The recurring theme in conversations over the past days has been the invisibility of problems. Munir speaks about Sudan, his home country, where he, with the help of friends and family, founded a grassroots organization providing aid to people in North Darfur. He now works here in the camp as a coordinator for an NGO. Once, he arrived as a refugee himself.

“I have always spoken out publicly, which is why I had to flee. Even though I witnessed people being murdered and women being raped at the start of the civil war when I was just six years old, and even though I have always felt inferior because of my background, my heart still bleeds for the people of Sudan, especially in Darfur. More than 20 million people are living in camps. I am here now, unable to return, but I want to do something for them. Emergency aid, of course, but above all, I want to give people—especially women—the opportunity to learn a profession.”

The need for vocational training is often mentioned here. Various initiatives have been launched, but they are far from sufficient. The situation is becoming increasingly complex. While Lesbos is primarily seen as a transit point from which people must move on, the question of where to? is becoming harder to answer.

A policy solely focused on keeping refugees out is not only morally reprehensible—it is also shortsighted. Just like in the Netherlands, there is a need for workers here too. On this island, there are jobs in hospitality and olive farming. However, with a government that does nothing in terms of training and with organizations here struggling more and more to secure funding, the challenge remains. Still, ideas abound—from barista training programs to awakening the artist in both young and old.

But not everything happening here is positive. Refugees are being hired for disgracefully low wages to help build the new camp. A now-resigned minister even referred to this camp as a detention center. When it will open, what exactly it will be, and what consequences it will have for the NGOs currently operating in the camp—no one knows. It is located far from inhabited areas, and its impact remains uncertain.

What I see, hear, and experience here only strengthens my belief that we cannot sit idly by in response to Trump, Vance, Musk, Faber, Wilders, Klever, or their statements and disastrous policies. It is up to us to raise our voices, in whatever way we can—just like Munir, and like so many others here and around the world.

As Remco Campert beautifully put it:

Resistance does not begin with grand words

Resistance does not begin with grand words

but with small acts

Like a storm beginning with a soft rustling in the garden

or a cat suddenly bursting with energy

Like great rivers

beginning with a small spring

hidden deep in the forest

Like a blazing fire

kindled by the same match

that lights a cigarette

Like love beginning with a glance

a touch, something noticed in a voice

Asking yourself a question

That is where resistance begins

And then—asking that question to another.

Munir Bassi

I don’t see very well. It’s not a tragedy—let’s make that clear. It mostly means that parts of my vision are missing, both at the edges and in the center. It can be inconvenient at times. If you point somewhere and say, “Look, a bird!” or “What a beautiful building!” I need more information than just “there” and a vague hand gesture. I click my mouse ten times, wondering why it’s not working, only to realize—oh, there must be a pop-up blocking it. I calmly ask for cutlery in Greece because I don’t see it lying next to me. I dislike digital meetings—too much staring—and I have a special talent for tripping over obstacles I don’t see.

The fascinating thing is that our brains fill in the gaps. I think I see everything—but I don’t.

Not Seeing What’s Right in Front of You

This morning, I tripped and fell in the camp because I didn’t see a large rock. No harm done. Three incredibly kind Afghan women rushed over, dusting off the gravel and sand from my clothes.

And it made me think of the political parties that today announced they would ignore the Council of State’s advice on asylum laws. They, too, fail to see things. Their brains also fill in the gaps—but incorrectly.

The asylum seekers they talk about, Mrs. Faber and fellow politicians, are the Afghan family we spoke to this morning—a mother, a father, and three small children fleeing a regime that no one in the Netherlands would ever want to live under. They are the heavily pregnant woman from that same country, the man who comes by every day, hoping his application will finally be approved. It’s six degrees Celsius with an icy wind, and he shows up in just a sweater. His children, at least, have warm clothes.

And they are the three Afghan women caring for an unaccompanied child—who, when they hear the process is likely to turn out well, beam with gratitude and say thank you with glowing smiles. (And just to be clear, I don’t do anything. I walk along, make coffee, fetch water, and mostly, I learn.)

Filling in the Gaps with Falsehoods

Every time politicians talk about the strictest asylum policy ever, it becomes even less about people and even more about numbers—numbers that don’t even add up. It’s about the absence of a moral framework. About not seeing and yet making assumptions. About normalizing what should never be normal.

This camp is not a place full of helpless victims. Nor is it full of criminals. It is home to thousands of ordinary people looking for a better future, for safety—for themselves and their children. 900 people, caught in a system over which they have no control.

Further down the road, a new camp is being built. Far from the city, under even stricter regulations, with even less access for aid organizations. Greece has become the testing ground for European asylum measures. The current camp by the sea is already unbearable—but things can always get worse. That is the harsh reality.

The Difference That People Make

Thankfully, there are people like those at Fenix. They make a real difference—professional yet compassionate, effective yet deeply human. Many of them are volunteers working for free, but they do it with all their heart. And their work is so needed.

For more on the political divide over asylum laws, read this NOS article (in Dutch).