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The guard's weapon of choice was a camera. A small, silver camera he pulled from inside a jacket pocket. He struggled to work it in chunky, dirty fingers. After some discussion with the other two men, he appeared to get to grips with the camera. He motioned to the line of refugees to stand up straight and clicked one rapid shot after another.
The flash left spots in Amira's eyes. The three men walked up and down the line, debating an issue in their own language. The lead guard then strode off along the corridor. He disappeared through a large set of doors signed Gym Hall.
Ten, tense minutes later, he returned with stapled sheets of print paper. Amira caught a glimpse: a headshot of each refugee and number alongside each photograph.
They appeared to be consulting the sheets and compa
