I almost want to paint this sentence in large letters somewhere. Because that is what it’s all about. The essence of what people here are searching for, why they cross a sea, travel through unsafe countries.
Enduring hardships that are unimaginably cruel. Today, I learned a new term: scar mapping—a record of all scars and other marks of torture or mistreatment. Since people are not allowed to show them during their interviews, they need photos or a documented overview of their injuries. This, too, is part of the invisible reality here.
What word do you even give to something like this? “Dark,” says one of my Fenix colleagues. The kind young man from West Africa needs a referral from Fenix to have such mapping done. Another moment when the abnormal—what should never exist—becomes “normal.” It strengthens their case file.
A little later, a tall, kind man approaches us. He is trembling. His breath is shallow, tears close. But I have rarely seen anyone so incredibly relieved—his joy could set the sun on fire.
“I don’t know what to say,” he pauses, trying to calm himself, but it is too big, too overwhelming.
“I am so, so happy.”
We look at him, overwhelmed ourselves, also feeling, if only for a moment, how much tension this process brings and how much relief follows. Like the pressure valve of a boiling pot releasing.
He laughs—you can almost touch his relief.
Fenix has helped this man, also from West Africa, who traveled entirely overland. (Take a moment to look at the map, through which countries he had to pass and what that means—especially for someone from a so-called “vulnerable” group.) They guided him through his procedure. It is crucial that people are as detailed as possible. What is happening in their country of origin? Why did they flee? Do they have evidence? Fenix prepares them. Especially for people from so-called safe countries, yet who come from deeply unsafe situations, this preparation is vital.
He cannot stop thanking everyone. It truly calls for a celebration—but since that’s not possible, I go searching for the roll of cookies.
In the afternoon, I run into him again in Mitilini. He is wearing glasses now, walking down the street with a new energy. I barely recognize him. He stops me. Tells his friend that Fenix helped him. Thanks me once more (for clarity: I have done nothing—this is the work of Fenix’s incredible staff) and once again says how happy he is.
“What will you do now?” I ask.
“When you get your passport…?” (That will still take a while.)
He looks at me.
“I am safe now, that is all that matters.”
When you find yourself in a conversation about refugees, about migration—carry this with you.
At our core, we all want and need the same thing: to be safe. Safe within ourselves, in our relationships, and in the country we live in. It is that simple. And that profound.
The man almost dances down the street. For a moment, all the suffering fades away.
“I am safe now, that is all that matters.”