captain and first officer of the Cap Anamur, along with the head of the organisation of the same name, were arrested and faced charges of aiding and abetting illegal immigration after rescuing 37 migrants in the Strait of Sicily and disembarking them at an Italian port. This led to the beginnings of a Europe-wide debate about boat migration to Europe, with the German government (Cap Anamur was a German organisation) arguing that camps should be set up for asylum seekers in North Africa in order to save lives at sea.²³ These arguments are reminiscent of present-day discussions about outsourcing migration control to Libya and ...