On the side of the road, about 3km from the Serbia-Hungary border, two little boys catch my eye. One sits awkwardly under a tree on a square of yellow plastic sheeting. His twin brother stands with difficulty beside him and then his legs buckle and he slumps to the ground.
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On the side of the road, about 3km from the Serbia-Hungary border, two little boys catch my eye.
One sits awkwardly under a tree on a square of yellow plastic sheeting. His twin brother stands with difficulty beside him and then his legs buckle and he slumps to the ground.
Their mother helps to stabilise the little boys, propping up the smaller of the two, and helping the taller boy to kneel. They are waiting for a bus that will take them close to the Hungarian border and, somehow, this family with so many challenges will trek the 5km to the border today.
The mother smiles and waves at me again and I walk towards her. Her name is Khawla, and as I sit beside her she wraps a white towel around my shoulders.
"No," I say. "It's okay. I am fine." She points at my notepad. I'm struggling to write in the rain and Khawla is trying to shelter me with the towel.
"It's okay, really" I say again.
The smile goes from her face. She raises a hand as if to say "stop". I get the message. The towel will stay where it is. The boys sit in front of me grinning, intrigued by my new white cloak.
"Six years old. Twins," says Khawla. Ali is the smallest twin. He can't walk or talk but he smiles easily and giggles when I tickle him. Mohammed is the taller of the two. He can still walk but only just and only with his father's help. His hips lock when he walks, and he drags his toes in the dirt as he shuffles next to his father.
"Seizures," Khawla says, and cups Mohammed's head in her hands.
She tells me she is from the city of Daraa in Syria, and she's been on the move with her family for 18 days. She must have travelled close to 2000km in that time, and I look at the two smiling faces in front of me and wonder how on earth she did it.
The boat journey to Greece was the most treacherous leg of her journey, she says. The boat's motor died four times at sea, leaving them stranded and directionless in the hot Mediterranean sun. Then, when the boat began taking on water, they were told to throw their bags over the side.
"I thought my family was going to die. I thought we were going to drown," she says.
They made it to the island of Kos, but with only the clothes on their backs, and then spent four days sitting on the wharf in the baking heat while police processed their paperwork.
Their overjoyed mother, Khawla, arrives in Hungary from Serbia with Ali. Photo / Jo Currie / World Vision
She has overcome more than most on the journey to Europe.
I tell her she is very brave, but she shakes her head.
"No. My children need medical help. I am doing this for them. I want them to live respectful lives," she says.
I am still sitting beside her on the yellow plastic sheet when a van pulls up beside us. The doors quickly swing open and suddenly there is a lot of yelling. Khawla's husband grabs their pushchair and puts it in the back of the van. He comes back for one of the boys and Khawla picks up the other. She is up and rushing for the van. It's the taxi that will take them to the border.
The driver of the van is Serbian. He will take the family as close as he can to the border, but Khawla and her family will still need to negotiate the 5km walk along the railway tracks to enter Hungary. I have no idea how they'll do it.
"Goodbye, and good luck for the future," I say.
And then they are gone.
Later in the day, we take the legal route to Hungary and drive across the border. It's pouring with rain and it doesn't let up. I wonder how Khawla and her twins are coping. It's been several hours since I saw her on the side of the road in Serbia.
I make my way to the edge of the field where thousands of refugees will enter Hungary today. Rows of police are waiting as they walk the final few hundred metres to the waiting buses. I've become separated from our photographer, Jo Currie, but then I hear her call out.
"Rachel! Rachel!" Jo is grinning. Khawla is behind me. She has made it across the border and is standing on the road in the mud with Ali in his pushchair. The family's 18-day journey has come to an end and Khawla looks exhausted.
In front of her is a line of Hungarian police. They dictate who will board the waiting buses to the official transit camp. I've watched children get caught up in a crush as people try to board and I know Khawla and her vulnerable children will stand no chance.
I approach a policeman and ask if there is someone who speaks English. Eventually, a man with a face mask walks up to the line and asks me what I want. I tell him there is a family with two disabled boys who will need help. He assures me they will assist Khawla on to the bus.
I move behind the police line and wave to Khawla as she pushes Ali to the front of the queue. She is beaming and waving back at me.
"Thank you, thank you!" she says.
And then she puts her hand on her chest, blows me a kiss and says, "God bless."
It catches me off-guard and I suddenly feel overwhelmed. I look beyond the intimidating shoulders of the policemen in front of me and see Khawla standing in the mud and the rain with her two disabled children. There is so much hope in her face. She has made it to Europe. I know she believes that a new life awaits.
