Tag Greece

Rob and colleagues,

Over the past two weeks, I was in Greece, visiting our partner organizations that offer the last glimpses of humanity in a world that, for people on the run, is no longer humane.

Because no, Rob, this is not about a single incident where something goes wrong. Human rights are being violated systematically. A sentence in a policy document stating that this should not happen does not mean that it does not happen. Because it does happen. And on a large scale.

I have seen a great deal of suffering in my life across this world. What makes this different is that I am a citizen of a country that supports this suffering. That considers it acceptable.

I would very much like to take you along on my next trip. We would talk to the boy who had to flee his country, who endured a hellish journey filled with horrific experiences, who crossed the sea. Upon arrival, the Greek coast guard tried to push the boat back into the sea (this happens on a very large scale; there is overwhelming evidence—could you address Greece about this?). The boy held up a baby who was also on the boat and said: Don’t do it! They did not, but they arrested him and claimed he was a smuggler. He is not. Thousands of people in Greece are imprisoned on charges of human smuggling when they are not smugglers at all (could you also address the Greek government about this?).

We would also try to speak with the people who, just the night before last, were taken from their beds in one of the camps on the islands by the police and arrested. Their application had been rejected for the second time. They can now be detained for two years, even though their legal term had not yet expired.

And we would visit the organizations working on mental health. Because 50% of the people who come there have suicidal thoughts. After experiencing terrible things, then not being welcomed, being placed in a filthy camp, and then waiting—there is a limit to what people can endure.

I could tire you with an essay about the legal, constitutional, and factual errors that dominate the debate on migration. About numbers that are incorrect, but above all about the ongoing lies used to justify inhumane measures.

I will not do that. I appeal to your humanity. Things are happening at the edges of Europe that cannot bear the light of day. Children arriving on the shores of Greece are sent back out to sea naked in rubber boats. Masked men push boats back or let them sink. With impunity.

Saying that human rights must be respected while holding no one accountable, dismissing kilometers of evidence—I cannot and do not want to understand it. Once, we were a country that held human rights in high regard, that stood up for them internationally. Now we are participating in a European contest to see who can create the harshest asylum policy.

Come with us sometime and listen.

Rob Jetten

Oh come on, Ms. Faber. Please stop with this dreadful nonsense. It’s not even about the medals themselves — it’s about your way of thinking. “Those who oppose my policies deserve no recognition.” You are taking the first step towards punishment. Because that’s what this is ultimately about. For ten weeks, I was in Greece. I visited several camps on Lesbos and Samos. I met people who live there. The conditions are horrific, and the newer the camp, the more it feels like a prison. In terms of comfort, it’s non-existent. Filthy, cold, overcrowded, no privacy, police violence, rats and cockroaches. The message is clear: you are not welcome here. But thankfully, there are many people who resist this — who speak out, who act, who care. Brave people who do, and brave people who dare to speak up.

Let me put it plainly:

• There are pushbacks, often violent ones. The Greek government may deny it, but the evidence is overwhelming.
• Huge amounts of money are being poured into the camps, but it doesn’t reach the people. Clear signs: filthy conditions, food that’s neither nutritious nor sufficient, and monthly allowances that haven’t been paid since May.
• Children do not belong behind barbed wire.
• Babies deserve to grow up in clean, safe environments — not filthy camps.
• People fleeing violence deserve protection.
• Thousands are imprisoned on charges of human trafficking without evidence. That is injustice.

To Ms. Faber, one simple message in bold, capital letters:

PEOPLE FLEEING FOR THEIR LIVES ARE NOT CRIMINALS — THEY ARE HUMAN BEINGS, LIKE YOU AND ME.

And those who help them, here or there, are not breaking policy. They are acting on values rooted in justice and human decency. So, Ms. Faber, could you please stop this slide into criminalizing what, for the vast majority of Dutch people — far more than you think — is essential: offering help to people in need. Even when they don’t look like you.

Faber does not approve royal honors for COA employees – https://nos.nl/l/2561674

In all the stories about injustice and lack, sorrow and helplessness, there’s also the one about the wondrous nature of this island.

Here on this island—still a strange one—cynicism and the gloom that seems to have settled over the world like a grey veil haven’t taken hold. There have been more than enough reasons for that to happen, but still, no.

I see it with my Greek shopkeeper friends: they carry each other’s things when it’s busy, chat and smoke on the terrace when it’s not, and gossip about everyone (now also about me—whatever I do, someone has seen it and shared it). Meanwhile, Litza and George are being comforted in their endless grief over the death of their daughter.

The hairdresser yesterday, whose card machine didn’t work, said, “Oh, just bring it another time.”

And the Greek restaurant guy—who looks like a pirate and serves me the fish he chooses every Monday—had the same card issue and, with a big laugh, said, “Ah, just forget it.” Mind you, I was his only customer.

Then there are the people from the Greek organization Sini Parxi, who bring together people from the camp and Greeks in a former ouzerie, providing breakfast, food packages, and evenings of poetry in twenty languages.

That atmosphere of Welcome! Whoever you are, whatever you are. That’s this island too.

I fear I’ll often be staring out the window at Haella, longing for this simple, cheerful exuberance and the we live today and make something beautiful of it spirit.

The kind of thing you also find in places once soaked in deep sorrow. When you know how broken it can all be, grab life by the claws, the scruff, or whatever you can—because tomorrow it could be over.

We all fumble our way through—so we might as well fumble together.

On this island, we see the outgrowth of immense, indigestible injustice.

We see people who, with all their heart and soul, want to do something about it.

And on this island, those who dare and want to can learn to slow down, take their time, be kind, and live in the here and now.

And so I take two things with me.

First, an even stronger sense of mission: to tell the whole world that what happens here, on Samos, and in so many other places, is unacceptable—we must do everything we can to support those who are working to change it.

And second: that it’s up to us to find, create, and be the places where kindness and trust are the beginning and the end.

Simple, yet essential.

Lovingly fumbling our way through together, so the world becomes just a little more bearable.

We are not doomed. It’s not hopeless or over.

As long as we do something.

However small.

However shaky at times.

Still—something.

Maybe it’s a good thing that it never becomes normal—the things that simply shouldn’t be, that leave a knot in your stomach and sadness in your mind. Because they force us to search for solutions.

A strong storm is raging over Samos. The island is rougher than Lesbos, with fewer inhabitants. Yet, there is a growing number of people on their way to a (dream of a) future. A large camp, a 1.5-hour walk from the city, that truly looks like a prison. Especially for the many children, it is a distressing place. Garbage is everywhere, the containers where people live have no locks, the camp was built in a location with severe water issues, there is no lighting at the sanitation facilities, no proper washing facilities, and police violence. The latter is present in all camps, but out of fear, people rarely talk about it.

We are not allowed inside. There are few NGOs here, and the ones we visit do not have access. People are allowed to leave the camp, but that means long lines and strict controls.

The camp was originally located on a hill near the city. This caused much discontent among the local population, especially in regard to tourism. A few years ago, it was relocated. The new camp was initially intended for 2,400 people, but suddenly it was designated for 3,600, and it frequently holds even more. Despite these large numbers, few aid organizations are active here. They cannot enter the camp, and all organizations struggle with funding, making expansion difficult.

That help is needed is beyond question. We speak with a legal organization that supports people during and after their asylum procedures, as well as an organization that provides a much-needed escape from the camp’s atmosphere. A community center where people can learn English, where children can play, and where women have a space of their own. “People need a place to relax, to step away from that prison-like environment,” says Dalia from Samos Volunteers, who built Alfa Land right across from the camp. Cheerful, colorful, and even on this extremely windy day, a place where people come to feel human again.

The greatest unmet need is mental health care. The number of people who have been trafficked, raped, or otherwise tortured is high. On Lesbos, there is some attention to this, for example through BRF, but here, hardly any. This is due to the lack of attention from the Greek government and, as mentioned, the low number of NGOs.

Lianne and I feel deeply saddened. There is no other way to put it. Treating people like this—it simply makes no sense. The storm that has been raging across the island for days only adds to the heaviness.

But even now, it is the people who, against all odds, continue to do what is absolutely necessary, who share their plans, hopes, and despair with us, who persist with an inexhaustible drive to do what must be done—they set the example.

And I keep thinking about how to find funding for these organizations. Because it has to be done—to support these guardians of humanity while the world in which they operate grows ever darker. They simply won’t let it happen. And neither will we.

“It’s cruel.” X from Syria barely holds back his tears. When I spoke to him in April last year, he had finally made it to Athens after enduring abuse in Turkey, being pushed back from Bulgaria, and making two attempts to reach Greece. He was finally in the right procedure, with a strong chance of obtaining papers. But no—procedural errors delayed the process, and now the decision-making for Syrians has been put on hold.

Every policy you read about has far-reaching consequences for real people. All Syrians currently in the procedure are now stuck in this country, including those on Lesbos. They are not allowed to leave the island. Germany is preparing to start deporting Syrians who traveled through Greece, their first country of arrival. And then what?

This is about X and that five-year-old boy traveling alone. It’s about families who have already endured so much. A single sentence—“decision-making postponed”—suspends people’s lives in limbo, with no one knowing how it will end.

I was in Athens this weekend, visiting some partners and taking a moment to admire everything this city has to offer. “How are things on Lesbos?” was a recurring question. The pastor of the Anglican church, where I briefly stopped yesterday with Cees from the embassy, immediately invited me to speak one evening. “We barely hear about it anymore.” The mainland camps are far from inhabited areas.

I sent a piece to Trouw. The response was that it was very compelling, but they already covered Greece enough.

And of course, a drawn-out issue loses to the language of war and threats. But that rhetoric fuels the silence—not just by making it less newsworthy, but also by increasing its invisibility and that of its consequences.

Every day, I realize more how much we don’t know. And how too little knowledge always leads to bad plans, cruel policies, and a lack of awareness.

Dutch legislative proposals are partly based on Greek procedures, as Greece is the testing ground. But in some ways, Greece does things better than the Netherlands. Two months after arrival, whether or not they have received papers, people are allowed to work. Not in the Netherlands. Every European country is coming up with stricter measures—Minister Faber stacks them on top of each other and ties them up with a bow. And no matter what the Council of State says, it all drowns in Trumpian rhetoric.

“I’ll come back,” I tell X. Not that it helps him in any way. But maybe his story will help people understand what seemingly simple measures do to a person. A young man whose eyes are less hopeful than ten months ago. But who keeps going, refusing to surrender to a cruel system that leaves no room for humanity.

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).