She Doesn’t Know Where She is Going

Change is Constant.

This is especially true on Lesvos. What I’m about to share is only a portion of what has happened in the past few weeks. It has amazed me how quickly things change here. In my first two weeks my team was nose to the grindstone crazy-busy. We were getting up at 5:30 in the morning and driving an hour to Moria to work in the clothing tent. We handed out shoes, jackets, pants, tops, whatever was needed. This went non-stop until shift change at 4, and then we drove the hour home to crash. Hundreds passed through the tent each day. The average population hovered around 3000.

Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
And above all else, Smile!

A lot changed after Friday, March 18th when the EU-Turkey agreement was signed.

The deal essential means that for every Syrian that arrives in Greece, up to 72,000 Syrian refugees from Turkey will be resettled in the EU. Anyone arriving in Greece on or after Sunday, March 20th, who doesn’t claim asylum in Greece, will be deported. Refugees who are considered “economic migrants,” like those from Pakistan, are to be repatriated. Afghanis and Iraqis are left in limbo. In exchange for this, Turkey is receiving €3 billion to support the refugees currently there. Turkish citizens will enjoy visa free travel to the EU and Turkey will be considered for admission into the EU.

There are many safety concerns in Turkey and the legality of this agreement is being questioned. Just yesterday a report by Amnesty International claims that Turkey is forcibly returning thousands of Syrians. I don’t claim to know what the answer to all of this is, but what’s most important to me is that the refugees I have met do not consider Turkey a safe country. I have talked to many who were arrested by the Turkish police for trying to cross the border or Aegean. They are then robbed, held without food and water, and beaten. Others I have met have survived attempts made by the Turkish Coast Guard to sink their boats, like you see in this video. The fear in their eyes when they talk about Turkey can only be described as haunting.

I had watched the news closely leading up to the deal, but had no idea how it would impact the our refugee friends who had already made it to Greece. Often policy decisions and agreements take a lot of time to translate to the ground.  

Not this one. 

The next day, while preparing for our Saturday overnight shift, my team received word that Saturday afternoon the process of emptying the refugee camps on the entire island of Lesvos, and all Greek islands, had begun. The refugees were given no warning, nor were the volunteers. An announcements over the loudspeaker told the refugees to pack their things to load onto buses. A bus to the port. A ferry to an uncertain destination. 

Volunteers who were working the day shift in the clothing tent at the time said that people started showing up, in a panic, asking for extra socks, shoes, jackets, whatever they could get their hands on. Contrary to the previous policy of only replacing items that were wet or destroyed, the volunteers gave the hundreds that came through anything they needed. Not having any information to share with them, our teams comforted each person the best they could. Many refugees were terrified they were being sent back to Turkey.

When my team heard Moria was being emptied we hopped into the van and went early for our overnight shift. When we arrived, the camp was all but empty. A population of ~3000 people had been evacuated in less than twelve hours.

The silence was deafening.

We drove to the port to see what was going on. We caught the last bus disgorging its passengers. Men, women, and children. There were volunteers handing out blankets, jackets, and bananas.

Handing out these items was a desperate reaction to the sudden evacuation of people. This was not a dignified movement of refugees, but a rushed and terrifying forced movement. The most striking exchange that I heard was the following,

Volunteer 1: “Someone get that girl in the wheelchair an extra blanket!”

Volunteer 2: “I already tried, she said she didn’t want it.”

Volunteer 1: “Give it to her anyway, she doesn’t know where she’s going.”

“She doesn’t know where she’s going”

I didn’t know her name, but I had met her at the clothing tent a couple of days before. I remembered her smile. It was beautiful, like sunshine. Her family had come to get in line to get her new shoes. Instead of making her family wait and roll her chair over gravel in between metal bars, my teammate Erin came outside the tent to size her.

She wears a size 36 shoe. She is from Syria. She is a refugee. She is a human like you and me.

She is deserving of dignity. 

If information is power, what does it say about the people from whom the information was withheld? 

As volunteers, we also had no idea. We had heard rumor that they were being sent to Kavala, a port in NE Greece. I never received confirmation or denial of this rumor. The frustration I felt for the refugees and for myself was immense. I was teetering on the border of hopelessness. I certainly felt helpless. My heart was broken for them, for the whole situation, for the world. I was too shocked to cry.

After we watched the last person load onto the ferry we returned to camp for our overnight shift. Moria was virtually empty so we set up our cots and crashed onto them, expecting a restless night of sleep. We didn’t know where we were going either. We thought we had possibly seen the end of Moria. That it wouldn’t be filled again. What we didn’t expect was a knock on the door at 2:30AM and the British accented greeting from another volunteer,

“You have a boat of 65 soaking wet Syrians arriving in 30 minutes.”

Physically and emotionally drained, we rolled off our cots and assumed our positions. This group was half men and the other half was women with children, including two infants. They wanted to know if they had made it in time. Made it before the deportation deadline. Technically they had arrived on Sunday March 20th, so we didn’t know what to tell them. We weren’t sure if authorities would still consider it Saturday or Sunday.

We crashed again after clothing the boat of people. Thirty minutes later there was another knock. Another boat. Then another. And another and another. They kept coming. We never got back onto our cots. All told that night, there were 600 new arrivals. Camp was no longer empty or silent. I thought they would stop coming because of the deadline. I was wrong.

What I have been told by several refugee friends is that even if they’re arriving to stay in a prison in Greece, it is certainly better than being blown up in Turkey or bombed in Syria. At least physical harm isn’t the forefront of their minds. 

So after the signing of the deal a lot changed. Moria emptied, but was filled with new life shortly after. The refugees have not stopped coming. They are now arriving at a “detention center” instead of a “registration camp.” The difference is that there is no freedom of movement, once they cross the gates they are not allowed to exit of their own volition. I’ve heard that population is sitting around 2,300. A lot of the large organizations, such as Doctors Without Borders and the UNHCR, have withdrawn support or reduced support in protest of the “detention center” status and operations. 

Monday, April 4th will bring a new phase at camp as well. Some of those 600 who arrived that night will likely be deported back to Turkey. 

What has stayed the same, however, has been my commitment to see them. To see their pain and disappointment. To talk to them about their lives and their dreams. 

I wish I could tie up this story with a pretty bow and hand you a silver lining or tell you that this whole system has been worked out, but it hasn’t. Part of the reason why it has taken me so long to post this blog is because I have been waiting for the bow. Unfortunately, this is just the reality of what is going on here in Lesvos. It’s real and it’s raw and it’s broken. So thanks for getting this far with me. Thanks for the support.