Last night, I wanted to write a post saying that closing borders equals murder. Which it does — even if that’s an uncomfortable truth. That closing borders means the loss of all humanity. That it is inhumane.

But I don’t have to anymore. Not today.

May the coming months bring such a powerful outcry for humanity and human rights that no political party dares to speak as they have — claiming that the problems in the Netherlands are caused by a handful of people fleeing war and violence.

Because that’s who these asylum seekers are. Not even 40,000 per year.

They are not to blame.

The ones who blame them are — for scapegoating, for turning away from real issues, for spreading the idea that we are better, that we deserve more rights just because we happened to be born here.

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

In all the stories about injustice and lack, sorrow and helplessness, there’s also the one about the wondrous nature of this island.

Here on this island—still a strange one—cynicism and the gloom that seems to have settled over the world like a grey veil haven’t taken hold. There have been more than enough reasons for that to happen, but still, no.

I see it with my Greek shopkeeper friends: they carry each other’s things when it’s busy, chat and smoke on the terrace when it’s not, and gossip about everyone (now also about me—whatever I do, someone has seen it and shared it). Meanwhile, Litza and George are being comforted in their endless grief over the death of their daughter.

The hairdresser yesterday, whose card machine didn’t work, said, “Oh, just bring it another time.”

And the Greek restaurant guy—who looks like a pirate and serves me the fish he chooses every Monday—had the same card issue and, with a big laugh, said, “Ah, just forget it.” Mind you, I was his only customer.

Then there are the people from the Greek organization Sini Parxi, who bring together people from the camp and Greeks in a former ouzerie, providing breakfast, food packages, and evenings of poetry in twenty languages.

That atmosphere of Welcome! Whoever you are, whatever you are. That’s this island too.

I fear I’ll often be staring out the window at Haella, longing for this simple, cheerful exuberance and the we live today and make something beautiful of it spirit.

The kind of thing you also find in places once soaked in deep sorrow. When you know how broken it can all be, grab life by the claws, the scruff, or whatever you can—because tomorrow it could be over.

We all fumble our way through—so we might as well fumble together.

On this island, we see the outgrowth of immense, indigestible injustice.

We see people who, with all their heart and soul, want to do something about it.

And on this island, those who dare and want to can learn to slow down, take their time, be kind, and live in the here and now.

And so I take two things with me.

First, an even stronger sense of mission: to tell the whole world that what happens here, on Samos, and in so many other places, is unacceptable—we must do everything we can to support those who are working to change it.

And second: that it’s up to us to find, create, and be the places where kindness and trust are the beginning and the end.

Simple, yet essential.

Lovingly fumbling our way through together, so the world becomes just a little more bearable.

We are not doomed. It’s not hopeless or over.

As long as we do something.

However small.

However shaky at times.

Still—something.