Rob and colleagues,

Over the past two weeks, I was in Greece, visiting our partner organizations that offer the last glimpses of humanity in a world that, for people on the run, is no longer humane.

Because no, Rob, this is not about a single incident where something goes wrong. Human rights are being violated systematically. A sentence in a policy document stating that this should not happen does not mean that it does not happen. Because it does happen. And on a large scale.

I have seen a great deal of suffering in my life across this world. What makes this different is that I am a citizen of a country that supports this suffering. That considers it acceptable.

I would very much like to take you along on my next trip. We would talk to the boy who had to flee his country, who endured a hellish journey filled with horrific experiences, who crossed the sea. Upon arrival, the Greek coast guard tried to push the boat back into the sea (this happens on a very large scale; there is overwhelming evidence—could you address Greece about this?). The boy held up a baby who was also on the boat and said: Don’t do it! They did not, but they arrested him and claimed he was a smuggler. He is not. Thousands of people in Greece are imprisoned on charges of human smuggling when they are not smugglers at all (could you also address the Greek government about this?).

We would also try to speak with the people who, just the night before last, were taken from their beds in one of the camps on the islands by the police and arrested. Their application had been rejected for the second time. They can now be detained for two years, even though their legal term had not yet expired.

And we would visit the organizations working on mental health. Because 50% of the people who come there have suicidal thoughts. After experiencing terrible things, then not being welcomed, being placed in a filthy camp, and then waiting—there is a limit to what people can endure.

I could tire you with an essay about the legal, constitutional, and factual errors that dominate the debate on migration. About numbers that are incorrect, but above all about the ongoing lies used to justify inhumane measures.

I will not do that. I appeal to your humanity. Things are happening at the edges of Europe that cannot bear the light of day. Children arriving on the shores of Greece are sent back out to sea naked in rubber boats. Masked men push boats back or let them sink. With impunity.

Saying that human rights must be respected while holding no one accountable, dismissing kilometers of evidence—I cannot and do not want to understand it. Once, we were a country that held human rights in high regard, that stood up for them internationally. Now we are participating in a European contest to see who can create the harshest asylum policy.

Come with us sometime and listen.

Rob Jetten

Eight representatives from embassies, the EU, UNHCR, and IOM listened to the experiences of 23 small grassroots NGOs from across Greece, all working in support of refugees. It was a unique gathering, because small NGOs rarely have much access to embassies, and embassy representatives almost never get the chance to speak with so many NGOs at once who are truly working on the ground.

“We are the ones taking the risks to fill the enormous gaps left by Greece and the EU,” one of the NGOs said. And those risks have grown significantly in recent years. Calls for criminalisation are increasing, and so is the legislation that enables it.

A bitter example of this is the so-called “boat trials.” When a boat arrives, the police look for the person who was steering it. That person is arrested and accused of human smuggling. But human smugglers are not on those boats. After the arrest, an extremely brief trial follows. Thousands of people are unjustly imprisoned in Greek prisons.

We were guests at the residence of the Dutch Ambassador to Greece. It was very special to be able to meet there, and that representatives from other embassies had also been invited. And it was one of those days when something happens that you cannot plan or orchestrate, yet that is exactly what makes it so extraordinary.

In addition to the danger of criminalisation, these NGOs are dealing with declining income, suddenly losing access to the camps where they work, and struggling with what they can still do or say without putting people or their organisations at risk.

As the day unfolded, the atmosphere began to change. The initial tension faded. People started sharing openly and honestly, while also contributing to the report we are preparing for embassies and others on the effects of this legislation. As the stories began to connect, a picture emerged that was heartbreaking, infuriating, and deeply sad. But also inspiring: these people are doing it. They are doing what truly matters, despite fear, despite danger.

Two worlds met. Two worlds trying to position themselves within a discourse that speaks of human rights, while holding on to those rights often proves to be an illusion. Two worlds that did not know each other before, yet where something like solidarity began to emerge. “Next year at the French Embassy,” I joked to a French diplomat. “That sounds like a good plan,” he replied.

“I was very sceptical about this day,” one of the participants said, “but that turned out to be completely unjustified.” “I hope you realise the enormous impact you have created with this day,” another wrote.

I find it impossible to capture the richness of this day in a short piece. That will be done more fully in the report we are finalising this week.

With heartfelt thanks to the Dutch Ambassador in Athens and to Cees Van Beek, First Secretary. A day in which people meet, share strategies and experiences, and above all feel seen, is of immeasurable value in helping them keep going.

Oh come on, Ms. Faber. Please stop with this dreadful nonsense. It’s not even about the medals themselves — it’s about your way of thinking. “Those who oppose my policies deserve no recognition.” You are taking the first step towards punishment. Because that’s what this is ultimately about. For ten weeks, I was in Greece. I visited several camps on Lesbos and Samos. I met people who live there. The conditions are horrific, and the newer the camp, the more it feels like a prison. In terms of comfort, it’s non-existent. Filthy, cold, overcrowded, no privacy, police violence, rats and cockroaches. The message is clear: you are not welcome here. But thankfully, there are many people who resist this — who speak out, who act, who care. Brave people who do, and brave people who dare to speak up.

Let me put it plainly:

• There are pushbacks, often violent ones. The Greek government may deny it, but the evidence is overwhelming.
• Huge amounts of money are being poured into the camps, but it doesn’t reach the people. Clear signs: filthy conditions, food that’s neither nutritious nor sufficient, and monthly allowances that haven’t been paid since May.
• Children do not belong behind barbed wire.
• Babies deserve to grow up in clean, safe environments — not filthy camps.
• People fleeing violence deserve protection.
• Thousands are imprisoned on charges of human trafficking without evidence. That is injustice.

To Ms. Faber, one simple message in bold, capital letters:

PEOPLE FLEEING FOR THEIR LIVES ARE NOT CRIMINALS — THEY ARE HUMAN BEINGS, LIKE YOU AND ME.

And those who help them, here or there, are not breaking policy. They are acting on values rooted in justice and human decency. So, Ms. Faber, could you please stop this slide into criminalizing what, for the vast majority of Dutch people — far more than you think — is essential: offering help to people in need. Even when they don’t look like you.

Faber does not approve royal honors for COA employees – https://nos.nl/l/2561674

Maybe it’s a good thing that it never becomes normal—the things that simply shouldn’t be, that leave a knot in your stomach and sadness in your mind. Because they force us to search for solutions.

A strong storm is raging over Samos. The island is rougher than Lesbos, with fewer inhabitants. Yet, there is a growing number of people on their way to a (dream of a) future. A large camp, a 1.5-hour walk from the city, that truly looks like a prison. Especially for the many children, it is a distressing place. Garbage is everywhere, the containers where people live have no locks, the camp was built in a location with severe water issues, there is no lighting at the sanitation facilities, no proper washing facilities, and police violence. The latter is present in all camps, but out of fear, people rarely talk about it.

We are not allowed inside. There are few NGOs here, and the ones we visit do not have access. People are allowed to leave the camp, but that means long lines and strict controls.

The camp was originally located on a hill near the city. This caused much discontent among the local population, especially in regard to tourism. A few years ago, it was relocated. The new camp was initially intended for 2,400 people, but suddenly it was designated for 3,600, and it frequently holds even more. Despite these large numbers, few aid organizations are active here. They cannot enter the camp, and all organizations struggle with funding, making expansion difficult.

That help is needed is beyond question. We speak with a legal organization that supports people during and after their asylum procedures, as well as an organization that provides a much-needed escape from the camp’s atmosphere. A community center where people can learn English, where children can play, and where women have a space of their own. “People need a place to relax, to step away from that prison-like environment,” says Dalia from Samos Volunteers, who built Alfa Land right across from the camp. Cheerful, colorful, and even on this extremely windy day, a place where people come to feel human again.

The greatest unmet need is mental health care. The number of people who have been trafficked, raped, or otherwise tortured is high. On Lesbos, there is some attention to this, for example through BRF, but here, hardly any. This is due to the lack of attention from the Greek government and, as mentioned, the low number of NGOs.

Lianne and I feel deeply saddened. There is no other way to put it. Treating people like this—it simply makes no sense. The storm that has been raging across the island for days only adds to the heaviness.

But even now, it is the people who, against all odds, continue to do what is absolutely necessary, who share their plans, hopes, and despair with us, who persist with an inexhaustible drive to do what must be done—they set the example.

And I keep thinking about how to find funding for these organizations. Because it has to be done—to support these guardians of humanity while the world in which they operate grows ever darker. They simply won’t let it happen. And neither will we.

“I always live two lives. The part I hide is eating me up.” It could hardly be put more clearly. A queer young man who has had to conceal his identity his entire life describes how complicated it is. In his home country, he was never allowed to be himself, and now, suddenly, in his asylum interview, he has to lay it all out. And then, in the camp, he shares a shelter with eight other men—men whose views on people like him are unknown.

Some facts: LGBTQ+ people in the camp are among the most likely to be traumatized. Nearly all have experienced sexual violence, many have been tortured or fallen victim to human trafficking, and every single one has lived a life where they had to hide who they truly are. Yet, they are not officially recognized as particularly vulnerable. That means there are no safe houses for them in the camp, no additional protection. To give an idea: the rate of sexual violence experienced by gay men is three times higher than that of other people in similar situations.

Because they all come from countries where being LGBTQ+ is criminalized, it is often hard for them to believe that it is legal in Greece. When you’ve spent your entire life fearing the state, the police, and even other people, it is incredibly difficult to suddenly trust that you can be open. “I have always felt it is not okay to talk about it. That is dangerous.” But here, openness is required. Without it, especially if you come from a so-called “safe country,” you have almost no chance of being granted refugee status. A “safe country” is a nation not officially recognized as dangerous, meaning you must present an exceptionally strong and deeply personal case to receive asylum. And for people who have spent their lives making themselves invisible, revealing who they truly are is incredibly difficult. “One man told me that he only realized here that he wasn’t the only gay person in the world.”

But the problems don’t stop there. Being placed in a container with eight strangers is difficult for anyone. I caught a glimpse of it yesterday. The “houses”—essentially containers—are dark, bare, far from clean, and much too small for eight or more people who don’t know each other. Imagine having to flee from the Netherlands, ending up in a camp, being crammed into a container with seven strangers. It’s cold, dirty, there’s not enough food, you have no money, and you are at the mercy of a system that does not see you as a person. You can be moved at any moment, you must wait endlessly with no idea when things will change. That alone is enough to drive anyone into depression. Add to that the fact that you’ve survived an exhausting and dangerous journey, endured unimaginable hardships, and then you find yourself in a container where you cannot, and do not dare, to be yourself.

Maaike and I dream of a safe house for this group. “If they could live in the city, finally have a space where they can be themselves, it would change everything.” Because no one should have to defend themselves against the idea that they are a monster.

Is there violence against them in the camp? Yes. As in any overcrowded, hopeless environment, tensions occasionally rise. Some groups are more vulnerable than others. That does not mean that everyone is homophobic. It also does not mean that everyone is violent or criminal. It is, in fact, a miracle that there isn’t more violence in these conditions. That people, desperate from waiting so long, don’t all turn to self-harm or reckless behavior. What strikes me time and again is how kind people are. How you can walk through the camp and see everyone maintaining the illusion of normalcy—because otherwise, it would be unbearable.

You cannot constantly think “Oh, how awful,” or zoom out to the global refugee crisis, because then the sheer scale of it will paralyze you. And so, both the residents and the organizations do their best to make the situation work. But make no mistake: making the best of it does not mean it is good.

These are the edges of civilization—this is where it stops. And yet, even here, in a situation that has nothing to do with civilization, people hold on to their humanity. And that, every single time, is nothing short of a miracle. It is a reminder that refugees should not be seen as mere victims, as one-dimensional identities, but simply as people. People who have the same right to a place in the sun as you and me.

Fenix – Humanitarian Legal Aid
Haella Stichting
Maaike Vledder (she/her)

It feels like a lesson in humility. The camp on Lesbos lies right by the sea, and today it is bitterly cold—piercing rain, an all-penetrating wind. People in slippers, in jackets unfit for this freezing weather. But more than anything, it is the realization of everything these people have endured. Waiting, an interview, more waiting.

You might wonder: how hard can it be? But the man from Afghanistan holding a small girl in his arms, the mother with her newborn baby, the man with piercing blue eyes from Syria—they all came here with the hope of something better. And that better life is not here. The fact that, for most of them, it may never come at all—that is a kind of emotional gymnastics for everyone involved.

What strikes me most today is how the system demands an impossible level of abstraction from people telling their stories at the start of their asylum process. They must be consistent, provide details—like a grotesque form of horror storytelling. The more harrowing, the better. But the cruel irony is that the more traumatic an experience, the harder it is to recount. Before they even begin, they are caught in a Catch-22. The man with blue eyes still has hope, but his story may not be ‘horrific’ enough. His country’s asylum procedures are on hold. He drifted off during his interview—how could he not?

And what I wish I could shout to the world is that these are all just people. People you could meet anywhere. People who could be your neighbors. People who smile, or walk away completely broken. People who watch their dreams fade, lost in a system. And today, it is unbearably cold.

Thankfully, there are people like Aron, who confides in me where he finds his hope. He speaks kindly and clearly about what Fenix can and cannot offer—and that matters so much. And Lily, who explains the entire procedure with care and attention. In both of them, you feel what the world so desperately needs: love for people. I truly believe it is that simple.

I wish I could drag a few people here and say: Look. Really look. This is how you make the world a safe place for everyone. Here at Fenix, they do exactly that. A glimpse of sunlight breaking through a dark sky.

Here’s a first video with Aron, also from the Netherlands, briefly explaining what Fenix does in the camp. And Fenix does so much more. More videos will follow.

These words come from asylum interviews with people who have arrived on Lesbos. Reality, as it turns out, is often far harsher than we can imagine.

The same applies to today’s news about the possible dissolution of USAID. Beyond the catastrophe this would be for countless organizations worldwide, it is also a deeply alarming signal. The drumbeat of dehumanization grows louder for those who do not fit into a privileged framework. It chills me to the bone—even here, under the generous spring sun shining over the island.

You could become cynical, or deeply saddened. Or you could look at the people who, against all odds, are trying to make a difference. The courageous team at Fenix, the many small initiatives in the Netherlands supporting those who fall through every crack, our partners in Uganda, and others around the world.

Now more than ever, it is both good and necessary to recognize and feel that there is a broad movement saying no to these voices, to these ways of treating one another.

And that each of us can do something to stop this tide. No matter how small—it matters. Whether you donate, speak up even when it feels daunting, or do something for another person, even a stranger—it all counts. And it is more necessary than ever.

You can only implement this policy by dehumanizing people.” In a single sentence, Aron encapsulates the reality—not only of the camp on Lesbos but also of what people experience on their journey there and their lives afterward. In a world of “they’re all criminals” and “applause for the strictest asylum policy ever.” In the harrowing reality of a camp on an island with so many children, broken sanitation, and people crammed into various types of tents/boxes. Knowing the lives of people who have behind them a path often filled with horrific reasons for fleeing, traumatizing experiences along the way (including rape by police and other violence), and a life-threatening boat trip. And ahead of them lies a continent that no longer sees them as human.

Aron, 25, a human rights lawyer in training, and I walk through the camp in the rain. Aron greets people kindly each time, always making genuine contact. Human to human. Endless rows of white, house-like structures and large tents, one of which has been converted into separate units. By the number of slippers at the doors, you can see how many people are trying to live in small spaces.

I have witnessed so much suffering in this world; it never becomes normal. Especially here, where it is evident that politicians and others deliberately deny these people a fair chance. They are left to drown at sea, perish in the desert, or be beaten to death along the way, as long as it doesn’t inconvenience us. We read reports that almost nonchalantly mention Frontex’s success, stating “they are no longer coming,” followed by a half-sentence about human rights, ignoring the realities of drowning, pushbacks, and torture. This disregards the European Court of Human Rights’ ruling that systematic pushbacks are occurring and must not continue. 

What I find difficult is that in many other countries facing terrible situations, there was usually still hope, as in “when the war is over, then…” or “now that we are doing this, then…”. But in this context, that prospect is absent. These people, just like you and me, are here now, dreaming of moving forward, but we know all too well what awaits them.

So, is everything we do here merely cosmetic? No! Because it must be done! It is inhumane not to act; otherwise, we completely surrender people to the horrors and power fanatics. But no one holds the magic wand that will finally teach everyone in this world that we are all human. It’s not much more complicated than that. I find this realization to be the most shocking every time.

There is so much to tell… so much to do. That will all come.

For now, never forget: no matter where someone comes from, no matter how different he or she is, at the core, we are all equal. We all seek happiness. And truly, there is no rule that one person has more right to it than another. Never.