Tag hope

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

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?