Tag Asylum Seekers

“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

The first time I was on Lesbos, in April last year, I was constantly aware of the camp, the injustice, the problems—no matter where I was on the island.

It felt deeply unsettling and sad—an issue of global proportions, hidden away at the edge of an island. A nagging feeling: am I allowed to enjoy myself here, even outside the camp? Should I even be here, or am I engaging in some kind of disaster tourism?

Walking through the camp was, above all, a confrontation with my own powerlessness and anger.

When you stay somewhere longer, your perspective starts to shift. The feelings of powerlessness and anger remain, and at times, they are sharp and confronting. But at the same time, the camp begins to feel more like a microcosm, with its own rhythm and its different groups of people. A growing number of familiar faces. The people from Fenix, the translators, the residents of the camp—some of whom come by every day with their questions, concerns, or simply for a chat. You start to learn names, you hope for good outcomes. What once felt massive and abstract turns into the reality of people with names and faces.

The Syrians who are stuck in limbo because all procedures for Syrians have been suspended. The unaccompanied minors whose asylum process is complex. The people endlessly waiting for a decision—and after that, for travel documents—longing to leave. And that one man, shivering in only his sweater, while the icy wind still blows.

By 9 a.m., when we arrive, he is already there with his little daughter. He has received another email: more waiting. If he hears nothing in the next 15 days, he must email again. He is heartbroken.

But then, just before we leave, Aron’s phone rings. The decision is in—it’s positive! The entire family has been approved.

Now begins the wait for papers and travel documents. Without those, they cannot even leave the island. And then what? But for now, everyone is happy. The first hurdle has been cleared.

The camp—like all camps—remains a disgrace. The brutal winds of hatred are still terrifying. And I wonder, deeply, what I, what we, can do to turn the tide.

The answer, I believe, lies somewhere in the stories of these people. Giving them faces, giving them names. The only question is: how?

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).

“I always live two lives. The part I hide is eating me up.” It could hardly be put more clearly. A queer young man who has had to conceal his identity his entire life describes how complicated it is. In his home country, he was never allowed to be himself, and now, suddenly, in his asylum interview, he has to lay it all out. And then, in the camp, he shares a shelter with eight other men—men whose views on people like him are unknown.

Some facts: LGBTQ+ people in the camp are among the most likely to be traumatized. Nearly all have experienced sexual violence, many have been tortured or fallen victim to human trafficking, and every single one has lived a life where they had to hide who they truly are. Yet, they are not officially recognized as particularly vulnerable. That means there are no safe houses for them in the camp, no additional protection. To give an idea: the rate of sexual violence experienced by gay men is three times higher than that of other people in similar situations.

Because they all come from countries where being LGBTQ+ is criminalized, it is often hard for them to believe that it is legal in Greece. When you’ve spent your entire life fearing the state, the police, and even other people, it is incredibly difficult to suddenly trust that you can be open. “I have always felt it is not okay to talk about it. That is dangerous.” But here, openness is required. Without it, especially if you come from a so-called “safe country,” you have almost no chance of being granted refugee status. A “safe country” is a nation not officially recognized as dangerous, meaning you must present an exceptionally strong and deeply personal case to receive asylum. And for people who have spent their lives making themselves invisible, revealing who they truly are is incredibly difficult. “One man told me that he only realized here that he wasn’t the only gay person in the world.”

But the problems don’t stop there. Being placed in a container with eight strangers is difficult for anyone. I caught a glimpse of it yesterday. The “houses”—essentially containers—are dark, bare, far from clean, and much too small for eight or more people who don’t know each other. Imagine having to flee from the Netherlands, ending up in a camp, being crammed into a container with seven strangers. It’s cold, dirty, there’s not enough food, you have no money, and you are at the mercy of a system that does not see you as a person. You can be moved at any moment, you must wait endlessly with no idea when things will change. That alone is enough to drive anyone into depression. Add to that the fact that you’ve survived an exhausting and dangerous journey, endured unimaginable hardships, and then you find yourself in a container where you cannot, and do not dare, to be yourself.

Maaike and I dream of a safe house for this group. “If they could live in the city, finally have a space where they can be themselves, it would change everything.” Because no one should have to defend themselves against the idea that they are a monster.

Is there violence against them in the camp? Yes. As in any overcrowded, hopeless environment, tensions occasionally rise. Some groups are more vulnerable than others. That does not mean that everyone is homophobic. It also does not mean that everyone is violent or criminal. It is, in fact, a miracle that there isn’t more violence in these conditions. That people, desperate from waiting so long, don’t all turn to self-harm or reckless behavior. What strikes me time and again is how kind people are. How you can walk through the camp and see everyone maintaining the illusion of normalcy—because otherwise, it would be unbearable.

You cannot constantly think “Oh, how awful,” or zoom out to the global refugee crisis, because then the sheer scale of it will paralyze you. And so, both the residents and the organizations do their best to make the situation work. But make no mistake: making the best of it does not mean it is good.

These are the edges of civilization—this is where it stops. And yet, even here, in a situation that has nothing to do with civilization, people hold on to their humanity. And that, every single time, is nothing short of a miracle. It is a reminder that refugees should not be seen as mere victims, as one-dimensional identities, but simply as people. People who have the same right to a place in the sun as you and me.

Fenix – Humanitarian Legal Aid
Haella Stichting
Maaike Vledder (she/her)

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.