Tag injustice

I’ve seen a lot of shit in this world. Wars, droughts, famines, exploitation and slavery, violence and oppression. At times, it has severely tested my belief in human goodness. But after much struggle, I refuse to believe that people simply don’t care. Again and again, I have seen people rise up, say no—and all I can do is say yes to that no.

This morning, I looked out over the Mediterranean Sea here on Lesbos. It’s freezing cold. Towering whitecaps reveal how strong the wind is. Yesterday, six people drowned off the coast of Samos. It is unbearably unjust and heartbreaking.

My hope comes from knowing that there are people here who see this too—and who are doing everything in their power to fight it.

But the plans of Ms. Klever in the Netherlands today—plans of destruction without any sign of relevant knowledge, conscience, or humanity—leave me deeply saddened, even a little desperate. Because I can see the people who will suffer because of this. And I truly don’t understand how this level of disrespect, this abandonment of human decency, has become the norm.

Ms. Klever, you are not just tearing down organizations, knowledge, and people—you are paving the way for something that must never happen: a society that ultimately doesn’t care about “the other.” A society where fundamental values are discarded and replaced by greed, as long as we are doing fine.

No, just no.

And let us, with all our might, say yes—to all those people and organizations who have the courage, the guts, the knowledge, and the passion to say no.

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?