“Every year more people drown while crossing the Channel. In 2024, as many as in the previous six years combined.”

We are in Calais. A city with 76,000 inhabitants and 1,200 police officers. A city where every 48 hours, an insane police force destroys the places where people sleep.

That’s bullying. Malicious harassment. Dehumanizing. Get lost, go away.

A city where everyone without papers is homeless. A city where people lose hope.

In the late afternoon, we’re standing on a large field. There’s a game of football going on. Two boys sit by the water tank — just refilled by the organization we’re here with — washing their shoes. Two other boys are watching the game. Aron kicks a ball around with Gabriel. He’s so young it hurts. On the field stands a huge trailer, inside are tents where 400 people sleep.

Laundry flutters on the barbed wire. A bitter image of hope and despair in one.

Everything you see here is a layered reality. Seeing things, knowing what you’re not seeing, and sensing — when you place yourself in the shoes of that boy whose eyes light up when he plays football with a ball that’s far too soft — feelings you don’t want to feel, too much heard, seen, experienced. So young, younger than my own boys.

It’s strange — walking around in this madness during the day, that’s doable. But then, in the evening, back in the hotel room, the awareness sinks in of what I’ve actually seen. And I think about 95 amoral MPs and 1,200 police officers who destroy things pointlessly, and these boys — who are just human, like you and me — but here are condemned to live among the trash, to be welcome nowhere.

Imagine what that must feel like.

The world is broken. I can’t put it any other way.

If everywhere, all we can come up with is beating people away, stabbing boats (yes, that happens here too — in shallow water, it’s even allowed), destroying their belongings every 48 hours with brute force — it’s inhumane. And it’s only getting worse.

Normally, I would now begin a tribute to the organizations here. And they absolutely deserve it, because what courage and grit it takes to keep providing people here with water, food, electricity, clothes — because otherwise they simply wouldn’t have it.

But today, disgusting Dutch legislation runs parallel to a disgusting French reality. And that is unspeakably heartbreaking.

It is unacceptable.

Period.

Lianne Engelkes Manou Zonderland 🌎🌍🌏 Aron Bosman Dirk Kome Bart Driessen Haella Stichting Fred Foundation

Trust as a Starting and Ending Point

The two most common questions or remarks I get when I travel to visit partners and projects are these: Are you going there to evaluate or monitor them? and Oh, how brave — isn’t it incredibly hard to travel through those countries and witness all that suffering?

The answers are: no, no, and yes.

Haella is built on one solid foundation: trust. I don’t need a theory of change or a five-year plan. I actually dislike the word impact, or worse, impact indicator. I believe in people who see a problem, observe it closely, and then take action. And in situations like those here at the borders (and elsewhere), you shouldn’t burden people with requests for detailed plans or only give money for activity X or Y. The situation literally changes every day. So what do we do? We simply give money because we believe in what people do. What we do here is mostly observe, listen, ask questions, and talk to a wide range of people — and then zoom out to ask: what does this mean for Haella? What more can we do to fill the gaps, to tell the world what’s happening here, and to support the people working in these organizations? A project doesn’t improve because I ask for long reports. On the contrary — bureaucracy has crushed many good plans. We truly try to be a partner. Trust is our starting point, and our end point.

Traveling isn’t hard — as long as you’re prepared for things to never go as planned. We’ve been stuck in a violent storm for days now. We were supposed to take the boat to Chios and then to Samos, but it was taken out of service. So we flew to Samos instead, which turned out to be quite a terrifying experience — landing in a storm with strong crosswinds… let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a soft landing. Lianne and I held on to each other for a moment.

Seeing suffering — that always hits you. Especially this kind, on the edges of Europe. It doesn’t have to be this way — no, it shouldn’t be this way — in fact, it must not be this way. And yet, it is. It’s a journey along barbed wire, police, military zones, and meetings with people in organizations who are incredibly brave — and sometimes just exhausted. They bring hope, but they often have to pull it up from the depths of their souls. We speak with people who have endured so much, who carry heavy sorrow behind their smiles. That means listening, feeling deeply, sometimes crying, and then moving forward with even more conviction. And knowing: there’s a huge group of people out there who really care. We want to stand with them. We want to support them. And we want to show the world that this is truly unacceptable — and that things can be different. In the end, it’s actually just that simple.

And would you like to join us?

You are more than welcome.

I was in the middle of writing a somewhat optimistic piece for LinkedIn when Nour walked in. The toughest guy in Mitilini and the camp—half Syrian, half Ukrainian, and a favorite among all the volunteers. He sat down next to me and burst into tears. He spoke about the violence now raging in Syria, where his family is, and about the kind of funerals being held in the camp to commemorate those who have died in this latest outbreak of violence. Like a little child, I comforted him—as much as one can, at least.

Mrs. Faber truly has no idea.

Nour Daher

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).

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.