With his back bent, an old man wanders among the rubble in a deserted street.
Behind him extends a landscape of desolation, a field of rubble and buildings gutted by bombs, ghosts of the city that was.
His right hand grips the handle of a small trolley filled with disparate objects, in the midst of which we can make out a few tin cans, a jumper and a painting somehow protected with a piece of plastic:
"Everything he rest of my house,”
he breathes, barely looking up at the camera.
No true freedom without a home
Europe is seized with dread at the fate of Ukrainian civilians - women, children and, when they can move, grandparents - thrown on the roads of exodus by Vladimir Putin's tanks.
At the end of hell, at the gates of Ukraine, stand its neighbours, close or a little more distant, with outstretched hands towards the refugees who are pouring in.
Yesterday, the Prime Minister, Jean Castex, opportunely hailed
“the tremendous outpouring of solidarity from French women and men”,
who have…
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