Tag activism

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.

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

I’ve seen a lot of shit in this world. Wars, droughts, famines, exploitation and slavery, violence and oppression. At times, it has severely tested my belief in human goodness. But after much struggle, I refuse to believe that people simply don’t care. Again and again, I have seen people rise up, say no—and all I can do is say yes to that no.

This morning, I looked out over the Mediterranean Sea here on Lesbos. It’s freezing cold. Towering whitecaps reveal how strong the wind is. Yesterday, six people drowned off the coast of Samos. It is unbearably unjust and heartbreaking.

My hope comes from knowing that there are people here who see this too—and who are doing everything in their power to fight it.

But the plans of Ms. Klever in the Netherlands today—plans of destruction without any sign of relevant knowledge, conscience, or humanity—leave me deeply saddened, even a little desperate. Because I can see the people who will suffer because of this. And I truly don’t understand how this level of disrespect, this abandonment of human decency, has become the norm.

Ms. Klever, you are not just tearing down organizations, knowledge, and people—you are paving the way for something that must never happen: a society that ultimately doesn’t care about “the other.” A society where fundamental values are discarded and replaced by greed, as long as we are doing fine.

No, just no.

And let us, with all our might, say yes—to all those people and organizations who have the courage, the guts, the knowledge, and the passion to say no.