Tag Fenix

I almost want to paint this sentence in large letters somewhere. Because that is what it’s all about. The essence of what people here are searching for, why they cross a sea, travel through unsafe countries.

Enduring hardships that are unimaginably cruel. Today, I learned a new term: scar mapping—a record of all scars and other marks of torture or mistreatment. Since people are not allowed to show them during their interviews, they need photos or a documented overview of their injuries. This, too, is part of the invisible reality here.

What word do you even give to something like this? “Dark,” says one of my Fenix colleagues. The kind young man from West Africa needs a referral from Fenix to have such mapping done. Another moment when the abnormal—what should never exist—becomes “normal.” It strengthens their case file.

A little later, a tall, kind man approaches us. He is trembling. His breath is shallow, tears close. But I have rarely seen anyone so incredibly relieved—his joy could set the sun on fire.

“I don’t know what to say,” he pauses, trying to calm himself, but it is too big, too overwhelming.

“I am so, so happy.”

We look at him, overwhelmed ourselves, also feeling, if only for a moment, how much tension this process brings and how much relief follows. Like the pressure valve of a boiling pot releasing.

He laughs—you can almost touch his relief.

Fenix has helped this man, also from West Africa, who traveled entirely overland. (Take a moment to look at the map, through which countries he had to pass and what that means—especially for someone from a so-called “vulnerable” group.) They guided him through his procedure. It is crucial that people are as detailed as possible. What is happening in their country of origin? Why did they flee? Do they have evidence? Fenix prepares them. Especially for people from so-called safe countries, yet who come from deeply unsafe situations, this preparation is vital.

He cannot stop thanking everyone. It truly calls for a celebration—but since that’s not possible, I go searching for the roll of cookies.

In the afternoon, I run into him again in Mitilini. He is wearing glasses now, walking down the street with a new energy. I barely recognize him. He stops me. Tells his friend that Fenix helped him. Thanks me once more (for clarity: I have done nothing—this is the work of Fenix’s incredible staff) and once again says how happy he is.

“What will you do now?” I ask.

“When you get your passport…?” (That will still take a while.)

He looks at me.

“I am safe now, that is all that matters.”

When you find yourself in a conversation about refugees, about migration—carry this with you.

At our core, we all want and need the same thing: to be safe. Safe within ourselves, in our relationships, and in the country we live in. It is that simple. And that profound.

The man almost dances down the street. For a moment, all the suffering fades away.

“I am safe now, that is all that matters.”

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).