Tag Fenix Legal Aid

“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.

In recent weeks, I have received many questions about how people in the Netherlands can support those in the camps on Lesbos or other places along Europe’s outer borders.

One of the most important ways to help is by challenging and changing the narrative that all people arriving here—or elsewhere—are criminals or mere fortune seekers (which, for some reason, is framed as something negative?). If this perception shifts, the work of all the organizations here would no longer be needed.

A single glance at the sea and the camp here is enough to understand that no one embarks on this journey just for the fun of it.

The stories circulating in the Netherlands—often fueled by figures like Trump and others in power—must be countered, with full force.

But that won’t change things here overnight. And more importantly: there are urgent needs in the present. We must do what is right and necessary today.

Haella supports 25 projects along Europe’s outer borders. These are all small-scale initiatives that provide essential, direct assistance—ranging from legal aid to first aid, from community shelters to food and clothing distribution. This work is largely carried out by volunteers, with only a minimal number of salaried staff. In the coming weeks, I will introduce some of these projects.

If you’d like to contribute financially, there are several ways to help:

1. Make a general donation to Haella’s partners working at the edges of Europe.

2. Support a specific project. See all partners here: https://lnkd.in/eXfnKGt8

3. Organize an initiative in your own community. Below, you’ll find information on how just one euro can make a tangible difference in the lives of people here in the camp on Lesbos. Fenix, like many other organizations, is doing truly invaluable work.

In all cases:

We do not deduct any administrative costs—100% of your donation goes directly to the partner organizations.

As I write this from my balcony overlooking Mytilene, the sun gently awakens the city. Two worlds under the same sun—one, a kind of paradise of warmth, simplicity, kindness, and stillness. The other, a bleak and deeply shameful point on Europe’s uncertain and perilous path to safety.

Donations can be made to:

Bank name: ABN AMRO Bank
IBAN: NL40 ABNA 0138 9831 86
BIC: ABNANL2AXXX
Account holder: Haella Stichting
IBAN: NL40ABNA0138983186
Reference: “Edges of Europe” or the name of a specific project, or “Interpreters for Fenix.”

You can only implement this policy by dehumanizing people.” In a single sentence, Aron encapsulates the reality—not only of the camp on Lesbos but also of what people experience on their journey there and their lives afterward. In a world of “they’re all criminals” and “applause for the strictest asylum policy ever.” In the harrowing reality of a camp on an island with so many children, broken sanitation, and people crammed into various types of tents/boxes. Knowing the lives of people who have behind them a path often filled with horrific reasons for fleeing, traumatizing experiences along the way (including rape by police and other violence), and a life-threatening boat trip. And ahead of them lies a continent that no longer sees them as human.

Aron, 25, a human rights lawyer in training, and I walk through the camp in the rain. Aron greets people kindly each time, always making genuine contact. Human to human. Endless rows of white, house-like structures and large tents, one of which has been converted into separate units. By the number of slippers at the doors, you can see how many people are trying to live in small spaces.

I have witnessed so much suffering in this world; it never becomes normal. Especially here, where it is evident that politicians and others deliberately deny these people a fair chance. They are left to drown at sea, perish in the desert, or be beaten to death along the way, as long as it doesn’t inconvenience us. We read reports that almost nonchalantly mention Frontex’s success, stating “they are no longer coming,” followed by a half-sentence about human rights, ignoring the realities of drowning, pushbacks, and torture. This disregards the European Court of Human Rights’ ruling that systematic pushbacks are occurring and must not continue. 

What I find difficult is that in many other countries facing terrible situations, there was usually still hope, as in “when the war is over, then…” or “now that we are doing this, then…”. But in this context, that prospect is absent. These people, just like you and me, are here now, dreaming of moving forward, but we know all too well what awaits them.

So, is everything we do here merely cosmetic? No! Because it must be done! It is inhumane not to act; otherwise, we completely surrender people to the horrors and power fanatics. But no one holds the magic wand that will finally teach everyone in this world that we are all human. It’s not much more complicated than that. I find this realization to be the most shocking every time.

There is so much to tell… so much to do. That will all come.

For now, never forget: no matter where someone comes from, no matter how different he or she is, at the core, we are all equal. We all seek happiness. And truly, there is no rule that one person has more right to it than another. Never.