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.

Since I returned from Lesbos, I’ve spoken with many people and addressed various gatherings. I find it important — and meaningful — to share stories and reflect on what I’ve seen.

What I often encounter is a deep sense of despair and sadness in people about what’s happening. Whether I speak about the hellish conditions at the edges of Europe or small projects here in the Netherlands, the reaction is often: I didn’t know. Not that this is going on. Not how serious the problems are. But also not how many people care — and take action.

It’s like practicing the art of not becoming disheartened. Because despair leads to helplessness, which leads to apathy.

Where do you find hope, and what should we do to hold onto it?

I get asked this more and more, and the question seems to become more urgent each week.

There’s no standard answer.

But there are things I’ve learned that help:

1. Look at what is happening. At all the people who are taking action. Wherever, however. There really are so many!
2. Contribute financially to initiatives where there is immediate need. Now is the time. Donate to the last remaining community centers in Gaza, support organizations that strive to preserve humanity in the hell at Europe’s borders, back that tiny neighborhood initiative helping people no one sees. And trust them.
3. Don’t drown in the big-picture, systemic issues that seem impossible to solve. That can make you feel powerless. Instead, look at now — there is something you can do today, even if it’s small. And small steps are always more than nothing.
4. Stay informed. Even if the news overwhelms you. Even if it’s just on one topic close to your heart.
5. Join those already doing something. That feels far less lonely. So many people have already started — help is needed everywhere. Even if you have little time, there’s always something you can contribute.
6. Sign petitions. March. Join the Red Line in The Hague tomorrow and Straat op! in Amsterdam next week. It may not change the world overnight — but it will change your sense of hope and courage. You are not alone, and we show the world that we do care. Moral support can sometimes be more powerful than financial. People from Haella will be at both protests — don’t want to walk alone? Let us know, and we’ll create a meeting point.
7. Take care of each other — and yourself. Share your grief and frustration, and share your hope. Again and again. You are not alone. Truly.

I saw a man so happy he could light up the sun. He was allowed to stay—otherwise, he would have been murdered.

I saw a family in panic. A procedural error, a negative decision. What now? Appeal on Lesbos, risking never leaving the island except by deportation? Or go to Athens, with the high risk of ending up on the streets?

I saw a tiny, precious baby. Parents waiting for a decision. A baby…

I saw so many more people. With stories. Searching for safety. Wanting nothing more than to work and build a life.

And meanwhile, our council of ministers approves the strictest asylum policy ever. They listen to no one, apparently read no reports.

And in doing so, they condemn countless people to pushbacks, violence, torture, and death in a desert. To waiting, being seen as criminals.

I look out over the Mediterranean Sea. The coast guard’s boat departs. And for a moment, I don’t know where to turn.

Thankfully, there are organizations like Fenix – Humanitarian Legal Aid and others, doing what gives hope. Doing good, today and tomorrow. That’s what I hold on to.

But dear council of ministers, is this really how you want to be remembered?

I wish I could write a hopeful story. One that lifts you up. That you can hold on to when you’re struggling to see how this world could possibly move forward. A story to read in the spring sun, surrounded by the first blooming trees.

I wish I could say: it will be okay. That one day, we will truly understand how much we need each other. That there is more than enough space for everyone. That it is beautiful and enriching to meet people who, at first glance, seem nothing like us—until we realize how untrue that is. That, at our core, we are the same.

I wish so much that the angry men making decisions—decisions that are, let’s say it out loud, criminal, evil—would disappear. Because whatever they say or do, it only destroys, shatters, is unacceptable.

I wish so much that no one would ever have to flee, for any reason. And if they must, that they would be welcomed when they arrive. Welcomed, given rest after their dangerous journey. Not, as happens now, forced into a filthy, overcrowded container—heavily pregnant, with children, a husband, another family with a baby.

I wish so much that people would care. That they would care about what is happening.

I wish so much that we would not only express opinions, write, and speak up—but that we would act.

Because if we take action en masse, if we say: this cannot, must not continue like this—

Then, we keep hope alive.

If we look at the people who are already taking action, whether here, on Lesbos, in the Netherlands, or anywhere else, and then ask ourselves: Hey, what can I do?

Then, yes, then we have a hopeful story. Because that is where it begins. That is the foundation. In that one question: What can I do? And then doing it. Alone or together. Sometimes with the desperation of last resort. But still.

That is where something begins.

Among the blooming trees in the spring sun.

with Luiza Vinhal,Lily Davies