Tag Refugees

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

Eight representatives from embassies, the EU, UNHCR, and IOM listened to the experiences of 23 small grassroots NGOs from across Greece, all working in support of refugees. It was a unique gathering, because small NGOs rarely have much access to embassies, and embassy representatives almost never get the chance to speak with so many NGOs at once who are truly working on the ground.

“We are the ones taking the risks to fill the enormous gaps left by Greece and the EU,” one of the NGOs said. And those risks have grown significantly in recent years. Calls for criminalisation are increasing, and so is the legislation that enables it.

A bitter example of this is the so-called “boat trials.” When a boat arrives, the police look for the person who was steering it. That person is arrested and accused of human smuggling. But human smugglers are not on those boats. After the arrest, an extremely brief trial follows. Thousands of people are unjustly imprisoned in Greek prisons.

We were guests at the residence of the Dutch Ambassador to Greece. It was very special to be able to meet there, and that representatives from other embassies had also been invited. And it was one of those days when something happens that you cannot plan or orchestrate, yet that is exactly what makes it so extraordinary.

In addition to the danger of criminalisation, these NGOs are dealing with declining income, suddenly losing access to the camps where they work, and struggling with what they can still do or say without putting people or their organisations at risk.

As the day unfolded, the atmosphere began to change. The initial tension faded. People started sharing openly and honestly, while also contributing to the report we are preparing for embassies and others on the effects of this legislation. As the stories began to connect, a picture emerged that was heartbreaking, infuriating, and deeply sad. But also inspiring: these people are doing it. They are doing what truly matters, despite fear, despite danger.

Two worlds met. Two worlds trying to position themselves within a discourse that speaks of human rights, while holding on to those rights often proves to be an illusion. Two worlds that did not know each other before, yet where something like solidarity began to emerge. “Next year at the French Embassy,” I joked to a French diplomat. “That sounds like a good plan,” he replied.

“I was very sceptical about this day,” one of the participants said, “but that turned out to be completely unjustified.” “I hope you realise the enormous impact you have created with this day,” another wrote.

I find it impossible to capture the richness of this day in a short piece. That will be done more fully in the report we are finalising this week.

With heartfelt thanks to the Dutch Ambassador in Athens and to Cees Van Beek, First Secretary. A day in which people meet, share strategies and experiences, and above all feel seen, is of immeasurable value in helping them keep going.

“Every year more people drown while crossing the Channel. In 2024, as many as in the previous six years combined.”

We are in Calais. A city with 76,000 inhabitants and 1,200 police officers. A city where every 48 hours, an insane police force destroys the places where people sleep.

That’s bullying. Malicious harassment. Dehumanizing. Get lost, go away.

A city where everyone without papers is homeless. A city where people lose hope.

In the late afternoon, we’re standing on a large field. There’s a game of football going on. Two boys sit by the water tank — just refilled by the organization we’re here with — washing their shoes. Two other boys are watching the game. Aron kicks a ball around with Gabriel. He’s so young it hurts. On the field stands a huge trailer, inside are tents where 400 people sleep.

Laundry flutters on the barbed wire. A bitter image of hope and despair in one.

Everything you see here is a layered reality. Seeing things, knowing what you’re not seeing, and sensing — when you place yourself in the shoes of that boy whose eyes light up when he plays football with a ball that’s far too soft — feelings you don’t want to feel, too much heard, seen, experienced. So young, younger than my own boys.

It’s strange — walking around in this madness during the day, that’s doable. But then, in the evening, back in the hotel room, the awareness sinks in of what I’ve actually seen. And I think about 95 amoral MPs and 1,200 police officers who destroy things pointlessly, and these boys — who are just human, like you and me — but here are condemned to live among the trash, to be welcome nowhere.

Imagine what that must feel like.

The world is broken. I can’t put it any other way.

If everywhere, all we can come up with is beating people away, stabbing boats (yes, that happens here too — in shallow water, it’s even allowed), destroying their belongings every 48 hours with brute force — it’s inhumane. And it’s only getting worse.

Normally, I would now begin a tribute to the organizations here. And they absolutely deserve it, because what courage and grit it takes to keep providing people here with water, food, electricity, clothes — because otherwise they simply wouldn’t have it.

But today, disgusting Dutch legislation runs parallel to a disgusting French reality. And that is unspeakably heartbreaking.

It is unacceptable.

Period.

Lianne Engelkes Manou Zonderland 🌎🌍🌏 Aron Bosman Dirk Kome Bart Driessen Haella Stichting Fred Foundation

Elise Kant, director of Haella, came to visit.

Outspoken and passionate, a real hands-on type.

During a sabbatical on Lesbos, she witnessed a new vitality among young volunteers that gave her courage. As far as she’s concerned, the widely used Theory of Change in philanthropy belongs in the trash—because failure should be allowed in project funding.

She doesn’t need the government for her plans. In fact, when officials tried to ride the wave of success of the small poverty relief fund, she told them to take a hike.

She was named the most influential professional in Dutch philanthropy.

Listen and find out why…

https://app.springcast.fm/20328/22-elise-kant

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

I saw a man so happy he could light up the sun. He was allowed to stay—otherwise, he would have been murdered.

I saw a family in panic. A procedural error, a negative decision. What now? Appeal on Lesbos, risking never leaving the island except by deportation? Or go to Athens, with the high risk of ending up on the streets?

I saw a tiny, precious baby. Parents waiting for a decision. A baby…

I saw so many more people. With stories. Searching for safety. Wanting nothing more than to work and build a life.

And meanwhile, our council of ministers approves the strictest asylum policy ever. They listen to no one, apparently read no reports.

And in doing so, they condemn countless people to pushbacks, violence, torture, and death in a desert. To waiting, being seen as criminals.

I look out over the Mediterranean Sea. The coast guard’s boat departs. And for a moment, I don’t know where to turn.

Thankfully, there are organizations like Fenix – Humanitarian Legal Aid and others, doing what gives hope. Doing good, today and tomorrow. That’s what I hold on to.

But dear council of ministers, is this really how you want to be remembered?

I wish I could write a hopeful story. One that lifts you up. That you can hold on to when you’re struggling to see how this world could possibly move forward. A story to read in the spring sun, surrounded by the first blooming trees.

I wish I could say: it will be okay. That one day, we will truly understand how much we need each other. That there is more than enough space for everyone. That it is beautiful and enriching to meet people who, at first glance, seem nothing like us—until we realize how untrue that is. That, at our core, we are the same.

I wish so much that the angry men making decisions—decisions that are, let’s say it out loud, criminal, evil—would disappear. Because whatever they say or do, it only destroys, shatters, is unacceptable.

I wish so much that no one would ever have to flee, for any reason. And if they must, that they would be welcomed when they arrive. Welcomed, given rest after their dangerous journey. Not, as happens now, forced into a filthy, overcrowded container—heavily pregnant, with children, a husband, another family with a baby.

I wish so much that people would care. That they would care about what is happening.

I wish so much that we would not only express opinions, write, and speak up—but that we would act.

Because if we take action en masse, if we say: this cannot, must not continue like this—

Then, we keep hope alive.

If we look at the people who are already taking action, whether here, on Lesbos, in the Netherlands, or anywhere else, and then ask ourselves: Hey, what can I do?

Then, yes, then we have a hopeful story. Because that is where it begins. That is the foundation. In that one question: What can I do? And then doing it. Alone or together. Sometimes with the desperation of last resort. But still.

That is where something begins.

Among the blooming trees in the spring sun.

with Luiza Vinhal,Lily Davies

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.”