Tag Lesbos

The recurring theme in conversations over the past days has been the invisibility of problems. Munir speaks about Sudan, his home country, where he, with the help of friends and family, founded a grassroots organization providing aid to people in North Darfur. He now works here in the camp as a coordinator for an NGO. Once, he arrived as a refugee himself.

“I have always spoken out publicly, which is why I had to flee. Even though I witnessed people being murdered and women being raped at the start of the civil war when I was just six years old, and even though I have always felt inferior because of my background, my heart still bleeds for the people of Sudan, especially in Darfur. More than 20 million people are living in camps. I am here now, unable to return, but I want to do something for them. Emergency aid, of course, but above all, I want to give people—especially women—the opportunity to learn a profession.”

The need for vocational training is often mentioned here. Various initiatives have been launched, but they are far from sufficient. The situation is becoming increasingly complex. While Lesbos is primarily seen as a transit point from which people must move on, the question of where to? is becoming harder to answer.

A policy solely focused on keeping refugees out is not only morally reprehensible—it is also shortsighted. Just like in the Netherlands, there is a need for workers here too. On this island, there are jobs in hospitality and olive farming. However, with a government that does nothing in terms of training and with organizations here struggling more and more to secure funding, the challenge remains. Still, ideas abound—from barista training programs to awakening the artist in both young and old.

But not everything happening here is positive. Refugees are being hired for disgracefully low wages to help build the new camp. A now-resigned minister even referred to this camp as a detention center. When it will open, what exactly it will be, and what consequences it will have for the NGOs currently operating in the camp—no one knows. It is located far from inhabited areas, and its impact remains uncertain.

What I see, hear, and experience here only strengthens my belief that we cannot sit idly by in response to Trump, Vance, Musk, Faber, Wilders, Klever, or their statements and disastrous policies. It is up to us to raise our voices, in whatever way we can—just like Munir, and like so many others here and around the world.

As Remco Campert beautifully put it:

Resistance does not begin with grand words

Resistance does not begin with grand words

but with small acts

Like a storm beginning with a soft rustling in the garden

or a cat suddenly bursting with energy

Like great rivers

beginning with a small spring

hidden deep in the forest

Like a blazing fire

kindled by the same match

that lights a cigarette

Like love beginning with a glance

a touch, something noticed in a voice

Asking yourself a question

That is where resistance begins

And then—asking that question to another.

Munir Bassi

I was in the middle of writing a somewhat optimistic piece for LinkedIn when Nour walked in. The toughest guy in Mitilini and the camp—half Syrian, half Ukrainian, and a favorite among all the volunteers. He sat down next to me and burst into tears. He spoke about the violence now raging in Syria, where his family is, and about the kind of funerals being held in the camp to commemorate those who have died in this latest outbreak of violence. Like a little child, I comforted him—as much as one can, at least.

Mrs. Faber truly has no idea.

Nour Daher

“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.

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?

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.

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.

When people hear “Lesbos,” various associations come to mind: a beautiful vacation island, a vast refugee camp, or the home of the poet Sappho.

Lesbos is indeed a beautiful island, where kindness, tranquility, and simplicity set the rhythm. It’s a place where one can find oneself, surrounded by expansive vistas, basking in the sun, and simply feel happy.

It’s also a place of nearly constant earthquakes, most of which go unnoticed, though some are felt. Last week, my bed and windows suddenly began to shake during a prolonged tremor measuring 5.1 in magnitude—unusual even for here. The advice: take cover under a table. Fortunately, my tiny rooftop dwelling has a table.

And then there’s the massive refugee camp, currently housing around 4,000 people in tents and shipping containers. In April of last year, there were only 1,000. When severe weather struck after the earthquake, I could only think: how must it be there?

I’m here visiting Fenix, where I’ll be volunteering in the camp for several weeks, working on stories and films, and seeking ways to engage people in the Netherlands with the harrowing ways Europe handles those seeking safety, and to support the courageous organizations making a difference here.

Fenix – Humanitarian Legal Aid is a remarkable organization. Driven by a deeply felt mission that refugees should not be approached as pitiable or, worse, as criminals, but as people like you and me with the right to a dignified existence, they provide assistance in various ways. They help individuals navigate the asylum application process informedly and overcome the immense obstacles placed before them. The stories are harrowing and heart-wrenching.

What struck me most profoundly are the additional challenges faced by traumatized individuals, which often means they cannot or dare not speak about their experiences because it feels like they might fall apart. Yet, in the procedure, they must. Suddenly, these experiences must be laid bare, as they often form the basis for approval. This is incredibly difficult for everyone, but especially for LGBTQ+ individuals. If you’ve been silent about something, particularly your orientation, for a lifetime, you often lack the language for it. Then, to suddenly have to discuss it during an interrogation is, in my view, nothing less than mental torture.

Tomorrow, I’ll accompany Aron from Fenix to the camp. It will be a balance of what I can and cannot share (strict rules apply in the camp), and photography is also prohibited.

This morning, I had an extensive conversation with Maaike, Fenix’s coordinator. So brave, young, and passionate, along with her team.

It is an enormous privilege for me to be here. I hope that, in a very different role than usual, I can contribute something, no matter how small, that makes a difference.

Contribute? See below.

fenixaid.org