The wind blows in Trieste, as the best clichés dictate. "Tomorrow will be fine weather," says Paola, a Triestine who has lived in Bosnia and Herzegovina for 15 years. Next to the train station stands the imposing Austro-Hungarian port. Some of the buildings have been renovated, such as warehouse 26, which has been added to the museum complex, while others have been left to the ravages of time. Inside the building closest to the arrival and departure platforms, a silo, a few migrants find shelter from the cold and the wind. "What do you want? Do you want an interview? Do you want a scoop?" the Afghan lad, twenty years old at most, is not happy about the intrusion of strangers — journalists — into the area. Four shacks, built from scrap materials, hidden from the eyes of passers-by: Trieste is a stop on the great journey. A "waiting room" before setting off again towards Germany, France, northern Europe and other Italian cities.

Bosnia is a transit point on the route westward © Michele Cirillo

The journey from Bosnia to Italy is fraught with dangers: there are landmines, dangerous animals, and the constant risk of being arrested © Michele Cirillo

Stories of violence at the hands of border police are a memory for some — the seasoned ones — and a spectre for others, on their first attempts © Michele Cirillo

Amir, 70, from Bihać, suggests that migrants are helped by locals to move along the tracks towards the border © Michele Cirillo

The (re)departure from Bihać and Velika Kladuša

Thirteen days on foot, following in the migrants' footsteps, and 180 kilometres further south the wind has gone, the language is Serbo-Croatian, the country is Bosnia. Bihać and Velika Kladuša, the two stopover towns for migrants, look out towards the Croatian border from the south-east. Dense forests surround the outskirts and within a few hours you are already on the other side of the border. "I want to go to Spain, I want to be a nurse," "Germany, yes, Germany specifically, I can do many jobs there," "To Brescia, I have friends there, we'll see": they come from Pakistan and Afghanistan, they have crossed Iran, Turkey, Greece, Macedonia, Serbia and have reached the former student dormitory in Bihać, the base camp, before setting off again.

The harsh Balkan winter is drawing near. Every day, groups of migrants set out into the woods. Since the beginning of the year, just over 13,000 people have chosen Bosnia as a transit point on the route westward. The figures are official, data provided by the International Organisation for Migration (IOM), but as a place of trafficking, a calm chaos reigns over the numbers. "We count around 15 per cent more than the registered figures": Peter van der Auweraert, IOM coordinator for the western Balkans, confirms the difficulty of understanding the true scale of the phenomenon.

nuova rotta balcanica migranti Bosnia Italia Trieste — Migrants cross Iran, Turkey, Greece, Macedonia, Serbia and reach the former student dormitory in Bihać, the base camp, before setting off again © Michele Cirillo

The relationship between migrants and the local population

Of the three borders to cross, the simplest is the one between Bosnia and Croatia: hundreds of kilometres of woodland. It is the former front line of the Bosnian War. "They pass through here, I can hear them talking. In Serbo-Croatian too. They say: 'the police are over there, you can't go that way'": Amir, 70, from Bihać, suggests that migrants are helped by locals to move along the tracks towards the border. "I've been retired for twenty years, my wife for ten. With the money we built ourselves a lovely house near the forest," Amir continues. "I've come home several times to find the door forced and serious damage inside. I say: if you need water, food and a bed, you are welcome, but if you do this I don't know how I might react." Weapons in the hands of Bosnian civilians are a reality. A sediment of the war. According to a study by Small Arms Survey, published on 18 June this year, in the Balkan country there are 31 firearms for every 100 inhabitants. "I defended my home for four years and now it's happening to me again in peacetime — I don't know, I've invested money here, I will defend what's mine," Amir concludes.

In the words and attitudes with which locals speak about migrants there is a latent contradiction. Just beneath the surface of the obvious, the memory of flight and of having themselves been regarded as "refugees" persists. If on the one hand anger over individual acts of destruction undermines cohabitation, on the other hand identification is the glue that prevents conflict.

Once past the landmines that litter the border and the danger of animal attacks, you enter Croatia — perhaps the most dangerous stretch of the journey. Stories of violence at the hands of border police are a memory for some — the seasoned ones — and a spectre for others, on their first attempts. Avoid Karlovac and other inhabited centres, follow hidden tracks, or change your clothes to blend in and board the buses heading towards Slovenia. Locals can also be a problem: "As soon as they see us they call the police and in five, ten minutes at most, they arrive and arrest us," recounts Hassan, 20, from Pakistan. If you're lucky, you pass for a tourist.

The barrier on the Kolpa river, on the border between Croatia and Slovenia

The Kolpa is the natural border between Croatia and Slovenia. A breathtaking landscape: emerald-green hills plunge into the water, while groups of foreigners prepare for white-water rafting. In 2015 the Ljubljana government began erecting a barrier along the river. Barbed wire, fences, gates and padlocks to stem the flow of migrants into the country. At Brod na Kupi there is one of many border crossings: the bridge, customs, two offices and you enter the Schengen area. "It wasn't us, you need to ask them," the Croatian police officer points to his Slovenian colleague a few metres away. "We have nothing to say about the migrants passing through, you need to ask our superiors in Ljubljana," echoes the Slovenian officer.

The Kolpa accompanies the journey eastward. The barrier, ever-present, stands between the road and the river. "The river is dangerous if you don't know it. Some migrants have died trying to cross it," Paola continues. The Kolpa is placid, but the cold and the current, especially on rainy days, pose very real dangers: "Yes, I've seen migrants crossing the river, we helped them. I know that further north some children have died too," the words of a waiter at a restaurant on the road.

A wall that "breaks your heart"

Ljuba lives with her husband in Fara na Kupi, a small village on the banks of the Kolpa. The couple runs a bed and breakfast nestled in greenery. "It breaks my heart to see this fence," the woman says as she points to the access points to the river locked shut with a padlock, "a few months ago the bulldozers arrived and put it up. They changed our lives and our relationship with the river without asking us anything." There is anger and frustration in Ljuba's words. The beauty of the place and the purity of the Kolpa's waters are what she lives on. "Their only achievement has been to imprison us. They haven't stopped migrants from getting through, but they have shut off access to locals and tourists — the people we work with," concludes Ljuba, bitterly. "We hold the government responsible": Valentin, Ljuba's husband, was also mayor of Kostel. "I was born here, what can this barrier mean to me? It undermines and divides relations between people, and damages ties with the other bank of the river," the man concludes.

Arriving in Trieste

Two hours' drive and 150 kilometres further west, perched on the gulf of the same name, lies Koper. The port city is another of the entry points for migrants into Italy. "Of course I've taken migrants to Italy — and what should I do? Ask for ID? I'm not a police officer," the taxi driver says, heading towards Trieste as he recounts his experience. "They're customers, they ask me to go to Trieste, just like you — what am I supposed to do? Refuse?" Twenty minutes by car and the magnificent Piazza Unità of Trieste comes into view: it's already Italy. Since the beginning of summer, the Interior Ministry has stepped up checks at border crossings, also deploying police units from Padua and modern technology for number plate identification. "As you can see, two of the three crossings we visited are completely unmanned — Paola concludes as she heads back towards the centre of Trieste — and even if one wanted to monitor every road entering Italy, the land border is unmanageable: too many kilometres, too many woods."

Bosnia Italia rotta balcanica migranti — "Getting used to the screams coming from the other side of the border would be a kind of cultural, civic and human death" © Michele Cirillo

The story of Laura and Michele, who help migrants in distress

In a residential neighbourhood of Trieste, Laura and Michele live on the first floor. In recent weeks they decided to help two groups of Iranians in difficulty during the crossing from Bosnia to Italy. "Not engaging with this fundamental reality would be like looking the other way," Michele says, adding: "Getting used to the screams coming from the other side of the border would be a kind of cultural, civic and human death." The Trieste couple clarify that in recent weeks they only helped people they knew. "It may sound cynical, but with some of them there were personal connections, and when someone you know asks for a hand, you don't hide away," Laura concludes.

In the living room of the flat, between the bookcase and the framed photographs, sits Reza. "On the thirteenth day of the journey I was scared. The rain had soaked all my clothes through. Without Laura and Michele's help I would never have managed to reach Italy." Reza is now in Germany, his destination from the very beginning. "I was pushed back 16 times, in Croatia and Slovenia, they beat me, but as you can see I'm here now, where I wanted to be," Reza concludes over chat.

What future to expect

On 17 September in Sochi, Russian president Vladimir Putin and his Turkish counterpart Recep Tayyip Erdogan reached an agreement to establish a demilitarised zone over the Idlib canton, staving off — at least for the time being — an offensive that could have led to a new humanitarian emergency and a new flow of refugees towards Turkey and Europe. If 2018 was Bosnia's year zero of the "new" route, any geopolitical upheavals in the near future — in Syria and beyond — would open the door to a phenomenon that is objectively impossible to stop. In practice, despite the deterrent of pushbacks and violence, not yet officially confirmed, the borders have proven porous and easily penetrable. What will be at stake in 2019 is the stability of Bosnia, a country resting on fragile foundations, but more broadly the European Union and its ability to secure its borders will come under the microscope — a predominant political issue in the three countries affected by the new route: Croatia, Slovenia and Italy.

From Bosnia to Trieste, the migrants' journey along the new Balkan route