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.