Tag Empathy

It is pouring rain as we arrive with the Refugee Women Center. Women are standing in a line. A few hesitate about finding shelter, but there is hardly any place to take cover. “Stay in line, or you’ll lose your spot,” someone shouts to a few others. They stand close together. Some hold on to each other.

It is still raining as we set up the gazebo. Meanwhile, the line keeps growing longer. A number of women step out of the line to help, then quickly return to their place.

Next to this spot, Project Play is playing with children under a small shelter. They are coloring, puzzling, playing. Small children. Tonight, they may or may not sleep in a tent. They run around. A brief moment of lightness. Their mothers are standing in line for a tent.

But beyond that, there is nothing light about this place. Nothing at all. Truly nothing.

While angry people in the Netherlands shout that these are criminals—yet set fires themselves and then go home—people here are standing in line so they do not have to sleep outside tonight. Children play in a place without perspective. Just for a moment.

These people, who can still laugh, who help each other, where sometimes anger takes over and sometimes, astonishingly, it does not, are standing in line for a small tent. A blanket.

Imagine standing in that line. Set up in a place where there is nothing. And tomorrow the police will clear it.

In this place, your heart breaks into a thousand pieces. Because people are reduced to non-people. Because it is a senseless loss of billions to keep taking everything away from people again and again. An endless cycle that says: you are worth less than nothing.

And no, it does not deter. The numbers are not decreasing, and they will not decrease as long as wars are encouraged, as long as bombings are supported. As long as every country says: we do not want you.

The only thing in this hell that gives courage are the people who help each other—the organizations, but also the people themselves. But what used to be enough for me is no longer enough.

We are creating a world in which the downfall of people is the goal.

This world suffers not only from a lack of empathy, but also from a lack of imagination. Imagination to see how these people are trampled when numbers are used to create a sense of control. Imagination to see how all of this could be different.

A small boy wearing a self-colored mask tries to scare me. We both burst out laughing. Tonight, he will sleep in a small tent—or not. The wind is too strong, so no one is crossing.

For the love of all that is humane, support these organizations that are doing everything they can to preserve the last glimpses of humanity. If they disappear, hell will be complete. Then there will be no drinking water, no tent, no blanket, no aid, no clothes. And as Europe shifts further to the far right, there is little to expect from governments. It will simply come down to people of goodwill—to you and me.

https://lnkd.in/eH7rCyy7

Last night, I wanted to write a post saying that closing borders equals murder. Which it does — even if that’s an uncomfortable truth. That closing borders means the loss of all humanity. That it is inhumane.

But I don’t have to anymore. Not today.

May the coming months bring such a powerful outcry for humanity and human rights that no political party dares to speak as they have — claiming that the problems in the Netherlands are caused by a handful of people fleeing war and violence.

Because that’s who these asylum seekers are. Not even 40,000 per year.

They are not to blame.

The ones who blame them are — for scapegoating, for turning away from real issues, for spreading the idea that we are better, that we deserve more rights just because we happened to be born here.

Since I returned from Lesbos, I’ve spoken with many people and addressed various gatherings. I find it important — and meaningful — to share stories and reflect on what I’ve seen.

What I often encounter is a deep sense of despair and sadness in people about what’s happening. Whether I speak about the hellish conditions at the edges of Europe or small projects here in the Netherlands, the reaction is often: I didn’t know. Not that this is going on. Not how serious the problems are. But also not how many people care — and take action.

It’s like practicing the art of not becoming disheartened. Because despair leads to helplessness, which leads to apathy.

Where do you find hope, and what should we do to hold onto it?

I get asked this more and more, and the question seems to become more urgent each week.

There’s no standard answer.

But there are things I’ve learned that help:

1. Look at what is happening. At all the people who are taking action. Wherever, however. There really are so many!
2. Contribute financially to initiatives where there is immediate need. Now is the time. Donate to the last remaining community centers in Gaza, support organizations that strive to preserve humanity in the hell at Europe’s borders, back that tiny neighborhood initiative helping people no one sees. And trust them.
3. Don’t drown in the big-picture, systemic issues that seem impossible to solve. That can make you feel powerless. Instead, look at now — there is something you can do today, even if it’s small. And small steps are always more than nothing.
4. Stay informed. Even if the news overwhelms you. Even if it’s just on one topic close to your heart.
5. Join those already doing something. That feels far less lonely. So many people have already started — help is needed everywhere. Even if you have little time, there’s always something you can contribute.
6. Sign petitions. March. Join the Red Line in The Hague tomorrow and Straat op! in Amsterdam next week. It may not change the world overnight — but it will change your sense of hope and courage. You are not alone, and we show the world that we do care. Moral support can sometimes be more powerful than financial. People from Haella will be at both protests — don’t want to walk alone? Let us know, and we’ll create a meeting point.
7. Take care of each other — and yourself. Share your grief and frustration, and share your hope. Again and again. You are not alone. Truly.

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

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 write about the situation here on Lesbos with passion—deeply moved by the people, impressed by the organizations, and angered by international policies that grow harsher by the day. Writing comes easily to me, and I consider that a gift. But writing about this place also comes with challenges. I document what I see, add my own perspective, and hope to give readers something valuable—perhaps something that moves them to action.

At the same time, every writer is trapped within their own frame of reference, as well as the limitations imposed by reality.

I cannot write everything I would like to, to avoid putting people and organizations at risk. The same applies to photographs. When I walk through the camp, I see countless moments that could speak louder in a single image than in five sentences—but taking photos is not allowed. That one isobox with eight people inside, dimly lit, with a scattered row of shoes and slippers outside, tells a whole story. A sentence can describe it, but an image would bring it to life.

How Do You Handle People’s Stories?

I believe nothing is more powerful than a personal story—whether in writing, film, or photography—to illustrate what this is really about. Why do people leave their country? What hardships do they endure along the way? Arriving in Turkey, feeling unsafe there, crossing the sea in a boat, finally reaching Europe—only to find that their Greek residence permit is meaningless, and they must start the process all over again.

But every story belongs to someone. It should never feel like a transaction—help in exchange for sharing one’s personal experiences, especially for organizations using these stories to raise funds. And yet, these organizations desperately need money to continue their work.

How Do You Write About People Here?

There is no such thing as “the refugee.” Yet, today, any sentence can be twisted to fit the framework of hate. Yes, there is violence in the camp. But this happens anywhere people are forced into overcrowded, stressful conditions. It’s the same as the way media reports on certain events—when an attack is committed by someone with a Muslim background, they are labeled a terrorist, a gift to those who spread anti-Muslim sentiment. When the perpetrator is not Muslim, they are simply a troubled man with mental health issues.

It’s not just about what you write, but how you write it. What words do I choose? How do I capture reality without unintentionally feeding harmful narratives?

What comes to mind when you hear the word “refugee”? And what if you later learn that someone was once a refugee?

Yesterday, I sat in a taverna with five volunteers—all as young as my own boys. One of them had been a refugee. But I wasn’t thinking about that—I was just talking, laughing, having serious moments, sometimes feeling a little motherly, sometimes being cared for in return. Just five young people, good company.

Some of the interpreters at Fenix still live in the camp, waiting for answers in their asylum process. They don’t walk around with “refugee” stamped on their foreheads. And certainly not “victim.” They are just kind, intelligent young men.

Of course, not everyone is always kind. But that’s true in the Netherlands too. The difference is that if I write about an angry or frustrated refugee, it fits seamlessly into a narrative devoid of nuance. That’s why I choose my words carefully.

My stories are subjective. Still, several people read them before I publish, and they appreciate them. That means a lot to me.

The sun is shining fiercely, but an icy wind cuts through the air. As with every journey, there is much to reflect on. Which images are confirmed, and which are challenged? The search continues—do I truly see people as human, as I always insist we must? Or do I still have stereotypes to unlearn?

I suspect that process never really ends. But I try.