Tag Human rights

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

Eight representatives from embassies, the EU, UNHCR, and IOM listened to the experiences of 23 small grassroots NGOs from across Greece, all working in support of refugees. It was a unique gathering, because small NGOs rarely have much access to embassies, and embassy representatives almost never get the chance to speak with so many NGOs at once who are truly working on the ground.

“We are the ones taking the risks to fill the enormous gaps left by Greece and the EU,” one of the NGOs said. And those risks have grown significantly in recent years. Calls for criminalisation are increasing, and so is the legislation that enables it.

A bitter example of this is the so-called “boat trials.” When a boat arrives, the police look for the person who was steering it. That person is arrested and accused of human smuggling. But human smugglers are not on those boats. After the arrest, an extremely brief trial follows. Thousands of people are unjustly imprisoned in Greek prisons.

We were guests at the residence of the Dutch Ambassador to Greece. It was very special to be able to meet there, and that representatives from other embassies had also been invited. And it was one of those days when something happens that you cannot plan or orchestrate, yet that is exactly what makes it so extraordinary.

In addition to the danger of criminalisation, these NGOs are dealing with declining income, suddenly losing access to the camps where they work, and struggling with what they can still do or say without putting people or their organisations at risk.

As the day unfolded, the atmosphere began to change. The initial tension faded. People started sharing openly and honestly, while also contributing to the report we are preparing for embassies and others on the effects of this legislation. As the stories began to connect, a picture emerged that was heartbreaking, infuriating, and deeply sad. But also inspiring: these people are doing it. They are doing what truly matters, despite fear, despite danger.

Two worlds met. Two worlds trying to position themselves within a discourse that speaks of human rights, while holding on to those rights often proves to be an illusion. Two worlds that did not know each other before, yet where something like solidarity began to emerge. “Next year at the French Embassy,” I joked to a French diplomat. “That sounds like a good plan,” he replied.

“I was very sceptical about this day,” one of the participants said, “but that turned out to be completely unjustified.” “I hope you realise the enormous impact you have created with this day,” another wrote.

I find it impossible to capture the richness of this day in a short piece. That will be done more fully in the report we are finalising this week.

With heartfelt thanks to the Dutch Ambassador in Athens and to Cees Van Beek, First Secretary. A day in which people meet, share strategies and experiences, and above all feel seen, is of immeasurable value in helping them keep going.

Elise Kant, director of Haella, came to visit.

Outspoken and passionate, a real hands-on type.

During a sabbatical on Lesbos, she witnessed a new vitality among young volunteers that gave her courage. As far as she’s concerned, the widely used Theory of Change in philanthropy belongs in the trash—because failure should be allowed in project funding.

She doesn’t need the government for her plans. In fact, when officials tried to ride the wave of success of the small poverty relief fund, she told them to take a hike.

She was named the most influential professional in Dutch philanthropy.

Listen and find out why…

https://app.springcast.fm/20328/22-elise-kant

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.

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

“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.

Back when Joseph Kony was still terrorizing northern Uganda, I traveled there with two Ugandan colleagues to visit our local partners. That’s when we coined the term levels of horribility. Of course, that word doesn’t actually exist, but we had no other way to describe the madness of bad, worse, worst.

How do you place one horrific experience next to another? How do you compare speaking with a woman whose face was partially mutilated to hearing stories of mothers forced to cook their own children? You want to fit horror into manageable concepts, to make the incomprehensible graspable. But how do you define bad and worse? Cruel and crueler? And can you even do that? The answer was no—because in doing so, you inevitably diminish someone’s suffering.

When you think about what happens to people—about what people do to each other—you find yourself on an endless continuum of experiences. And those experiences exist in context.

What Does a Camp Like This Mean?

This morning, I stood with Maaike from Fenix at one of the spots where many people have arrived on Lesbos. The storm was raging, the cold was biting. Scattered car tires and pool floats are the silent witnesses of the boats that made it to these steep cliffs. Once, organizations could be there to receive them. Now, NGOs risk prosecution for helping.

In December, 2,000 people arrived. In January, only 175. People are now diverted to other islands that are ill-prepared, while less-monitored routes are being used. Those who make it are either intercepted by the coast guard—though pushbacks also happen—or taken to the camp.

How do you define a place like this?

If Calais, where people sleep in the bushes between filth and trash, constantly beaten away by the French police (paid for by the UK), is hell—then what is this? Ice-cold tents, overcrowded dark shelters, freezing water, and one meal a day that is barely edible. This too is hell. The hell of waiting. Of not knowing what’s ahead. Of losing every shred of control over your own life. The hell of dehumanization.

The Storm Rages On

As I curl up next to the heater in my small, cozy home in Mytilini, the icy storm howls through the camp. And with it, the question of what is worse? is blown away. It is all unbearable. And it should not be happening.

Yet, with the approval of our governments, this continues. Angry voices still claim that these people are criminals. In the camp right now, there are 900 children. In total, 3,500 people.

Looking down at the raging sea, at the silent remnants of those who made it across—or those who never did—this becomes a new level of horribility. The level of failing to guarantee humanity for all.

But recognizing this is not enough. The real question remains: what do we do?

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.

“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.