Tag Solidarity

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

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

Last night, I wanted to write a post saying that closing borders equals murder. Which it does — even if that’s an uncomfortable truth. That closing borders means the loss of all humanity. That it is inhumane.

But I don’t have to anymore. Not today.

May the coming months bring such a powerful outcry for humanity and human rights that no political party dares to speak as they have — claiming that the problems in the Netherlands are caused by a handful of people fleeing war and violence.

Because that’s who these asylum seekers are. Not even 40,000 per year.

They are not to blame.

The ones who blame them are — for scapegoating, for turning away from real issues, for spreading the idea that we are better, that we deserve more rights just because we happened to be born here.

Since I returned from Lesbos, I’ve spoken with many people and addressed various gatherings. I find it important — and meaningful — to share stories and reflect on what I’ve seen.

What I often encounter is a deep sense of despair and sadness in people about what’s happening. Whether I speak about the hellish conditions at the edges of Europe or small projects here in the Netherlands, the reaction is often: I didn’t know. Not that this is going on. Not how serious the problems are. But also not how many people care — and take action.

It’s like practicing the art of not becoming disheartened. Because despair leads to helplessness, which leads to apathy.

Where do you find hope, and what should we do to hold onto it?

I get asked this more and more, and the question seems to become more urgent each week.

There’s no standard answer.

But there are things I’ve learned that help:

1. Look at what is happening. At all the people who are taking action. Wherever, however. There really are so many!
2. Contribute financially to initiatives where there is immediate need. Now is the time. Donate to the last remaining community centers in Gaza, support organizations that strive to preserve humanity in the hell at Europe’s borders, back that tiny neighborhood initiative helping people no one sees. And trust them.
3. Don’t drown in the big-picture, systemic issues that seem impossible to solve. That can make you feel powerless. Instead, look at now — there is something you can do today, even if it’s small. And small steps are always more than nothing.
4. Stay informed. Even if the news overwhelms you. Even if it’s just on one topic close to your heart.
5. Join those already doing something. That feels far less lonely. So many people have already started — help is needed everywhere. Even if you have little time, there’s always something you can contribute.
6. Sign petitions. March. Join the Red Line in The Hague tomorrow and Straat op! in Amsterdam next week. It may not change the world overnight — but it will change your sense of hope and courage. You are not alone, and we show the world that we do care. Moral support can sometimes be more powerful than financial. People from Haella will be at both protests — don’t want to walk alone? Let us know, and we’ll create a meeting point.
7. Take care of each other — and yourself. Share your grief and frustration, and share your hope. Again and again. You are not alone. Truly.

Oh come on, Ms. Faber. Please stop with this dreadful nonsense. It’s not even about the medals themselves — it’s about your way of thinking. “Those who oppose my policies deserve no recognition.” You are taking the first step towards punishment. Because that’s what this is ultimately about. For ten weeks, I was in Greece. I visited several camps on Lesbos and Samos. I met people who live there. The conditions are horrific, and the newer the camp, the more it feels like a prison. In terms of comfort, it’s non-existent. Filthy, cold, overcrowded, no privacy, police violence, rats and cockroaches. The message is clear: you are not welcome here. But thankfully, there are many people who resist this — who speak out, who act, who care. Brave people who do, and brave people who dare to speak up.

Let me put it plainly:

• There are pushbacks, often violent ones. The Greek government may deny it, but the evidence is overwhelming.
• Huge amounts of money are being poured into the camps, but it doesn’t reach the people. Clear signs: filthy conditions, food that’s neither nutritious nor sufficient, and monthly allowances that haven’t been paid since May.
• Children do not belong behind barbed wire.
• Babies deserve to grow up in clean, safe environments — not filthy camps.
• People fleeing violence deserve protection.
• Thousands are imprisoned on charges of human trafficking without evidence. That is injustice.

To Ms. Faber, one simple message in bold, capital letters:

PEOPLE FLEEING FOR THEIR LIVES ARE NOT CRIMINALS — THEY ARE HUMAN BEINGS, LIKE YOU AND ME.

And those who help them, here or there, are not breaking policy. They are acting on values rooted in justice and human decency. So, Ms. Faber, could you please stop this slide into criminalizing what, for the vast majority of Dutch people — far more than you think — is essential: offering help to people in need. Even when they don’t look like you.

Faber does not approve royal honors for COA employees – https://nos.nl/l/2561674

In all the stories about injustice and lack, sorrow and helplessness, there’s also the one about the wondrous nature of this island.

Here on this island—still a strange one—cynicism and the gloom that seems to have settled over the world like a grey veil haven’t taken hold. There have been more than enough reasons for that to happen, but still, no.

I see it with my Greek shopkeeper friends: they carry each other’s things when it’s busy, chat and smoke on the terrace when it’s not, and gossip about everyone (now also about me—whatever I do, someone has seen it and shared it). Meanwhile, Litza and George are being comforted in their endless grief over the death of their daughter.

The hairdresser yesterday, whose card machine didn’t work, said, “Oh, just bring it another time.”

And the Greek restaurant guy—who looks like a pirate and serves me the fish he chooses every Monday—had the same card issue and, with a big laugh, said, “Ah, just forget it.” Mind you, I was his only customer.

Then there are the people from the Greek organization Sini Parxi, who bring together people from the camp and Greeks in a former ouzerie, providing breakfast, food packages, and evenings of poetry in twenty languages.

That atmosphere of Welcome! Whoever you are, whatever you are. That’s this island too.

I fear I’ll often be staring out the window at Haella, longing for this simple, cheerful exuberance and the we live today and make something beautiful of it spirit.

The kind of thing you also find in places once soaked in deep sorrow. When you know how broken it can all be, grab life by the claws, the scruff, or whatever you can—because tomorrow it could be over.

We all fumble our way through—so we might as well fumble together.

On this island, we see the outgrowth of immense, indigestible injustice.

We see people who, with all their heart and soul, want to do something about it.

And on this island, those who dare and want to can learn to slow down, take their time, be kind, and live in the here and now.

And so I take two things with me.

First, an even stronger sense of mission: to tell the whole world that what happens here, on Samos, and in so many other places, is unacceptable—we must do everything we can to support those who are working to change it.

And second: that it’s up to us to find, create, and be the places where kindness and trust are the beginning and the end.

Simple, yet essential.

Lovingly fumbling our way through together, so the world becomes just a little more bearable.

We are not doomed. It’s not hopeless or over.

As long as we do something.

However small.

However shaky at times.

Still—something.

Maybe it’s a good thing that it never becomes normal—the things that simply shouldn’t be, that leave a knot in your stomach and sadness in your mind. Because they force us to search for solutions.

A strong storm is raging over Samos. The island is rougher than Lesbos, with fewer inhabitants. Yet, there is a growing number of people on their way to a (dream of a) future. A large camp, a 1.5-hour walk from the city, that truly looks like a prison. Especially for the many children, it is a distressing place. Garbage is everywhere, the containers where people live have no locks, the camp was built in a location with severe water issues, there is no lighting at the sanitation facilities, no proper washing facilities, and police violence. The latter is present in all camps, but out of fear, people rarely talk about it.

We are not allowed inside. There are few NGOs here, and the ones we visit do not have access. People are allowed to leave the camp, but that means long lines and strict controls.

The camp was originally located on a hill near the city. This caused much discontent among the local population, especially in regard to tourism. A few years ago, it was relocated. The new camp was initially intended for 2,400 people, but suddenly it was designated for 3,600, and it frequently holds even more. Despite these large numbers, few aid organizations are active here. They cannot enter the camp, and all organizations struggle with funding, making expansion difficult.

That help is needed is beyond question. We speak with a legal organization that supports people during and after their asylum procedures, as well as an organization that provides a much-needed escape from the camp’s atmosphere. A community center where people can learn English, where children can play, and where women have a space of their own. “People need a place to relax, to step away from that prison-like environment,” says Dalia from Samos Volunteers, who built Alfa Land right across from the camp. Cheerful, colorful, and even on this extremely windy day, a place where people come to feel human again.

The greatest unmet need is mental health care. The number of people who have been trafficked, raped, or otherwise tortured is high. On Lesbos, there is some attention to this, for example through BRF, but here, hardly any. This is due to the lack of attention from the Greek government and, as mentioned, the low number of NGOs.

Lianne and I feel deeply saddened. There is no other way to put it. Treating people like this—it simply makes no sense. The storm that has been raging across the island for days only adds to the heaviness.

But even now, it is the people who, against all odds, continue to do what is absolutely necessary, who share their plans, hopes, and despair with us, who persist with an inexhaustible drive to do what must be done—they set the example.

And I keep thinking about how to find funding for these organizations. Because it has to be done—to support these guardians of humanity while the world in which they operate grows ever darker. They simply won’t let it happen. And neither will we.

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’ve seen a lot of shit in this world. Wars, droughts, famines, exploitation and slavery, violence and oppression. At times, it has severely tested my belief in human goodness. But after much struggle, I refuse to believe that people simply don’t care. Again and again, I have seen people rise up, say no—and all I can do is say yes to that no.

This morning, I looked out over the Mediterranean Sea here on Lesbos. It’s freezing cold. Towering whitecaps reveal how strong the wind is. Yesterday, six people drowned off the coast of Samos. It is unbearably unjust and heartbreaking.

My hope comes from knowing that there are people here who see this too—and who are doing everything in their power to fight it.

But the plans of Ms. Klever in the Netherlands today—plans of destruction without any sign of relevant knowledge, conscience, or humanity—leave me deeply saddened, even a little desperate. Because I can see the people who will suffer because of this. And I truly don’t understand how this level of disrespect, this abandonment of human decency, has become the norm.

Ms. Klever, you are not just tearing down organizations, knowledge, and people—you are paving the way for something that must never happen: a society that ultimately doesn’t care about “the other.” A society where fundamental values are discarded and replaced by greed, as long as we are doing fine.

No, just no.

And let us, with all our might, say yes—to all those people and organizations who have the courage, the guts, the knowledge, and the passion to say no.

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.