ABSTRACT
Hamrun—a town that is just seven kilometers from my office. It’s almost dinnertime, and I’m on an overpass in Hamrun. Fuck. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel of our old Toyota Vitz, which is hopelessly stuck in traffic on the regional highway. The sun is setting over the flat-top buildings near the highway, and my softly spoken curses are lost in the low buzz of the car’s air conditioner. With little to do other than look around, I notice that blue and green tarpaulin tents now line the sides of the road and fill the spaces between the highway ramps. All sorts of temporary shelters started popping up after the refugee camp reached its occupancy limit in mid-September. By early October, both in this town and in Marsa, vacant urban lots became sprawling encampments of people without housing. Now, about two weeks later, makeshift housings occupy almost every bit of usable space under the highway. From where I am locked in an endless row of vehicles, I can see two vans from a non-profit organization parked next to one of the largest clusters of refugee tents. The volunteers are doling out hand sanitizer, bagged dinners, and bottled water.
