One day, out of the blue, my parents told us, “We’re going camping!” In truth, we were walking illegally from Romania into Greece. They didn’t want us kids to accidentally reveal anything to the locals, so they disguised it as a family trip.

As we moved, I remember my father carrying my younger brother on his shoulders. He was only in his late 20s, but had already given up so much to secure our future. To us, it felt like an adventure, not the dangerous journey it really was.

Along the road, my father quietly started teaching us simple things - maths, the Greek alphabet - he was preparing us for the life that awaited, though we didn’t fully understand it at the time.

Once, we were in the mountains, resting among piles of rubbish that had been dumped illegally. Even in such bleak surroundings, my father continued teaching, as if it were the most natural thing to do.

We slept outside under branches, using them as makeshift shelters. As we walked along motorways, we’d hide in the trees whenever we saw headlights. It dawned on us that we weren’t just camping—this was something much more serious. Water ran out, and we begged and scavenged for food.

One night, in a forest, we heard men screaming as soldiers approached. We were taken to border control. One by one, families were sent back, and we were next. After everything we’d been through, it felt like it was all about to be for nothing.

But then, one guard did something unexpected. He looked at us, paused, and waved us through.

Everyone else was turned back, but we were allowed to cross. Why? Was he incompetent, or did he just feel like rebelling in that moment? I’ll never know.

I’ll also never forget my father saying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” We had made it to Greece, illegally, but we were safe.