An image is at the origin of this work. A photograph seen in an association magazine which showed four bodies lying on the ground in a forest in the north of France. The caption indicated that they were Afghans, probably exhausted, who were resting away from prying eyes. It was a violent image, a war photograph. The bodies appeared dead and their way of occupying the space seemed to announce the tragic figure of the mass grave. It is this image that I went to look for in the “jungle” of Calais where the migrants were staying waiting for a possible passage to England. An image that I was unable to find but which ultimately produced two series of photographs. In 2009, I went several times to this “wild” forest of Calais, which was both tested by the climate and crossed by a story. The traces of cabins and the remains of sleeping bags were the most visible signs. Shortly after, I took photographs in Paris of Afghan migrants sleeping, between daybreak and the presence of the police who had come to evacuate them. The abandoned blankets of the forest were once again inhabited by bodies I could only imagine. In 2012, I met Jawad and Mansour, both Afghans seeking asylum in Paris. I gave Jawad some school notebooks so that he could write the story of his journey from Kabul to Paris. At each of our meetings, he gave me a few pages of his story which he translated. I saw it as the story of a modern epic, the negative history of our globalization. Mansour lent me the notebooks he used for his French lessons. A language of survival, a literature of emergency was translated from Farsi. I have not changed anything about these writings, the brutality of the text and the story of exile that they constituted.