Tag Migration

It is pouring rain as we arrive with the Refugee Women Center. Women are standing in a line. A few hesitate about finding shelter, but there is hardly any place to take cover. “Stay in line, or you’ll lose your spot,” someone shouts to a few others. They stand close together. Some hold on to each other.

It is still raining as we set up the gazebo. Meanwhile, the line keeps growing longer. A number of women step out of the line to help, then quickly return to their place.

Next to this spot, Project Play is playing with children under a small shelter. They are coloring, puzzling, playing. Small children. Tonight, they may or may not sleep in a tent. They run around. A brief moment of lightness. Their mothers are standing in line for a tent.

But beyond that, there is nothing light about this place. Nothing at all. Truly nothing.

While angry people in the Netherlands shout that these are criminals—yet set fires themselves and then go home—people here are standing in line so they do not have to sleep outside tonight. Children play in a place without perspective. Just for a moment.

These people, who can still laugh, who help each other, where sometimes anger takes over and sometimes, astonishingly, it does not, are standing in line for a small tent. A blanket.

Imagine standing in that line. Set up in a place where there is nothing. And tomorrow the police will clear it.

In this place, your heart breaks into a thousand pieces. Because people are reduced to non-people. Because it is a senseless loss of billions to keep taking everything away from people again and again. An endless cycle that says: you are worth less than nothing.

And no, it does not deter. The numbers are not decreasing, and they will not decrease as long as wars are encouraged, as long as bombings are supported. As long as every country says: we do not want you.

The only thing in this hell that gives courage are the people who help each other—the organizations, but also the people themselves. But what used to be enough for me is no longer enough.

We are creating a world in which the downfall of people is the goal.

This world suffers not only from a lack of empathy, but also from a lack of imagination. Imagination to see how these people are trampled when numbers are used to create a sense of control. Imagination to see how all of this could be different.

A small boy wearing a self-colored mask tries to scare me. We both burst out laughing. Tonight, he will sleep in a small tent—or not. The wind is too strong, so no one is crossing.

For the love of all that is humane, support these organizations that are doing everything they can to preserve the last glimpses of humanity. If they disappear, hell will be complete. Then there will be no drinking water, no tent, no blanket, no aid, no clothes. And as Europe shifts further to the far right, there is little to expect from governments. It will simply come down to people of goodwill—to you and me.

https://lnkd.in/eH7rCyy7

Rob and colleagues,

Over the past two weeks, I was in Greece, visiting our partner organizations that offer the last glimpses of humanity in a world that, for people on the run, is no longer humane.

Because no, Rob, this is not about a single incident where something goes wrong. Human rights are being violated systematically. A sentence in a policy document stating that this should not happen does not mean that it does not happen. Because it does happen. And on a large scale.

I have seen a great deal of suffering in my life across this world. What makes this different is that I am a citizen of a country that supports this suffering. That considers it acceptable.

I would very much like to take you along on my next trip. We would talk to the boy who had to flee his country, who endured a hellish journey filled with horrific experiences, who crossed the sea. Upon arrival, the Greek coast guard tried to push the boat back into the sea (this happens on a very large scale; there is overwhelming evidence—could you address Greece about this?). The boy held up a baby who was also on the boat and said: Don’t do it! They did not, but they arrested him and claimed he was a smuggler. He is not. Thousands of people in Greece are imprisoned on charges of human smuggling when they are not smugglers at all (could you also address the Greek government about this?).

We would also try to speak with the people who, just the night before last, were taken from their beds in one of the camps on the islands by the police and arrested. Their application had been rejected for the second time. They can now be detained for two years, even though their legal term had not yet expired.

And we would visit the organizations working on mental health. Because 50% of the people who come there have suicidal thoughts. After experiencing terrible things, then not being welcomed, being placed in a filthy camp, and then waiting—there is a limit to what people can endure.

I could tire you with an essay about the legal, constitutional, and factual errors that dominate the debate on migration. About numbers that are incorrect, but above all about the ongoing lies used to justify inhumane measures.

I will not do that. I appeal to your humanity. Things are happening at the edges of Europe that cannot bear the light of day. Children arriving on the shores of Greece are sent back out to sea naked in rubber boats. Masked men push boats back or let them sink. With impunity.

Saying that human rights must be respected while holding no one accountable, dismissing kilometers of evidence—I cannot and do not want to understand it. Once, we were a country that held human rights in high regard, that stood up for them internationally. Now we are participating in a European contest to see who can create the harshest asylum policy.

Come with us sometime and listen.

Rob Jetten

I almost want to paint this sentence in large letters somewhere. Because that is what it’s all about. The essence of what people here are searching for, why they cross a sea, travel through unsafe countries.

Enduring hardships that are unimaginably cruel. Today, I learned a new term: scar mapping—a record of all scars and other marks of torture or mistreatment. Since people are not allowed to show them during their interviews, they need photos or a documented overview of their injuries. This, too, is part of the invisible reality here.

What word do you even give to something like this? “Dark,” says one of my Fenix colleagues. The kind young man from West Africa needs a referral from Fenix to have such mapping done. Another moment when the abnormal—what should never exist—becomes “normal.” It strengthens their case file.

A little later, a tall, kind man approaches us. He is trembling. His breath is shallow, tears close. But I have rarely seen anyone so incredibly relieved—his joy could set the sun on fire.

“I don’t know what to say,” he pauses, trying to calm himself, but it is too big, too overwhelming.

“I am so, so happy.”

We look at him, overwhelmed ourselves, also feeling, if only for a moment, how much tension this process brings and how much relief follows. Like the pressure valve of a boiling pot releasing.

He laughs—you can almost touch his relief.

Fenix has helped this man, also from West Africa, who traveled entirely overland. (Take a moment to look at the map, through which countries he had to pass and what that means—especially for someone from a so-called “vulnerable” group.) They guided him through his procedure. It is crucial that people are as detailed as possible. What is happening in their country of origin? Why did they flee? Do they have evidence? Fenix prepares them. Especially for people from so-called safe countries, yet who come from deeply unsafe situations, this preparation is vital.

He cannot stop thanking everyone. It truly calls for a celebration—but since that’s not possible, I go searching for the roll of cookies.

In the afternoon, I run into him again in Mitilini. He is wearing glasses now, walking down the street with a new energy. I barely recognize him. He stops me. Tells his friend that Fenix helped him. Thanks me once more (for clarity: I have done nothing—this is the work of Fenix’s incredible staff) and once again says how happy he is.

“What will you do now?” I ask.

“When you get your passport…?” (That will still take a while.)

He looks at me.

“I am safe now, that is all that matters.”

When you find yourself in a conversation about refugees, about migration—carry this with you.

At our core, we all want and need the same thing: to be safe. Safe within ourselves, in our relationships, and in the country we live in. It is that simple. And that profound.

The man almost dances down the street. For a moment, all the suffering fades away.

“I am safe now, that is all that matters.”

“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 always live two lives. The part I hide is eating me up.” It could hardly be put more clearly. A queer young man who has had to conceal his identity his entire life describes how complicated it is. In his home country, he was never allowed to be himself, and now, suddenly, in his asylum interview, he has to lay it all out. And then, in the camp, he shares a shelter with eight other men—men whose views on people like him are unknown.

Some facts: LGBTQ+ people in the camp are among the most likely to be traumatized. Nearly all have experienced sexual violence, many have been tortured or fallen victim to human trafficking, and every single one has lived a life where they had to hide who they truly are. Yet, they are not officially recognized as particularly vulnerable. That means there are no safe houses for them in the camp, no additional protection. To give an idea: the rate of sexual violence experienced by gay men is three times higher than that of other people in similar situations.

Because they all come from countries where being LGBTQ+ is criminalized, it is often hard for them to believe that it is legal in Greece. When you’ve spent your entire life fearing the state, the police, and even other people, it is incredibly difficult to suddenly trust that you can be open. “I have always felt it is not okay to talk about it. That is dangerous.” But here, openness is required. Without it, especially if you come from a so-called “safe country,” you have almost no chance of being granted refugee status. A “safe country” is a nation not officially recognized as dangerous, meaning you must present an exceptionally strong and deeply personal case to receive asylum. And for people who have spent their lives making themselves invisible, revealing who they truly are is incredibly difficult. “One man told me that he only realized here that he wasn’t the only gay person in the world.”

But the problems don’t stop there. Being placed in a container with eight strangers is difficult for anyone. I caught a glimpse of it yesterday. The “houses”—essentially containers—are dark, bare, far from clean, and much too small for eight or more people who don’t know each other. Imagine having to flee from the Netherlands, ending up in a camp, being crammed into a container with seven strangers. It’s cold, dirty, there’s not enough food, you have no money, and you are at the mercy of a system that does not see you as a person. You can be moved at any moment, you must wait endlessly with no idea when things will change. That alone is enough to drive anyone into depression. Add to that the fact that you’ve survived an exhausting and dangerous journey, endured unimaginable hardships, and then you find yourself in a container where you cannot, and do not dare, to be yourself.

Maaike and I dream of a safe house for this group. “If they could live in the city, finally have a space where they can be themselves, it would change everything.” Because no one should have to defend themselves against the idea that they are a monster.

Is there violence against them in the camp? Yes. As in any overcrowded, hopeless environment, tensions occasionally rise. Some groups are more vulnerable than others. That does not mean that everyone is homophobic. It also does not mean that everyone is violent or criminal. It is, in fact, a miracle that there isn’t more violence in these conditions. That people, desperate from waiting so long, don’t all turn to self-harm or reckless behavior. What strikes me time and again is how kind people are. How you can walk through the camp and see everyone maintaining the illusion of normalcy—because otherwise, it would be unbearable.

You cannot constantly think “Oh, how awful,” or zoom out to the global refugee crisis, because then the sheer scale of it will paralyze you. And so, both the residents and the organizations do their best to make the situation work. But make no mistake: making the best of it does not mean it is good.

These are the edges of civilization—this is where it stops. And yet, even here, in a situation that has nothing to do with civilization, people hold on to their humanity. And that, every single time, is nothing short of a miracle. It is a reminder that refugees should not be seen as mere victims, as one-dimensional identities, but simply as people. People who have the same right to a place in the sun as you and me.

Fenix – Humanitarian Legal Aid
Haella Stichting
Maaike Vledder (she/her)

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.