It was my first day working at Sikaminia, the transition camp run by Euro Relief on the island of Lesvos. I didn’t know what to expect, but I do know what I imagined- hundreds if not a thousand refugees walking through our gates.
Flickr photo courtesy of CAFOD Photo Library cc
We didn’t even see half that number. Only fifty refugees made the 10km journey across the Aegean Sea that day. It was a slow day at camp. I thought it was a blessing.
Low numbers meant only fifty people needed to cross the sea that day. Maybe, the end of this crisis is in sight.
Only fifty people meant our team had time to learn the ropes and develop relationships with one another and those who have been on the island longer.
Only fifty people meant we had time to go deep instead of wide.
Certainly, a slow day at camp is what you hope for in the wake of trauma and disaster. Empty camps, isn’t that the goal? An end to this suffering.
Continuing under my faulty assumptions, I moved with a lilt in my steps. I squinted through the mist at the Turkish shore and imagined the snow-capped mountains and the shore lined forests empty of sojourners.
I took extra time to learn about each station and job at the camp. I learned how to work efficiently and why each role is crucial.
I spent long hours asking questions, diving head first into relationships, discovering people’s stories. I wanted to know what brought them to work on Lesvos with this group at this time. I asked about their experiences and gleaned the things that had most touched and changed them.
I mentioned numerous times what a joy it was to have a slow day at camp. The more experienced volunteers simply shook their heads. They knew I would learn.
I lingered with the fifty refugees who entered our gates. I listened to their stories in English and through a complex game of charades. I played with the children. I sat with the mothers. I even had the chance to hear from a few of the men.
I went deep instead of wide.
I took the opportunity during a particularly long lull in the day to drive down to the beach. I wanted to see where the refugees land and understand how the rescuers work.
Clouds lingered in the sky. The waters were rough but not wild. The Turkish coast guard moved back and forth across the horizon like a hawk searching for her prey.
Rescuers wrapped in heavy blankets huddled around a fire. Occasionally one peered through his high tech binoculars. Looking. Waiting. Pointing. From my vantage point there was nothing to see; so, I returned to camp. Optimism still hovered in my mind.
When I returned to Sikaminia everything was different. Heaviness hung in the air like a shroud. Most of the workers sat quietly as far as possible from the tent the refugees remained in.
They are still here? I asked. We are a transition camp. A bus should have long since come and taken our small band of fifty to Moria, the processing camp.
Why is everyone over here when the refugees are over there? What happened? I was not gone that long.
One of the experienced volunteers unfolded the mystery.
Translators were talking to a small group of our fifty. They were helping them process what happened.
There was another boat. It didn’t make it. Few survived.
The boat was weighted down with people our fifty knew. With children. With mothers. With fathers. With sons. With daughters. With grandmothers. With friends. With family. People our fifty refugees planned to meet on the Greek shore.
No one else will come today. Even the smugglers won’t risk sending them. People are too frightened to cross.
Wind whipped past me as the temperature dropped. Clouds that hid the sun all day suddenly became a part of my awareness. A damp chill began to seep through my two coats, heavy sweater, and thermal shirt which protected me from the weather.
People too frightened to cross. People waiting. People without layers of coats and clothing. People sleeping in forests praying for a boat to launch. Hundreds of thousands of people walking across mountains covered with snow. Hundreds of thousands. Not fifty. This is not the end.
Fear on one side of the sea. Grief on the other.
I sat with my new friends. We said little. Our thoughts went straight to our Father. The whys, the hurt, the anger, the confusion, the desire for understanding, the search for comfort, the hope for peace.
And He showed up, as He always does.
He provided time. Time to go deep instead of wide. Time to learn. Time to mourn. Time to comfort. Time to rest.
Each volunteer at Sikaminia longs for the day when the number of refugees trickles to zero. Each volunteer looks forward to the work of dismantling the camp and celebrating peace. But that is not our current reality.
Today, a slow day at camp likely means death on the waters. It means hundreds of thousands wait with no home and little hope. It means we will wait until they come.
