The wind has died down. The sun is shining. At 9 AM, we leave from Mytilini to the camp a few kilometers away. Upon arrival, we check in with the Greek police. Name, organization, time. Then, we walk to the container (all NGOs in the camp have one or more containers). Many people greet us, and many children are busy playing—with sticks, stones, or nothing at all. A little girl brushes her teeth at the knee-height taps and waves as if her life depends on it.

After arriving, Aron and I go on outreach—knocking on the doors of people who are on the list of recent arrivals to invite them to the information session. If no translator is available, communication happens via a translation app on the phone. It’s a bit clumsy, but no one minds. The invitation to the info session about the procedure, the uncertainty of Syrians who have no idea when decisions will be made again, questions about appeal procedures and waiting for travel documents—it all comes up. And always, after the conversation, there is a friendly smile. A connection has been made, and you can feel it. So many people know the people from Fenix. There is laughter, greetings, and quick check-ins about how things are going.

When we return to the container, a man is clearly unhappy. It takes too long. He can’t do anything. A young man comes by who still doesn’t have his travel documents, while all his friends have received theirs long ago. Most of them are now in Athens. Marina walks with him to the passport office, which is also inside the camp. Another man is visibly nervous. His wife is from Sudan, and for people from Sudan, the process moves quickly. He is from another country and hears nothing. I type an email in English for him to the asylum committee, asking for information.

Every time the session is supposed to be over, more people arrive with new questions. The people from Fenix help everyone with angelic patience. They cannot influence the official decisions, but they ensure that people are as well-prepared as possible—that they know what to do during their interview and what to arrange if their application is rejected. Fenix also offers a kind of presence—a space where people can wait. A cup of tea, a cookie, some attention—it helps, even if just a little, with the unbearable waiting.

A few mornings a week, I am a jack-of-all-trades. Making tea, typing emails, running errands, and mostly listening. I am not working here. I do not interfere with Fenix’s policies. I am here on sabbatical, volunteering on the side. I am learning a lot from this. And at the same time, I am doing very little—which I am also learning from. Yet, I cannot help but write and come up with new plans. After four weeks, the Netherlands feels very far away. This place is a world of its own, with the unique slowness and kindness of an island.

…where by now, I chat with Litza from the little coffee shop nearby every day and try to get her to stop giving me cinnamon cookies. And where the Somali woman on crutches, who asks me for a bus ticket from Mytilini center to the camp, smiles warmly, and I go and buy her one. No fuss about whether I should or not. Just do it.

I receive many messages from people saying they find it brave of me to be here. But that’s not true. I am here to reflect, to find inspiration, and to do the things I simply cannot help but do—writing, listening, learning, imagining. That is a privilege.

The truly brave ones are the people in the camp. Those who made the decision to leave their homes. Who carry horrific stories of escape. Who sit here with their children because making a dangerous sea crossing and arriving at a camp with far too little space was still better than staying. They are the courageous ones, the people full of hope, with eyes that either shine with a sense of future or have gone dark from losing it. Organizations like Fenix make a difference. I see it every day.

Want to contribute?

Donations can be made to:
NL40ABNA0138983186
In the name of: Haella Stichting
Reference: Randen van Europa

“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.

In recent weeks, I have received many questions about how people in the Netherlands can support those in the camps on Lesbos or other places along Europe’s outer borders.

One of the most important ways to help is by challenging and changing the narrative that all people arriving here—or elsewhere—are criminals or mere fortune seekers (which, for some reason, is framed as something negative?). If this perception shifts, the work of all the organizations here would no longer be needed.

A single glance at the sea and the camp here is enough to understand that no one embarks on this journey just for the fun of it.

The stories circulating in the Netherlands—often fueled by figures like Trump and others in power—must be countered, with full force.

But that won’t change things here overnight. And more importantly: there are urgent needs in the present. We must do what is right and necessary today.

Haella supports 25 projects along Europe’s outer borders. These are all small-scale initiatives that provide essential, direct assistance—ranging from legal aid to first aid, from community shelters to food and clothing distribution. This work is largely carried out by volunteers, with only a minimal number of salaried staff. In the coming weeks, I will introduce some of these projects.

If you’d like to contribute financially, there are several ways to help:

1. Make a general donation to Haella’s partners working at the edges of Europe.

2. Support a specific project. See all partners here: https://lnkd.in/eXfnKGt8

3. Organize an initiative in your own community. Below, you’ll find information on how just one euro can make a tangible difference in the lives of people here in the camp on Lesbos. Fenix, like many other organizations, is doing truly invaluable work.

In all cases:

We do not deduct any administrative costs—100% of your donation goes directly to the partner organizations.

As I write this from my balcony overlooking Mytilene, the sun gently awakens the city. Two worlds under the same sun—one, a kind of paradise of warmth, simplicity, kindness, and stillness. The other, a bleak and deeply shameful point on Europe’s uncertain and perilous path to safety.

Donations can be made to:

Bank name: ABN AMRO Bank
IBAN: NL40 ABNA 0138 9831 86
BIC: ABNANL2AXXX
Account holder: Haella Stichting
IBAN: NL40ABNA0138983186
Reference: “Edges of Europe” or the name of a specific project, or “Interpreters for Fenix.”