Tag Refugee Crisis

“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.

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