“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.