"The camp is much nicer than I thought it would be!" a family member commented after seeing a picture I shared of Ritsona, a refugee camp where I was volunteering in June.
I balked. Much nicer? This was a terrible place to be! Couldn't they see that?
Within a few minutes, though, the shock of the comment subsided and I realized I agreed. The neat rows of tents in my photo (I hadn't wanted to take pictures of refugees) didn't seem that bad, at least not compared to what I expected it to be.
When my friend Meghan volunteered in camps earlier this spring and came home telling me heartbreaking stories of her time there, the refugee crisis was still a state of emergency. Patrols monitored the narrow channel between Turkey and Greece around the clock and pulled refugees onto the shore. Meghan told me about the chaos of food, water, and clothing distribution, the emergency medical care being provided for everything from torture wounds to sea anemone gouges to crippling dehydration, and the panic of the refugees as they frantically sought answers and wondered when they could leave for Western Europe. Between the stories she told me and the constant images I saw on the news, I had become desensitized to what the refugee crisis was supposed to look like: visible pain and suffering and the rapid, heroic responses of hundreds of good-hearted volunteers.
By the time I arrived in June though, the crisis was changing, which meant both the needs and the suffering were changing too. An EU-Turkey deal had temporarily closed the borders. Despite what may have been communicated in the international news, violence was not abating in Syria and refugees were still fleeing by the hundreds and thousands to Turkey. There, they waited in camps along the western shore and looked out across the water to the visible peaks of Greece's Lesvos island. But in Greece, the situation was less urgent.
The Greek government, military, and hundreds of non-profits were focusing less on emergency relief and more on long-term care. Conditions and amenities differed wildly across camps, but some of the long-term solutions included running water, banks of portable toilets, plastic-sided cabins instead of fabric tents, electricity, library spaces, education spaces, female-friendly spaces, medical clinics, and cooking stoves. Although most places still had a very ad-hoc organization to them, the Greek military was beginning to consolidate its authority and organize the duties and responsibilities of each non-profit. The conditions and needs shifted rapidly, the tensions and moods of people fluctuated, and relationships between non-profits varied day-to-day, but the overwhelming sense was one of increased permanency and stability.
When I took the aforementioned photo, it was a quiet morning. Most of the residents of camp were still sleeping - it was Ramadan after all. The observant Muslims who were fasting during daylight hours liked to stay up all night to eat heartily and enjoy the cool air. As I wandered around camp at ten in the morning, I encountered still-closed tent flaps, their occupants sleeping soundly inside. Shoes in front of each tent were in tidy rows or heaped in bins, laundry hung motionless on lines strung between tent poles, and rubbish from the day before had been picked up by bands of kids sometime during the evening. Maybe it didn't look nice, but it looked humane.
No, the atrocities so many, myself included, envision when hearing about the refugee crisis - like the forgotten body of a tiny child washed up on a Greek beach - weren't visible in my photos.
I didn't photograph the forty portable toilets used by the camp's 800 or so residents, nor the ten showers they shared, or the six taps for running water. I didn't photograph the pits where women squatted in the sand, chopped vegetables with blunt knives, and cooked over open fires each day. I couldn't capture the heat of the Greek summer sun turning the tents into saunas and making the walk to the toilets - across a huge, exposed concrete slab - into a painful march. I didn't photograph the lines of people queuing up for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and drinking water distribution, nor did I photograph adorable young kids struggling beneath the weight of watermelons and water bottles and cartons of food: struggling, but still eager to help their parents. I couldn't share the smell of heaps of garbage and leftover food rotting in fly-swarmed piles and the stench of hundreds of people living in close quarters. I didn't record the sounds of crying babies who were too hot to sleep or the shouts erupting across camp as tiny skirmishes broke out between residents on a daily basis.
And, still, the atrocities and suffering gets worse.
There's a permeating sense of hopelessness and restlessness. After 4 or 5 weeks of intense travel across Syria and Turkey (and sometimes from even farther), the refugees now sit in camps and wait. There is no more running or escaping or hiding, only waiting in lines and filling out paperwork and waiting some more.
They've been in these camps for 3-6 months now and won't realistically get registered with the Greek government to get their asylum papers for a long time. The refugees know this: they know it could takes months or years for the thousands of them scattered across Greece to be registered; the pregnant women know their babies will be born in these camps, the babies' first steps taken on rocky campground; families know they won't be reunited with loved ones who went to Germany or Italy before them for a long time. And there's truly nothing they can do to make the registration go faster.
Then there's a feeling of boredom and uselessness. These people were teachers, lawyers, craftsmen, scientists, university students, and so much more. They now have nothing to do but sit around idly, the lack of autonomy and capacity crippling their once vibrant sense of purpose. When they did have access to spare wood to build benches or tables, they threw themselves happily into the work. Despite the heat and lack of diverse ingredients, women embraced the opportunity to cook for their families: the chance to hold on to some shred of their traditions and their dignity was a welcome distraction. When donated clothes or food or supplies needed moving, most residents were anxious to help the foreign volunteers; they wanted to contribute and to earn what they were given. I witnessed no presence of entitlement.
While young kids ran wild underfoot, enjoying the perennial feel of being at summer camp, the older kids spoke sadly of the homes and friends and schools they'd left behind. More than anything, they missed their education because, already at a young age, they appreciated the privilege of education. Many had stopped going to school during their last few years in Syria because schools were major targets of bombings; for some, it had been three years since their last time in a classroom. University-age students recounted how close they'd been to graduating - some just a semester or two away - when their families decided to leave. They knew the journey to get their university degree, if they were able to get into and pay for school, would require many more years. And, yet, they all expressed their relief to not live in constant fear.
I feel a need to mention here, should anyone reading think the refugees take for granted all they are receiving for free: they do not. There's an enormous sense of gratitude for the food, shelter, and services they receive. They are grateful that they, for the most part, are safe. (Though violence and crime absolutely do exist in the camps, especially against women.) They are happy to be out of Syria, Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq and many more countries where they didn't have a future. And to the critics who say, "Well, they chose to leave. How can they expect to be immediately welcomed into a new country?" I respond: they don't see their decision to come to Greece as a choice. They see it as the only option for their survival, and they know they are fortunate to have survived thus far.
They are grateful and safe, yes, but they are not without frustration. They wonder why the borders are closed and when they will be reopened. They wonder why European countries are refusing to take in any of them. They wonder how people can be so xenophobic and cold when the refugees just want to be free from violence. They wonder why the international community didn't intervene to save their countries before they were destroyed.
They tally their dead relatives lost to the Taliban and to ISIS in shockingly neutral tones, hardened by years of violence. They ask when they'll be allowed to formally request refugee status. (Trust me: they want to do this legally.) They express gratitude for the Greek people for sharing their land and resources. They profess their adoration for Germany and how much they truly want to assimilate into Germany, or wherever they're sent; they're not asking for a Syrian enclave. They constantly state that "Syria is dead" and "Syria is no more" and that they know they'll never be able return to the country of their birth, as if stating these awful truths will make it easier to believe. They mention they're surprised I'm there: they didn't think Americans cared at all.
And along with the helplessness and restlessness and frustration and sadness, there is tension. Rumors swirl about smugglers who will take families to Germany for $5000 a person; some refugees suspect that Syrians get better treatment or are more likely to get asylum than people from other countries; In some camps, certain refugees leverage favorable relations with local Greeks and volunteers to get more food, more clothes, or more information.
Though most of these tensions are based on rumors, tensions become shouts which become physical fights. Most of the skirmishes I saw were small, but there were some bad fights and attacks against entire families; families had to be moved out of the camp and to new ones on a few occasions. I saw a fully grown man pulling the hair of a 12 year old girl, who wasn't his own daughter (not that that would have made it ok), and beating her arms while about 15 people stood and watched. As far as I know, there were no consequences for the man.
And, seeing and hearing about the suffering and boredom and waning hope made me feel as if what I was doing there was so inadequate. I was barely doing anything compared to what needed to be done! I had to constantly remind myself that I was there to learn, observe, bear witness, and contribute in any way I was asked, not there to be a savior or to fix something in just four short weeks. I trusted the missions of the organizations with whom I was volunteering, as these organizations were there long-term and had experienced staff members (and financial backers) who could ignite change.
In Ritsona (just outside Chalkida, Greece), I worked with Lighthouse Relief in their female-friendly space. We provided a safe, fenced-in area for girls over 13 (and little babies if the mothers brought them inside). We provided supplemental nutrition for pregnant and nursing women, a small air-conditioned space for breastfeeding and relaxing, and sanitary baby bottles and formula for mothers who didn't nurse. I also ran a daily English class for a small group of devoted women and tried teaching yoga, but they were fasting for Ramadan and were too exhausted. We did art projects, watched the babies so they could rest, and focused on creating a safe and inviting space. It was very special to be a part of that team and to hear the incredible and terrifying stories of the brave women I met.
Then I traveled to the island of Lesvos, the island that has received most of the refugees, as it's just three miles from Turkey across the channel. There I worked in a place called Kara Tepe with two Dutch organizations: Because We Carry and Movement on the Ground. This camp was more established than Ritsona, as it has existed since last September and Ritsona was opened in March. The camp residents were also more diverse (Syrians, Iraqis, Iranians, Afghans, Congolese, and Nepalis). With a crew of vivacious Dutch friends (who also let me live with them) we were in charge of preparing and distributing breakfast for 660 residents every day. Because of Ramadan, we prepared the meals in styrofoam containers in the late evening, then distributed them to the fasting residents in the middle of the night. After a few hours of sleep, we returned to camp in the morning to distribute the rest of the containers to non-fasting residents. The organization had opted to hand deliver the breakfast containers and fresh fruit to each tent to avoid the stress and potential conflicts born of food-distribution lines. I enjoyed delivering the food, as I got to know the residents in my section of tents and dawdled with my deliveries so I could hang out with them more. Our final part of the day was to play games and sing songs with the children for a few hours; the kids especially loved water balloons and their parents loved a few hours of rest.
Besides the incredible interaction with refugees and the opportunity to hear their stories and literally see the scars some bear from abuse and torture in their home countries, I learned so much about emergency management, the UN and its relationship with various governments and Greek government agencies, the Greek people's response to the crisis, and the interaction between organizations providing services. It's startling to see first hand the red tape and inter-agency drama that prevents goods and services from being delivered to the refugees. It's horrifying to see the amount of waste (of resources, of pre-packaged-food wrappers and containers, of human waste that must be carted off in sewer trucks each day, and of water.) At the same time, there is so much heart and love and good work happening as well. I truly believe that 99% of the foreigners and Greeks I encountered have the refugees' best interests at heart, but sometimes in-fighting and personal exhaustion and competition for scarce money and other resources leads organizations to bicker.
I really loved all of the volunteers I got to know, from my French-Canadian buddy Vienna and the rag-tag AirBnb crew we accumulated to the quirky Dutch folks who sang show tunes to keep us awake in the middle of the night during our meal prep assembly line. I was amazed that these people - from at least ten different countries and two dozen different professions - had all wound up in Greece this summer. We all had our story of the moment we decided to come to Greece and, despite our diverse backgrounds, those stories joined together promised to destroy apathy and to spread compassion.
I left Greece extremely aware of the cruel truth that I had just spent a month with people who can't leave. I left to adventure when the people I left behind were asking just to live. I left with freedom of movement when these people just want to be free from violence and constant fear and free to pursue their goals. I left knowing that, sadly, there's not much I can do alone to change their circumstances. Collective, political action will be the only way to improve their lives permanently. I left knowing that these people deserve better than what the international community has shown them thus far, and anyone labeling them as terrorists or leeches or pariahs needs to open their heart and read their stories.
I left realizing that people who had witnessed more inhumanity than I could even fathom had shown me - a privileged outsider, a person who doesn't speak their language, and a person who was going to leave them - what it means to be truly human.
I balked. Much nicer? This was a terrible place to be! Couldn't they see that?
Within a few minutes, though, the shock of the comment subsided and I realized I agreed. The neat rows of tents in my photo (I hadn't wanted to take pictures of refugees) didn't seem that bad, at least not compared to what I expected it to be.
When my friend Meghan volunteered in camps earlier this spring and came home telling me heartbreaking stories of her time there, the refugee crisis was still a state of emergency. Patrols monitored the narrow channel between Turkey and Greece around the clock and pulled refugees onto the shore. Meghan told me about the chaos of food, water, and clothing distribution, the emergency medical care being provided for everything from torture wounds to sea anemone gouges to crippling dehydration, and the panic of the refugees as they frantically sought answers and wondered when they could leave for Western Europe. Between the stories she told me and the constant images I saw on the news, I had become desensitized to what the refugee crisis was supposed to look like: visible pain and suffering and the rapid, heroic responses of hundreds of good-hearted volunteers.
By the time I arrived in June though, the crisis was changing, which meant both the needs and the suffering were changing too. An EU-Turkey deal had temporarily closed the borders. Despite what may have been communicated in the international news, violence was not abating in Syria and refugees were still fleeing by the hundreds and thousands to Turkey. There, they waited in camps along the western shore and looked out across the water to the visible peaks of Greece's Lesvos island. But in Greece, the situation was less urgent.
The Greek government, military, and hundreds of non-profits were focusing less on emergency relief and more on long-term care. Conditions and amenities differed wildly across camps, but some of the long-term solutions included running water, banks of portable toilets, plastic-sided cabins instead of fabric tents, electricity, library spaces, education spaces, female-friendly spaces, medical clinics, and cooking stoves. Although most places still had a very ad-hoc organization to them, the Greek military was beginning to consolidate its authority and organize the duties and responsibilities of each non-profit. The conditions and needs shifted rapidly, the tensions and moods of people fluctuated, and relationships between non-profits varied day-to-day, but the overwhelming sense was one of increased permanency and stability.
When I took the aforementioned photo, it was a quiet morning. Most of the residents of camp were still sleeping - it was Ramadan after all. The observant Muslims who were fasting during daylight hours liked to stay up all night to eat heartily and enjoy the cool air. As I wandered around camp at ten in the morning, I encountered still-closed tent flaps, their occupants sleeping soundly inside. Shoes in front of each tent were in tidy rows or heaped in bins, laundry hung motionless on lines strung between tent poles, and rubbish from the day before had been picked up by bands of kids sometime during the evening. Maybe it didn't look nice, but it looked humane.
No, the atrocities so many, myself included, envision when hearing about the refugee crisis - like the forgotten body of a tiny child washed up on a Greek beach - weren't visible in my photos.
I didn't photograph the forty portable toilets used by the camp's 800 or so residents, nor the ten showers they shared, or the six taps for running water. I didn't photograph the pits where women squatted in the sand, chopped vegetables with blunt knives, and cooked over open fires each day. I couldn't capture the heat of the Greek summer sun turning the tents into saunas and making the walk to the toilets - across a huge, exposed concrete slab - into a painful march. I didn't photograph the lines of people queuing up for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and drinking water distribution, nor did I photograph adorable young kids struggling beneath the weight of watermelons and water bottles and cartons of food: struggling, but still eager to help their parents. I couldn't share the smell of heaps of garbage and leftover food rotting in fly-swarmed piles and the stench of hundreds of people living in close quarters. I didn't record the sounds of crying babies who were too hot to sleep or the shouts erupting across camp as tiny skirmishes broke out between residents on a daily basis.
And, still, the atrocities and suffering gets worse.
There's a permeating sense of hopelessness and restlessness. After 4 or 5 weeks of intense travel across Syria and Turkey (and sometimes from even farther), the refugees now sit in camps and wait. There is no more running or escaping or hiding, only waiting in lines and filling out paperwork and waiting some more.
They've been in these camps for 3-6 months now and won't realistically get registered with the Greek government to get their asylum papers for a long time. The refugees know this: they know it could takes months or years for the thousands of them scattered across Greece to be registered; the pregnant women know their babies will be born in these camps, the babies' first steps taken on rocky campground; families know they won't be reunited with loved ones who went to Germany or Italy before them for a long time. And there's truly nothing they can do to make the registration go faster.
Then there's a feeling of boredom and uselessness. These people were teachers, lawyers, craftsmen, scientists, university students, and so much more. They now have nothing to do but sit around idly, the lack of autonomy and capacity crippling their once vibrant sense of purpose. When they did have access to spare wood to build benches or tables, they threw themselves happily into the work. Despite the heat and lack of diverse ingredients, women embraced the opportunity to cook for their families: the chance to hold on to some shred of their traditions and their dignity was a welcome distraction. When donated clothes or food or supplies needed moving, most residents were anxious to help the foreign volunteers; they wanted to contribute and to earn what they were given. I witnessed no presence of entitlement.
While young kids ran wild underfoot, enjoying the perennial feel of being at summer camp, the older kids spoke sadly of the homes and friends and schools they'd left behind. More than anything, they missed their education because, already at a young age, they appreciated the privilege of education. Many had stopped going to school during their last few years in Syria because schools were major targets of bombings; for some, it had been three years since their last time in a classroom. University-age students recounted how close they'd been to graduating - some just a semester or two away - when their families decided to leave. They knew the journey to get their university degree, if they were able to get into and pay for school, would require many more years. And, yet, they all expressed their relief to not live in constant fear.
I feel a need to mention here, should anyone reading think the refugees take for granted all they are receiving for free: they do not. There's an enormous sense of gratitude for the food, shelter, and services they receive. They are grateful that they, for the most part, are safe. (Though violence and crime absolutely do exist in the camps, especially against women.) They are happy to be out of Syria, Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq and many more countries where they didn't have a future. And to the critics who say, "Well, they chose to leave. How can they expect to be immediately welcomed into a new country?" I respond: they don't see their decision to come to Greece as a choice. They see it as the only option for their survival, and they know they are fortunate to have survived thus far.
They are grateful and safe, yes, but they are not without frustration. They wonder why the borders are closed and when they will be reopened. They wonder why European countries are refusing to take in any of them. They wonder how people can be so xenophobic and cold when the refugees just want to be free from violence. They wonder why the international community didn't intervene to save their countries before they were destroyed.
They tally their dead relatives lost to the Taliban and to ISIS in shockingly neutral tones, hardened by years of violence. They ask when they'll be allowed to formally request refugee status. (Trust me: they want to do this legally.) They express gratitude for the Greek people for sharing their land and resources. They profess their adoration for Germany and how much they truly want to assimilate into Germany, or wherever they're sent; they're not asking for a Syrian enclave. They constantly state that "Syria is dead" and "Syria is no more" and that they know they'll never be able return to the country of their birth, as if stating these awful truths will make it easier to believe. They mention they're surprised I'm there: they didn't think Americans cared at all.
And along with the helplessness and restlessness and frustration and sadness, there is tension. Rumors swirl about smugglers who will take families to Germany for $5000 a person; some refugees suspect that Syrians get better treatment or are more likely to get asylum than people from other countries; In some camps, certain refugees leverage favorable relations with local Greeks and volunteers to get more food, more clothes, or more information.
Though most of these tensions are based on rumors, tensions become shouts which become physical fights. Most of the skirmishes I saw were small, but there were some bad fights and attacks against entire families; families had to be moved out of the camp and to new ones on a few occasions. I saw a fully grown man pulling the hair of a 12 year old girl, who wasn't his own daughter (not that that would have made it ok), and beating her arms while about 15 people stood and watched. As far as I know, there were no consequences for the man.
And, seeing and hearing about the suffering and boredom and waning hope made me feel as if what I was doing there was so inadequate. I was barely doing anything compared to what needed to be done! I had to constantly remind myself that I was there to learn, observe, bear witness, and contribute in any way I was asked, not there to be a savior or to fix something in just four short weeks. I trusted the missions of the organizations with whom I was volunteering, as these organizations were there long-term and had experienced staff members (and financial backers) who could ignite change.
In Ritsona (just outside Chalkida, Greece), I worked with Lighthouse Relief in their female-friendly space. We provided a safe, fenced-in area for girls over 13 (and little babies if the mothers brought them inside). We provided supplemental nutrition for pregnant and nursing women, a small air-conditioned space for breastfeeding and relaxing, and sanitary baby bottles and formula for mothers who didn't nurse. I also ran a daily English class for a small group of devoted women and tried teaching yoga, but they were fasting for Ramadan and were too exhausted. We did art projects, watched the babies so they could rest, and focused on creating a safe and inviting space. It was very special to be a part of that team and to hear the incredible and terrifying stories of the brave women I met.
Then I traveled to the island of Lesvos, the island that has received most of the refugees, as it's just three miles from Turkey across the channel. There I worked in a place called Kara Tepe with two Dutch organizations: Because We Carry and Movement on the Ground. This camp was more established than Ritsona, as it has existed since last September and Ritsona was opened in March. The camp residents were also more diverse (Syrians, Iraqis, Iranians, Afghans, Congolese, and Nepalis). With a crew of vivacious Dutch friends (who also let me live with them) we were in charge of preparing and distributing breakfast for 660 residents every day. Because of Ramadan, we prepared the meals in styrofoam containers in the late evening, then distributed them to the fasting residents in the middle of the night. After a few hours of sleep, we returned to camp in the morning to distribute the rest of the containers to non-fasting residents. The organization had opted to hand deliver the breakfast containers and fresh fruit to each tent to avoid the stress and potential conflicts born of food-distribution lines. I enjoyed delivering the food, as I got to know the residents in my section of tents and dawdled with my deliveries so I could hang out with them more. Our final part of the day was to play games and sing songs with the children for a few hours; the kids especially loved water balloons and their parents loved a few hours of rest.
Besides the incredible interaction with refugees and the opportunity to hear their stories and literally see the scars some bear from abuse and torture in their home countries, I learned so much about emergency management, the UN and its relationship with various governments and Greek government agencies, the Greek people's response to the crisis, and the interaction between organizations providing services. It's startling to see first hand the red tape and inter-agency drama that prevents goods and services from being delivered to the refugees. It's horrifying to see the amount of waste (of resources, of pre-packaged-food wrappers and containers, of human waste that must be carted off in sewer trucks each day, and of water.) At the same time, there is so much heart and love and good work happening as well. I truly believe that 99% of the foreigners and Greeks I encountered have the refugees' best interests at heart, but sometimes in-fighting and personal exhaustion and competition for scarce money and other resources leads organizations to bicker.
I really loved all of the volunteers I got to know, from my French-Canadian buddy Vienna and the rag-tag AirBnb crew we accumulated to the quirky Dutch folks who sang show tunes to keep us awake in the middle of the night during our meal prep assembly line. I was amazed that these people - from at least ten different countries and two dozen different professions - had all wound up in Greece this summer. We all had our story of the moment we decided to come to Greece and, despite our diverse backgrounds, those stories joined together promised to destroy apathy and to spread compassion.
I left Greece extremely aware of the cruel truth that I had just spent a month with people who can't leave. I left to adventure when the people I left behind were asking just to live. I left with freedom of movement when these people just want to be free from violence and constant fear and free to pursue their goals. I left knowing that, sadly, there's not much I can do alone to change their circumstances. Collective, political action will be the only way to improve their lives permanently. I left knowing that these people deserve better than what the international community has shown them thus far, and anyone labeling them as terrorists or leeches or pariahs needs to open their heart and read their stories.
I left realizing that people who had witnessed more inhumanity than I could even fathom had shown me - a privileged outsider, a person who doesn't speak their language, and a person who was going to leave them - what it means to be truly human.
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