Our journey begins in Aleppo, Nisrine's ravaged home city, as we try to understand the horror and instability that has killed so many and driven so many more from their homes. Five years of fighting in Aleppo has turned much of the city into something akin to an apocalyptic wasteland. Rebels occupy the East, government forces control the West, and the 2 million civilians who cannot or do not leave find themselves caught between the sniper fire and the indiscriminate bombings of both sides (McDonnell, "War-Shattered Aleppo, Up Close"). While life in the city goes on as well as it can given the situation, there is ultimately no immunity from the violence, not even in schools, hospitals, religious buildings, or the home. Nisrine Shiko lived in this war zone with her family until her husband of 16 years was killed by a bomb, leaving her alone to care for their five children (Karas, "The Women and Children Turning to Europe"). They finally left Syria in 2016, hoping for a better life in Europe.

Hundreds of miles took them to western Turkey, a city called Izmir, from where they would have to find a way into Greece. This is the business of Europe's fastest growing criminal enterprise: people-smuggling. Presently there are an estimated 40,000 such smugglers operating in Turkey, and the Turkish mafia is now heavily involved with this lucrative, multi-billion-dollar industry (Callaghan, "We Fence Off Europe and Still They Come"). Any migrants who wish to get into Europe through Turkey - about 1.3 million last year - must wait patiently and pay handsomely for the opportunity. Those that can pay the highest premiums may get higher quality forged identification documents or a slightly less crowded ride on a slightly more dependable boat. Nisrine bought passage for her and her children on a small boat among some 70 others. “All I was thinking was, you can't catch five kids if they fall in the water,” she said (Karas, "The Women and Children Turning to Europe"). Many have in fact perished crossing the Mediterranean, but fortunately Nisrine and her group arrived safely on the Greek island of Chios. The population here is supposedly welcoming to refugees, while other islands are much more crowded and inhospitable.

After a ferry ride, a bus ride, and no shortage of walking, Nisrine and her family came to the northern border of Greece, outside Idomeni, where a makeshift tent city has been erected. An estimated 15,000 migrants are now in this uncomfortable, unhygienic area, living off food rations, waiting indefinitely for whatever may happen next. Elsewhere in Greece, another 30,000 refugees await their own uncertain fates. The Greek state cannot handle the influx of refugees, so they have obstructed the path and are now discussing mass deportations ("Closure of 'Balkan Route' Traps Refugees in Greece"). The future is incredibly, increasingly uncertain for Nisrine's family and thousands of others in similar positions. I do not know what has become of Nisrine or her children since coming to Idomeni in the Spring of 2016, but it is useful - and somewhat hopeful - to imagine her continuing the journey northward.

The Balkan route has been nicknamed the "Black Route" by aid workers in reference to the many dangers that plague migrants along the way, from criminal gangs and gender-based violence to wild animals, hazardous terrain and scarce resources (Faiola, "The 'Black Route' to Europe"). This path leads further North, typically to Belgrade, Serbia, where migrants again wait in a squalid camp until they can procure a bus or a train. Then they will likely find themselves at the Hungarian border, met with reinforced security fences and menacing military forces. But some are saying the Balkan route is now officially closed. What does this mean for the millions of human beings – up to two-thirds of whom are women and children – who are stuck in various places within that route? Can we solve a migration crisis simply by restricting movement?