Tag migration policy

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

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?