Tag Dehumanization

Back when Joseph Kony was still terrorizing northern Uganda, I traveled there with two Ugandan colleagues to visit our local partners. That’s when we coined the term levels of horribility. Of course, that word doesn’t actually exist, but we had no other way to describe the madness of bad, worse, worst.

How do you place one horrific experience next to another? How do you compare speaking with a woman whose face was partially mutilated to hearing stories of mothers forced to cook their own children? You want to fit horror into manageable concepts, to make the incomprehensible graspable. But how do you define bad and worse? Cruel and crueler? And can you even do that? The answer was no—because in doing so, you inevitably diminish someone’s suffering.

When you think about what happens to people—about what people do to each other—you find yourself on an endless continuum of experiences. And those experiences exist in context.

What Does a Camp Like This Mean?

This morning, I stood with Maaike from Fenix at one of the spots where many people have arrived on Lesbos. The storm was raging, the cold was biting. Scattered car tires and pool floats are the silent witnesses of the boats that made it to these steep cliffs. Once, organizations could be there to receive them. Now, NGOs risk prosecution for helping.

In December, 2,000 people arrived. In January, only 175. People are now diverted to other islands that are ill-prepared, while less-monitored routes are being used. Those who make it are either intercepted by the coast guard—though pushbacks also happen—or taken to the camp.

How do you define a place like this?

If Calais, where people sleep in the bushes between filth and trash, constantly beaten away by the French police (paid for by the UK), is hell—then what is this? Ice-cold tents, overcrowded dark shelters, freezing water, and one meal a day that is barely edible. This too is hell. The hell of waiting. Of not knowing what’s ahead. Of losing every shred of control over your own life. The hell of dehumanization.

The Storm Rages On

As I curl up next to the heater in my small, cozy home in Mytilini, the icy storm howls through the camp. And with it, the question of what is worse? is blown away. It is all unbearable. And it should not be happening.

Yet, with the approval of our governments, this continues. Angry voices still claim that these people are criminals. In the camp right now, there are 900 children. In total, 3,500 people.

Looking down at the raging sea, at the silent remnants of those who made it across—or those who never did—this becomes a new level of horribility. The level of failing to guarantee humanity for all.

But recognizing this is not enough. The real question remains: what do we do?

These words come from asylum interviews with people who have arrived on Lesbos. Reality, as it turns out, is often far harsher than we can imagine.

The same applies to today’s news about the possible dissolution of USAID. Beyond the catastrophe this would be for countless organizations worldwide, it is also a deeply alarming signal. The drumbeat of dehumanization grows louder for those who do not fit into a privileged framework. It chills me to the bone—even here, under the generous spring sun shining over the island.

You could become cynical, or deeply saddened. Or you could look at the people who, against all odds, are trying to make a difference. The courageous team at Fenix, the many small initiatives in the Netherlands supporting those who fall through every crack, our partners in Uganda, and others around the world.

Now more than ever, it is both good and necessary to recognize and feel that there is a broad movement saying no to these voices, to these ways of treating one another.

And that each of us can do something to stop this tide. No matter how small—it matters. Whether you donate, speak up even when it feels daunting, or do something for another person, even a stranger—it all counts. And it is more necessary than ever.