Tag Asylum Policy

“It’s cruel.” X from Syria barely holds back his tears. When I spoke to him in April last year, he had finally made it to Athens after enduring abuse in Turkey, being pushed back from Bulgaria, and making two attempts to reach Greece. He was finally in the right procedure, with a strong chance of obtaining papers. But no—procedural errors delayed the process, and now the decision-making for Syrians has been put on hold.

Every policy you read about has far-reaching consequences for real people. All Syrians currently in the procedure are now stuck in this country, including those on Lesbos. They are not allowed to leave the island. Germany is preparing to start deporting Syrians who traveled through Greece, their first country of arrival. And then what?

This is about X and that five-year-old boy traveling alone. It’s about families who have already endured so much. A single sentence—“decision-making postponed”—suspends people’s lives in limbo, with no one knowing how it will end.

I was in Athens this weekend, visiting some partners and taking a moment to admire everything this city has to offer. “How are things on Lesbos?” was a recurring question. The pastor of the Anglican church, where I briefly stopped yesterday with Cees from the embassy, immediately invited me to speak one evening. “We barely hear about it anymore.” The mainland camps are far from inhabited areas.

I sent a piece to Trouw. The response was that it was very compelling, but they already covered Greece enough.

And of course, a drawn-out issue loses to the language of war and threats. But that rhetoric fuels the silence—not just by making it less newsworthy, but also by increasing its invisibility and that of its consequences.

Every day, I realize more how much we don’t know. And how too little knowledge always leads to bad plans, cruel policies, and a lack of awareness.

Dutch legislative proposals are partly based on Greek procedures, as Greece is the testing ground. But in some ways, Greece does things better than the Netherlands. Two months after arrival, whether or not they have received papers, people are allowed to work. Not in the Netherlands. Every European country is coming up with stricter measures—Minister Faber stacks them on top of each other and ties them up with a bow. And no matter what the Council of State says, it all drowns in Trumpian rhetoric.

“I’ll come back,” I tell X. Not that it helps him in any way. But maybe his story will help people understand what seemingly simple measures do to a person. A young man whose eyes are less hopeful than ten months ago. But who keeps going, refusing to surrender to a cruel system that leaves no room for humanity.

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).