The Sahrawi women who roast slowly in the Algerian desert don’t like to be asked continuously about their land, on which they can no longer step because they left it behind; about their children, whom they can no longer embrace because they are studying abroad, or about their husbands, who are either in more prosperous continents or probably dead.

That is why we don’t ask questions any more. We carry the camera through the daily folklore among their tents, trying to bother them as little as possible and recording the scene of exile.

The daylight hours pass as orderly as in a sample case, between hot siestas and interminable tea rituals. This is what is left for them: to water gardens containing a single blade of grass.