Tamegroute, Morocco, one of the small towns found in the desert streets.
A labyrinth, houses attached to each other, made of soil, bare, dirty, humble, little light so as not to let the desert heat pass. I turn the corner and a child runs past me. Doors open; there is nothing you can steal. Among one of these, a new-born lying on the ground is sleeping. Turn the corner and here is a child asking for alms to buy a ball, turn again and here children playing. I get closer to the group and try to make myself understood by gestures. I point the Polaroid. I take a picture of them. I give it to them. They were surprised. I don’t think they’ve ever seen a Polaroid. They smile. I see them happy. I greet them. Turn around the corner and here is a clay workshop. On the floor a child working with the clay. The boss turns the corner and the child asks me to help him, with tears. He wants to go play; he can’t take it anymore.
Children who do not know what a Polaroid is, children who already work.
