There are many times, too many to count, in my life that I
have heard and told no one, that I have seen and said nothing, and that I have
watched and done nothing. In every heart breaking instant there was a choice.
Still, on the Island of Leros in the South Aegean Sea, these heart breaking
moments certainly continue. The moments are different than the moments we see
on an average day on an average street that we frequent in the comfort of our
neighborhood, our town, our state, our country. Certainly racism, sexism,
ageism exist universally. In a half square block of space, called “Camp”,
occupied by various nationalities- Syrian, Afghani, Iranian, Algerian,
Moroccan, British, American, Dutch, Swedish, Greek, and more – peace existed in
the hope of having enough. Enough time, enough money, enough sleep, enough
food, enough shelter, enough hope. The haves and the have nots become somewhat
blurred. Volunteers working to find enough warm jackets, water, food, and
shelter for these refugees. The refugees hoping to just keep moving forward
with enough momentum to see them to their new homeland. Needing enough warm clothes for the entire
family, needing enough people with open minds, hearts, and lives to continue to
make the long journey even possible.
These women and children, families and young men want what
we want. More accurately, want what we have; an average day, on an average
street, in a safe neighborhood, in a safe town, in a country they can call
home. Their home country, that they love and that every one of them hopes to
return to someday, is imploding. I heard of a young man who was going about his
usual morning routine on his way to work, you know- stop at a sidewalk kiosk
and get coffee and smokes… but one particular day he just turned and went into
the café instead. Stepping into the café by about 2 steps, his familiar
sidewalk kiosk blew up. He tells of remembering himself laying on the floor
covered in broken glass, blood, and rubbish. He didn’t know if he had any
“holes” in him. After he and a few other survivors helped the wounded get out
from around the dead, or more accurately pieces of the dead, he went to work.
He sat down in his chair and thanked God for saving him.
The best analogy that I came up with to describe what is
going on in Syria is actually inspired by the ‘The Walking Dead’. If you haven’t watched the show, don’t worry,
I will explain it without the need to have.
There comes a point in time
where even the good guys have to become bad guys, if they want to survive. This
survival mechanism is adapted in various, uncountable ways (which is why the
show will continue almost endlessly). There are the main characters of the show
and then there are other living folks that they always come upon on their
journey (to who knows where for who knows what). One such group had an
interesting philosophy- you are either the butcher or the cow. The people,
let’s call them group 1, had been previously rounded up and used for whatever
whim the other living folks, group 2 had. All whims perpetrated were generally
crimes against humanity, up to and including death. Thus, group 1 took to overtaking group 2,
vowing to never be taken to “slaughter” again. So when new people arrived to
their compound, such as the main characters of the show, group 1 was sure to be
the butchers and not the cows. Kill or be killed. Sound familiar? In Syria,
there are various butchers attached to various “meat markets” for lack of a
better description. It seems the whole country exists of butchers. Kill or be
killed. At least, that is what is portrayed. The cows don’t want any part of
any of the meat markets because number one they are vegetarian and number two
none of the meat markets run a reputable, honest, humane business that the cows
believe in. Most herds of cows tried going unnoticed, laying low in the shade,
just doing everyday cow stuff. Living under the radar didn’t work really. Groups
of cows ended up getting together to fight against the butchers, in effect
becoming butchers themselves. The various meat markets believed that only
THEIRS should exist. So, butchers went about killing off other butchers as well
as any cows that were in the path. There
are even butchers coming from other areas of the world, because they want to
support the meat market of their liking. Many of the cows have been killed, as
have many of the butchers. Cows that could be of use to the government meat
market will be forced to be butchers. The supply seemed unlimited; until the
cows decided to jump over the moon, by becoming refugees seeking asylum
anywhere that offers them safety for themselves and their families (not a theme
in the Walking Dead of course). Cows are of all ages, economic status,
education, gender, and religion. They are students, doctors, firemen, mothers,
fathers, and criminals. None are perfect and they do not claim to be. They had
only a few things in common: wanting to leave and wanting to live. Butchers force
the military aged males to the frontline. Unless they can pay the fee (which
changes at the whim of the government or even the fee collector, sorry I mean
butchers). Even if the fee is paid, it is paid only to buy a window of time to
leave Syria. If that window closes, then the cows become butchers or worse.
In a ridiculously over-simplified and under imaginative way-
this is how I understand the climate in Syria, and some other parts of the
Middle East, to be at this time.
I am not writing this as an exact fact of every detail. I am
writing from what I have seen and heard, from the people who have lived it. None
of this worried me when I felt pulled to go to Greece to help. I was as certain
as the sky is blue that just going would be my protection. Probably sounds
weird but let me explain. Refugees from various Middle Eastern countries are
seeking asylum in countries that will open their borders- Germany, England,
Sudan, Lebanon, Jordan, etc. The people have so little with them. Only what
they can carry in bags and unfortunately what their minds continue to carry for
them. Being with these people in need, even if they are terrorists taking the
long way around, they gain nothing by harming those along their path. What is
the use of terrorizing, on an island, with no escape but the sea? I wasn’t
worried. Sometimes my mind works down the simplest path possible.
I got a call from the organizers on the day I was going to
take the ferry to Leros, saying that Doctors without Borders and Greece’s
emergency medical group, Praxis, had gotten to Leros and took over all the
medical care. Long story short- I wasn’t really going to be needed as a nurse
for the entire length of my stay. In reality, only one night of my stay on the
island was spent in some resemblance of a medical fashion. I was offered the opportunity
to be connected with the organizers on Lesbos but I declined and headed to
Leros anyway.
I arrived at 0430 which was a bit disorienting to me. The
coordinator, Anna, as well as two other women met me at the boat. This was
Saturday morning and after a short nap they showed me around the small area in
the city of Lakki that was processing and caring for the refugees. It wasn’t
much, maybe a half a block. The Camp was sandwiched between 2 rectangular
shaped buildings. The front building held the donations and was called
“Storage”- the back building had the 2 boutiques that the refugees would “shop”
in to get proper clothes, shoes, and jackets. The front building looked as if
it was last used in World War II. The back building looked like the skeleton
twin of the front building: windows broken or just plain missing, without
doors, mold of green, black and other colors- in the US it would probably meet
criteria for being condemned. There was a fenced area that the refugees had to
go into to be processed properly by the border police and then they would
eventually get out into Camp. All rock covered ground, with rows of “tents”
(maybe 10 x 14 hard plastic huts) that would be allocated to the refugees on
arrival. All in all the Camp was able to accommodate 300 refugees comfortably,
350 pretty snuggly, and 400 in a pinch. Within 24 hours of my arrival there
were over 900 refugees in Camp.
The arrival on Leros is different than the arrivals
frequently seen on the news with the rafts of refugees landing on the island of
Lesbos. Either way, refugees went through Turkey to get to one or the other. I
imagine the trip through Turkey to be akin to the Underground Railroad that
slaves used here in the US. In the dark of night a guy tells you to quickly go
stand across the road and get in the bus/truck/car that stops to pick you up.
Then you hide out waiting with others that you know are there, many you see and
many that go unseen. Until you hear “run, run, run” and your group gets into
the raft. A raft meant for 35 bombarded by 60 or more. Taking off into the dark
night surrounded by dark water, and being left by the captain of your raft to
fend for yourself whenever he gets picked up by another boat. Human
trafficking, otherwise known as the “journey of death” by some refugees, at its
best. Some refugees are prepared for this experience- knowing to watch the
weather and the tide, having the GPS on their phones up and running, and
learning how to remain calm over all. Knowing to go with the current and not
against the waves- saves those who knew. Refusing to go in overloaded boats and
being patient for the right circumstances. The kiss of death for these rafts is
the taking on of water. Too many people weighing down the raft with too many
waves from rough seas and running into rocks that punctured holes in the rafts-
these caused the rafts to sink. Lifejackets cannot save a person from crashing
waves repeatedly holding them down, at least they cannot save the life, but
maybe the body.
We all know about the 4000+ refugees drowning in those dark
waters. I had the honor of talking to a group of men from the British Royal
Navy who were aboard the Vos Grace- a large boat that has some other specific
duty that does not consist of the search and rescue of these “shipwrecks”, but
was put into service for that very purpose. The morgue on the Vos Grace had
reached capacity more than once from what I gathered from hearing the various
stories. The problem wasn’t in finding the dead, it was in identifying them.
One gentleman talked of having to bring in the mothers to identify their deceased
infants. Infants that had been in the water for many hours. More than life was
missing from some. I’m not sure Stephen
King could even describe such a horrific scene. I asked myself what would be
worse- being able to identify my baby- or not being able to. This same
gentleman told me that on one particular night as he was trying to sleep, he
just couldn’t get the image of a deceased infant in an adult body bag out of
his mind. It clawed at him until he went to the morgue, took the infant out of
the adult bag and wrapped the child in a blanket and placed them on top
“because babies are not supposed to be in body bags.”
If the rafts of refugees made it to the island of
Farmakinisii (I have no idea how to spell it- and not sure if that’s the
island’s name or the Greek military base’s name) they were greeted with a
biscuit, water and any piece of ground they could find suitable to lay their
bodies on. No blankets. No shelter. Refugees would burn lifejackets to get
warm. The fumes of which made them sick and whose damage, I fear, will be long
lasting. Weather permitting the refugees would be ferried over to Leros, once
the boat or boats were available. There was a 16 day old, an elderly man that
required a wheelchair, women in all stages of pregnancy and every age in
between. All in some form of shock or possibly complete and utter denial. Once
they were allowed to disembark the boat they got to stand in a line. Not unlike
cattle now that I think about it. Eventually they would be escorted to Camp.
Blankets were handed out, small snacks, a mat to put between their already
beaten bodies and the ground, waiting to be let out of this tragic nightmare
that was just another day on their journey.
I felt useless in a way. I couldn’t speak anyone’s language,
including the Brits if they really got to going. So I did the next best thing.
I started using Google Translate on my phone. I could talk into it and pick
which language I wanted it to translate to- it felt a little Star Trek-ish and
was time consuming, but it was better than nothing. When they talked back in
Arabic or French or whatever- it would translate it to me in English. It was a
huge win in my book, but Abdullah was a God send. A Syrian, 25 years old,
Abdullah could connect me to those I was trying to communicate with. He did not
just translate the words we spoke, he reflected our worries and concerns. They
trusted me, because they trusted him, and that trust built a bridge between all
of us involved.
I remember meeting Abdullah on that second night of chaos. He
appeared to be translating for his family, what Charlotte (who spoke what I
considered to be great Arabic- as if I have any authority to say that) was
trying to tell them. Charlotte, a 21 year old French-British Cameron Diaz
looking girl, was the volunteer heading up the logistics of putting people in
huts, tents, etc. or in this case finding anyplace even remotely useful as a
place to lay their heads. I always seemed to be interrupting her with the most
ridiculous of questions that I just couldn’t get answers for- like, where do we
get more blankets? Everyone would patiently and gracefully pardon my
interruption while I got an answer and another task to take care of. It might have been the second interruption or
the 22nd, I can’t remember but I realized Abdullah was translating
for everyone. He followed me after being given an errand and said “Let me help
you.” Which of course my first response
was “Oh no that’s ok. Have you eaten? Do you have everything you need?” Which
may or may not have been answered when a young family stopped me and were in
obvious need of an important answer. Google Translate would be like dial up
whereas Abdullah was high speed and guess which was more preferred? I thanked
him after the questions were answered and he said “It is no problem. I want to
help.” It only took me 2 days and a bazillion attempts to get his name right.
After the 2nd night, or was it the 3rd, I took a day off.
The average day of a volunteer doesn’t exist. The days
usually start with a volunteer meeting at 0900 to see who is available to do
what and with that number of people, what exactly could get done? The feeding
of bottled fed children was its own warhorse. Sterilizing bottles, getting the
right amount of the right formula to the right child, 4 times throughout the
day. The prep was done by volunteers and the families did the feeding. There
was the general operations of the boutique- getting the donated clothing items
on tables in some sort of type and size that could be looked through quickly,
as well as the replacement of those items, as they got lower and lower over the
course of the day. Trying to stay ahead of the needs of the next refugee family
coming through the boutique doors, the “runner” would shuttle bags from storage
to the boutique on a pretty continuous basis. There were volunteers that helped
hand out meals and volunteers that helped with sorting in storage. And on it went.
And then, on some more.
There were other jobs to be done as well. The Villa, a
building off of the block, was an area reserved for the most vulnerable women
and children, and Pik-pa was an area off the block for the most vulnerable
families. I never got to any of these places- there seemed to be jobs better
suited for the more short- term volunteers and those didn’t really include
these other areas.
Around 3:00 pm, another meeting of the volunteers got
together with those doing the “late shift”- 5pm to 11 pm. A general idea of a
plan would be made and life in the Camp moved on in a constant state of
adaptation to the current needs required at the time.
Children began to laugh, run, play and chase. Smiles crossed
faces and spaces and devastation segued into breathing a bit easier. The
refugees walked the harbor when the sun was up and the winds were warm and
calm. The small island town of Lakki got a much needed boost to their economy
by those eating and shopping in their establishments, volunteers and refugees
alike. Clowns without Borders visited and boosted the spirits of the Camp. The
only thing left to do was wait for the ferry and the papers that gave the
refugees the right to get on it.
Abdullah traveled with his brother. They had become a small
circle of people that would gravitate towards each other during meals,
announcements, and the like. Abdullah himself was constantly being asked to
help out with translating and by the end of his stay on Leros, he was probably
known by everyone. On my day off, I took my laundry to get done and wandered
into a bakery where I bought a bottle of water and what looked like an éclair.
At the last minute, I got 2 eclairs. When I stepped out of the bakery, I saw Abdullah
walking down the sidewalk, earbuds in, relaxed.
I gave my extra éclair to him and we walked around, up and
down, the many little streets in Lakki and even further toward the center of
the island. We talked a lot about God, blessings, faith, and hope. He described
what living in Damascus had been like and what it had turned into. He talked
about missing his parents and his nieces and nephews. He reminded me of myself when I was 25, and
perhaps even myself now, since the years in between have been said and done. I
guess the best word would be hopeful.
As I woke up to continue this blog post this morning, I’ve
read gut-wrenching news about refugees and volunteers being treated like – I can’t
even find the words. I can’t seem to hear my thoughts through my tears. I can’t
convey to you the madness that is happening. I sit here in absolute fear and
anguish seeing that the nightmare is real- volunteers and refugees are now
being treated like criminals. By assisting sinking boats, Spanish lifeguards
are arrested for human trafficking. How is saving lives a crime? Someone please
tell me. They opened the borders and now those borders are becoming walls.
Walls that I fear will make the Berlin wall, and all that it stood for, look
like playground equipment. Those inside Syria in areas under siege are being
starved. Refugees caught in the purgatory of no longer being in Greece but not
yet in Germany are facing imprisonment/detainment/ abandonment- the options
seem bleak and none are what was being offered to the refugees when the borders
were opened.
I say this here and now- terrorism did not cause this- the
media gorging on society’s fears of terrorism did. Ask yourself who is
controlling the media and in 100 years the next generations will tell you what
they gained from it.
Abdullah was last with the Red Cross at the Macedonian
border. That was Saturday. There is only silence now where his updates used to
come through. Every time I look at my phone I say a prayer that he will be
there.
In between the anxious thoughts and useless worry, I feel a
force that steadies me. I want to kick, yell and scream at all the injustice I
see, real and imagined- the needs of the people are hard to tear my eyes, my
heart and my soul away from but yet I surrender to the stillness. There, in quiet
sorrow, He comforts me and He hears my prayers in every tear drop.
For my fellow people of faith, I offer up these verses to
you:
Book of Daniel: verses from chapters 11 and 12 “The king will do as he pleases. He will
exalt and magnify himself above every god and will say unheard of things
against the God of gods. He will be successful until the time of wrath is
completed, for what has been determined must take place. He will show no regard
for the gods of his ancestors or for the one desired by women, nor will he
regard any god, but exalt himself above them all.
“At the time of the end the king of the South will engage
him in battle, and the king of the North will storm out against him with
chariots and cavalry and a great fleet of ships. He will invade many countries
and sweep through them like a flood. He will also invade the Beautiful Land.
Many countries will fall, but Edom, Moab and the leaders of Ammon will be
delivered from his hand. He will extend his power over many countries: Egypt
will not escape. He will gain control of the treasures of gold and silver and
all the riches of Egypt, with the Libyans and Cushites (people from the upper
Nile region) in submission. But reports from the east and the north will alarm
him, and he will set out in a great rage to destroy and annihilate many. He
will pitch his royal tents between the seas at the beautiful holy mountain. Yet
he will come to his end and no one will help him. At the end time Michael, the
great prince who protects your people, will arise. There will be a time of
distress such as has not happened from the beginning of nations until then. But
at that time your people- everyone whose name is found written in the book-
will be delivered. Multitudes of people who sleep in the dust of the earth will
awake: some to everlasting life, others to shame an everlasting contempt. Those
who are wise will shine like the brightness of the heavens, and those who lead
many to righteousness, like the stars for ever and ever. But you, Daniel, roll
up and seal the words of the scroll until the time of the end. Many will go
here and there to increase knowledge.”
We will not know the day- but we should live as if it is today.
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