Dover 82

On that wintry January afternoon, the sun is shining on Dover. Across the water you can just see the outline of France. The English Channel can be perilous but that day it was calm, although the waves scraping the shingles made an unsettling grating sound.

I first came to live in the UK from Indonesia in 2016, in the aftermath of Brexit. I am one of the lucky ones. The same cannot be said of the people who lost their lives seeking safety. 2024 was the deadliest year on record for Channel crossings thus far—a preventable tragedy and a call for solemn reflection. But instead that has only inflamed even more violent rhetoric and "border security" policies that punish people for the desire to stay alive.

Walking along the seafront in Dover on that otherwise beautiful winter day, I cannot escape the haunting feeling that we participate in that suffering in our quiet complicity. In Dover, the border is around us. Taking my phone, I began to film the border infrastructure, allowing sites, sounds, and textures to guide me. I filmed what I felt—the biting winter chill made it hard to hold the camera still. Through the lens I forced myself—and invite the audience—to see: the border patrol boats, the lifebuoys, the CCTV cameras, the tarp printed with a picture of the white cliffs of Dover obscuring from view the tactile machinations of the border in action.

The film was shot in one day, but it carries the weight of the many lives lost. The film is dedicated to those who survived, those who didn't, and all who struggle in the wake.