Tag: Reflection

I have spent the past few days wondering how, when I finally got the chance, I might tell the story of the past five days. Agonising over the details and the timelines. What happened when? Did the hospital trip happen before or after the border closures. Honestly, it has been a bit of a rough ride here recently. Each time the situation doesn’t seem like it could become more difficult, something happens to challenge that.

Our gas station camp is unrecognisable now from the one we arrived into, inhabited by many thousands of salt-water worn, well-walked in shoes filled out by uncertain and confused people.

I could take this opportunity to tell you about the dark moments, the parts where I had to leave and cry out of sheer exhaustion, ravaged by the cold and flus of 50 sick patients an hour, in a queue that never dissipated.

The part where the Macedonia border closed to all Afghanis, sparking a mass exodus of 1000 desperate people giving up hope on their busses ever leaving, trekking 15km to the border in the cold, elderly, sick and babies in tow down a busy highway.

The evening before where I was informed, in no uncertain terms, that I would need to stay with our critically ill patient in hospital overnight, that refugees were not permitted to be left unattended there and that I was destined to sit in a small, empty & dilapidated hospital, patching up broken English with more broken English. Arabic vs Greek, with me translating two languages I don’t understand myself. A common improv translation task these days.

Yes, those moments were difficult. I could write you a hundred heartbreaking stories of the people here, the scenarios and tragedies. But they are so frequent here these days that it barely feels like news anymore. Use your imagination, everything you think has happened here, and to these people, is probably true – and more.

Instead I will introduce you to some of my friends.

Meet my friend. The one with the charming smile and kind eyes, although you couldn’t see them the first time we met. Hunched over onto a car vomiting, drifting in and out of consciousness and clutching his stomach in agony, there was no time for such gentle introductions. Instead of shaking hands, we met as I held his legs tight, a team of four carrying his writhing body over to the closed clinic. We became acquainted as he gripped my hand tight in the ambulance, deliriously asking over and over for his wife and baby as our doctor put an IV in his arm to help stabilise him. Over five hours sitting and waiting at a remote hospital we became friends. As he recovered we shared stories of our countries, our families, our own very different journeys. He shared with me photos of his 5 month old daughter as I loaned him my phone to check in with his family back home in Syria. My friend who called me over by name the next day to introduce to his family, who I shared a beautiful moment in the sun, taking a teddy bear to his daughter and having photos taken with him and his family, sharing a packet of oreos. ‘Please, take my number’ I insisted. ‘Tell me once you reach Frankfurt, I need to know you are all safe’. ‘Ah, Facebook! I will find you on Facebook. Thank you Anna, thank you so much’. Their journey continues. I hope someday, when phones are charged and WiFi accessible to him, I will hear from my new friend in Germany.

I would like to introduce you to another group of new friends, the explorers. Men my age, forging a safe pathway across Europe for their families waiting patiently in Turkey for them. Out to find a better life. Laughter crosses all language barriers as we teamed up in the middle of the night to make new tents out of a pile of broken pieces. A moment of eye contact sparked an eruption of laughter as our abstract tent creation wobbled, wavered and finally toppled over. My friends who don’t want to be helpless or cared for, who stay up through the night helping volunteers create safe spaces and hand out food. The explorers who insist we take their seats, who share stories and jokes as they saw up more discarded tree branches for the oil-drum fire we will all sit around for the coming hours, Whose spirits haven’t been crushed despite facing endless challenges. My beautiful group of laughing explorers.

Next, my solo friend. Sitting on the curb, helping us translate. He doesn’t want help nor sympathy, he is kind and patient. He lost the life of his brother along the way and now travels alone on the long path to Germany. He has a beautiful accent, and takes the time to learn from me where New Zealand is. He has no tent, no blanket and it is bitterly cold. I get to know this friend by ushering him into the ambulance, the four of us sitting and drinking hot chocolates and sharing quotes, stories and jokes from my colleagues  phone. Eventually we convince him to take our blanket with him. This new friend of mine is a stoic warrior with a kind heart.

I have many other friends around this camp, so many I can’t count. Some I know well, some I have only met in passing. Walking around I am greeted by kind smiles, offers of everything ranging from water, cookies and cigarettes through to the jackets off their backs on a cold night. The kindness and resilience here leaves me incredulous. Each day I make new friends who will entertain me through the night with their laughter, their stories. Amidst a jungle of tour buses and bodies sleeping around the ground, bellowing smoke of campfires and makeshift huts in the luggage compartment of busses, my new friends wait for a signal that they will be allowed to move on.

All of my new friends are on a journey that I can barely comprehend myself, and at any minute they could be gone again into the night. But with the tumultuous situations up at the border that might not be for a while. Until then, we will wait here, all together.

The wind howled through camp the last two nights, hurling pine needles and poorly pinned laundry across the grounds. Spring is coming, but before the orange trees burst into flower I will be gone from this island.

Providing the weather stabilises, we will be leaving on a ferry bound for Kavala tomorrow morning.

Will I return to my life jacket strewn island paradise? It’s too early to know. With the promises of incoming NATO ships and more EU threats to Greece, things are bound to become more chaotic at the land borders, but potentially provide some respite for the islands. If the needs of Lesvos grow again, I will come back. For now, I need to go where I am most needed. So begins my journey north toward the Macedonian border.

I arrived into Athens, moved to Lesvos and now will begin my Journey up toward Macedonia. 928km away – I will be taking the ferry for most of that distance.

I am beginning to pack up my belongings, both the ones I arrived with and the new bits – tents, sleeping bags and other things required for entering a refugee zone with minimal infrastructure. Of course I’m feeling a little nervous, every new plan begins with a cocktail of excitement and trepidation. It feels good to be moving ahead, to be going where help is needed.

Tomorrow marks my one month anniversary on this island, it feels like a milestone day to leave again.

2016 has already taught me about many things I never expected to learn; I had never been into politics however I have developed political views, gradually I begin to understand. The decisions of politicians weigh heavily on my conscience. I feel enraged that people are being killed just kilometres from where I am. Human rights have become real.

I knew nothing of sailing, but now when I stare out past the port I can tell you if the boats will come, or if it’s too choppy. I can spot the coastguard from 6km away and show you the difference between a blinking rescue signal light and the lights from the turkish fishing boats.

The past week has been quiet, peppered with bouts of anger and frustration.

Small disputes and debates with friends who have never been, and will probably never come here. People who have never experienced first hand the humanity of this situation, who feel their own solution is the right one to solve such a global and horrific crisis. I get easily fired up these days. After a month of meeting this crisis head-on, from a face to face perspective, I may have lost touch with the broader scope of things. Either way, I become more passionate about this cause as time continues.

As the minutes creep into weeks I am realising the power of our anger. How so many people have arrived here, motivated by a sense of rage and injustice. I have come to accept that not only is my anger real, but that it isn’t bad either.

So let us be angry. Invite in the small frustrations and the massive rage. For it is how changes are made and people are inspired, it drives us to take action and re-shape the world into something closer to how we thought we wanted it. Love is the motivation behind change, however it is constructive anger that is the real driving force.

Let us be angry, but let us also learn to channel it into constructive change.

I’m sitting in the reception, a small brightly coloured room at the entrance of Pikpa. To my right is a pile of drums taking a break from their usual residence in evening drumming circles, landscaping sketches are taped to the walls behind me telling stories of beautiful things to come.

This room is the hub of where all the meetings are held and changes take place, it’s where I come to work, to write, to think. Outside the window I can hear haphazard guitar strumming, children laughing and parents cooking dinner in the communal dining room.

This is a community with heart, a place that is constantly evolving and changing to meet the needs of an unpredictable future of the island.

Quieter days and gentler times

It’s not all boat rescues filling up my days in Greece. I am based in a community known as Pikpa – the community of all together. Here we only take the most vulnerable of refugees, those who are ill or in especially difficult situations. An ongoing community that has been growing and evolving for three years now, it is a bit of an oasis amongst the chaos of the other camps. This sanctuary is a self proclaimed  ‘self-organised, autonomous space run by volunteers and is built on the principle of solidarity’.

You can feel it from the moment you arrive that Pikpa is bursting with love, compassion and a strong sense of community. It’s all too easy to fall madly in love with this place.

This morning I arrived downstairs refreshed, a rare night spent curled up in bed rather than ushering in rubber boats, an unusual luxury.

Volunteer Meetings

The meeting starts at 10.30, but people trickle in slowly. I enjoy a moment of sunshine and a coffee as volunteers find a comfortable spot on one of the sofas, fashioned from the insides of life jackets and the outsides of boats.

During the meeting introductions are made, the daily jobs and needs are outlined, and teams for the day are recruited. The aim of Pikpa is to fill gaps and needs around the place, operating in a fluid & flexible way to ensure that whatever is most needed in that moment is what gets done.

They work intuitively – exactly how I like to, perhaps this is why I fit so well.

Before we part ways, some out to sort donations, others to plant trees and move tents, we all gathered to learn some new language skills. Arabic is a beautiful and complex language spoken by so many of our arriving refugees, even knowing one or two words can make a difference. The richness and poetic beauty is apparent and this lesson is enhanced by some of the resident children joining in and suggesting their favourite words for us to learn.

The flexibility of this community allows all kinds of projects to blossom, ranging from language classes and yoga through to music, dance and art projects unfolding across the common area.

Connecting with the residents

Although I thrive in emergency situations and am at my best with pumping adrenaline, a day off to connect with the residents and become better acquainted with the property is a welcome retreat for me today.

These are the days with no boats, in some ways they are more significant than the hectic beach mornings. These are the days where I am working with a group of like minded people to create something sustainable. A project that is not just an immediate reaction to the crisis of today, but a long term plan to create refuge for whoever needs it and to respond to whatever needs might arise in the future. It feels good to be a part of something like this.

I spend my morning as some kind of human climbing frame, cuddled up with a team of kids and colouring books. We exchange languages, I stumble over the foreign sounds of Arabic and they laugh, then impress me with their English.

My job for the morning is to look after the communal dining room, making sure the space is safe and clean and that the tea and coffee flows. Most of this job is spent interacting with the people here, and it’s a great inspiration for me to come up with some fun art projects I can do with the children later in the week.

A Playful day, a heartwarming change of pace.

It’s hard to imagine the hell these kids have been through, they are just so damn happy.

A small boy takes up residence on my knee whilst his older sister shows me how to write her name in Arabic, these kids all have stories that could break your heart a thousand times over, but we protect them here – no faces, no stories and no photos get published online.

Energised from playing and heart thoroughly warmed from the kids, I ventured out in the late afternoon to pack food. From here we cook and distribute food to Moria – the much bigger refugee camp on the island.

Today 900 portions of lentils and rice were cooked and packaged into foil trays down a small production line, packed into a van and sent off into the darkness to help fill the stomachs of hungry people camping out at Moria and on the hillside surrounding it. The numbers we produce vary by day, but the positive atmosphere and team work in our make-shift production line is unwavering.

It’s not all crazy rescues and adrenaline

When people see media reports of the situation on Lesvos it is focused so heavily on the drama, the drownings and deaths, hypothermic babies being hauled out of semi-sunken boats. Yes of course this is the reality here, it is horrifying, but there is so much more to life on the island too.

Pikpa, and Lesvos in general, feels like a completely unique sub-culture. A place with volunteers from all across the globe working together to create a sustainable system to help those most in need. It feels important to share that there is so much more to life here than emergency rescue. In our down time, even the most experienced lifeguards, doctors and translators all give their time to sort donations, re-pitch blown down tents and work on registration lines for newly arriving refugees.

It’s hard to know what the future will bring with so much instability in the local economy and very real threats of Greece being suspended from the Schengen zone, everybody has their theories on what might happen, none are good. Amidst the uncertainty and difficult times, it is also incredible be be a part of something so positive and to experience so many wonderful people coming together to create a space like this.

Once a week I let go and get away. I escape to the relative normality of a cafe overlooking the ocean and I let the weight of the world fall on me. Sometimes there are tears, sometimes despondence. Usually I manage to get some work done in there too.

Todays emotion of the moment is bewilderment. Today things have changed, my little world here is different to how it was yesterday or last week, things on Lesbos are shifting. I don’t yet know what that means for me or the others here.

For two nights now I have sat through the sunrise without the usual panoramic of little black dots approaching in the horizon. The ocean has been empty of those I am here to rescue, and that is a good thing. No boats means no drownings, no deaths, none of this unnecessary suffering I have become accustomed to. It looks like the authorities are getting their act together, it looks like the very beginnings of a #safepassage are emerging. This is fantastic news, if it lasts.

Forgive me for sounding skeptical here, but my initial reaction is a feeling of too good to be true. For the past two days numerous volunteers have speculated on why the boats have stopped arriving, how come we are watching smooth oceans and great weather and not seeing any refugees signalling in the distance.

Perhaps the coastguard are turning people back to Turkey? There were rumours of Turkish police being spotted patrolling the Izmir coastlines at night, thwarting smugglers attempts to send off boats. Whatever the reason, something was going on and the whole island had been spending the evening discussing it.

Today emerged more information, on one of the main social media information groups for volunteers Léon van Schie posted:

“Breaking news from the front; in the Aegean sea around the island of Lesvos, right in front of the Turkish waters, lay 6 huge Greek naval vessels that stop all refugee boats. The Greek let them board the navy ships, register them, and when their numbers approach 400, they sail towards Mytilini harbour, from where they are sent to Athens immediately with a ferry. Turkish coast guards have been seen accompanying the refugee boats up to the Greek waters, from where the Greek bring them on board safely.”

Aha, I thought. As I’m sure did many others. This makes sense, this is good. As the day has progressed more information has surfaced to suggest that these refugees are not being sent to Athens, rather being piled onto buses and sent to Moria – the main registration point and refugee camp on the island. So they are still coming here, just in a much safer manner. Relief washed over, safe people, I like safe people.

Amongst long nested threads of tittering conversation, a poignant question stood out. Anna Åberg Moutzourelli asked:

“Do they get dry clothes?

Do they get a hug?

Do they get information?

I have lot of questions.”

A stark reminder that volunteers on the shores provide so much more than just a taxi service to the registration queue.

Opinions on whether this will last are split. There is widespread speculation that this is a temporary solution arising as a response to threats of EU suspension if Greece doesn’t work to secure its borders. Others highlight the presence of British MP’s as well as German and French ministers arriving later in the week as a potential cause for making a good impression, one which will loose momentum once the spotlight is taken off.

This isn’t the first instance of a “Volunteers aren’t needed any more” statement. It has been suggested a number of times last year when various changes were made and milestones reached, however in every case the need for volunteers remained. Will this be the case once again?

So where are we needed now? There is already an influx of not-yet-arrived volunteers questioning whether they should come to Lesbos, or whether there help is going to be more needed on the other islands or perhaps Athens. Of course there is no clear answer to this, other than to say that whether we are meeting boats or not, the refugees are still coming, and still being taken into the camps where there is always a need for assistance and support. I am sure many will leave in search of other places to help, perhaps Turkey, whist others (most likely myself included) will wait it out on Lesbos to see what happens once the media spotlight subsides. It will be interesting to see how long Frontex and the Greek authorities sustain this practice for.

I certainly hope this is a sustainable solution, and a step in the direction of safe passage. But if it’s not, and it is just a temporary facade, I will be here ready when the boats return. In the mean time, it’s business as usual with people to feed and refugee camps to run – beach rescue or not.

I’m sitting shoulder to shoulder in a crowded bar, smoke wafts and a Grecian vocalist belts out a blues rendition the Red Hot Chilli Peppers alongside a double-bass. The crowd is singing amongst shouts of Yamas and clinks of raki glasses. Less than 48 hours ago I was standing on the side of the road ushering sleepy refugees into the backs of private cars, dodging raging taxi drivers who were supposed to be on strike. As I’ve mentioned, no two days are the same.

Let’s rewind a little here.

It’s a Wednesday night, the waterfront restaurants are bustling with Mytilini locals. We are standing on the corner out front of the main stretch, the cold wind at our cheeks with a handful of future friends.

This is the unofficial meetup point for the Moria nightshift.

People with cars collect those without, and we all head inland for 8 and a half hours of the unknown. I don’t yet know these people, but I know by the time we watch tomorrows sun rise over the wasteland of tents and olive groves we will be comrades.

Welcome to Moria, Prison turned Camp

If I had to summarise the differences between here and there in one sentence, it would be this: Pikpa was once a summer camp, Moria designed as a prison. Razor wire tops high fences that loom menacingly. Much like its former prison existence, this camp is a controlled area. Only certain organisations are allowed in, alongside only certain nationality of refugee. This ‘hot-spot’ sits atop a hill and at times has been referred to by some as ‘the worst refugee camp in the world’. Things have picked up recently and the conditions aren’t nearly as bad as they used to be, however, it’s certainly no island paradise up here.

As certain migrants were refused entrance, they began to give up hope. Despondent shells of humans began to sleep in the mud under the olive trees dotted down the slopes outside Moria. A need became apparent, volunteers began to create a makeshift camp. Providing food and water to those living on the hill, Better days for Moria began to take shape. Now it’s a community of volunteers supported by cooks, medical teams and distribution tents.

It’s not pretty, but it’s making a difference every day.

Known by some as ‘Afghan Hill’, to others ‘The Olive Grove’; this patch of hillside houses those that won’t be accepted anywhere else. It’s the steep, muddy, purgatory of those who aren’t deemed enough (of what? I frequently ask to myself) to gain entrance to the real camp. This is where I will be spending my night.

A Nationwide Taxi Strike

We meet up in the reception tent at one in the morning, a small group about to face one big problem: a country wide general strike.

The daily ferry that we rely on to move refugees on to Athens will be out of action for four days. Add to this the inability to buy supplies or petrol and we potentially have a difficult few days ahead of us.

The solution? Getting as many refugees out of here and onto a last minute refugee only ferry leaving at 7am.

The catch? They can’t buy tickets until 5am, they don’t yet know about it, there’s 900 of them and taxis are on strike.

So begins operation ‘wake up 900 humans at 4am, mobilise every volunteer car we can find, and get them to the port.’

What could possibly go wrong?

Dazed and dreamy people stumble out of the main gates of the compound into the freezing winter night, where we are armed with mittens and huge vats of hot chocolate.

Volunteers from across the island line up down the road, they have responded to our whatsapp group call for help. So far, so good. We wait patiently for hoards of refugees, but they dribble out slowly.

We fit oversized mittens onto tiny hands and scoop out ladles of sweet hot chocolate into paper cups.

A yellow taxi pulls up, then another. Clearly the taxi strike is going well. I’m warned by longer-term volunteers that tension here with the taxi drivers is not a new phenomenon. They want business, they need money to support their families during these tough economic times, some are happy to throw punches to make a point.

We try to ensure the taxis are filled before any private vehicles. More and more taxis arrive, agitated that the families who don’t want to be split up are being taken by private vans. Voices raised are raised.

No Greek translation is needed to understand how hostile this situation is getting.

A Long Morning Ahead

This is a tough situation for all involved. We spend the rest of the morning shepherding refugees into orderly lines, keeping them off the road and out of the way of furious taxi drivers accelerating dangerously hard around the hilly roads.

Trying to keep the peace.

Racing against a deadline.

Eventually, it’s over.

Those still left at Moria will be spending another 4 days. The rest, I hear, are facing pandemonium at the port where cold weather and a delayed ferry has lured a different team of volunteers down to hand out more food and blankets. Either way, tickets are sold out and at some point in the morning our guests will be departing for the shores of Athens.

Morning in the Olive Grove

Day breaks to a desolate panorama of tents and trash strewn amongst the olive trees. Two refugees gather around a fire billowing smoke out of a steel drum, a single volunteer joins them.

For whatever reason, they didn’t make it on this ferry; perhaps they didn’t have enough money. The muddy slopes around Moria will remain home. I stumble down the hillside to join them – I’ve been awake now for 24 hours, not that I’m counting.

A moments tranquility and a fragrant paper cup of masala chai from the tea tent is interrupted by a distressed African man. ‘Somalians are still humans’ he wails. He lifts his jumper to reveal his teeshirt soaked in blood flecked vomit. ‘I’m sick, look.’

Are we not all humans?

life here is hard, even harder when you can’t get registration. He is inconsolable as a patient volunteer tries to resolve the situation. This man is claiming that his registration papers were torn up by officials as they deemed him to be Kenyan, rather than Somalian. We’re living in a world where the words on the front of your passport mean everything. When you have no passport, it becomes almost impossible.

I watch him leave, escorted by a volunteer and trailed by his family, we will make up a tent for them in the meantime. Who knows how long this will take to be resolved. My heart aches.

The end of a long night

Hunched over a soup in the skipchen food rescue tent, home time is feeling within reach. It’s been a long night, and I still have lots to do over the course of the morning before I will finally make my way to bed. By the time my head hits the pillow I’ve been awake 36 hours, sleep feels like a luxury, I indulge myself.

I reflect amidst the vivacious energy of Bobiras, a popular volunteer hangout in the centre of Mytelini. A rare evening off, a time to share war stories with my fellow comrades. To drinl bottomless rakia, talk about our plans and say hello’s and goodbye’s to the never-ending revolving door of short term volunteers passing through the island.

Like a half-drunk UN, I wouldn’t be surprised if we spanned all corners of the globe from this packed in little night spot. It’s been an interesting week of re-finding my groove now that there’s no boats to be rescued, but each day I find new ways to fit myself in to this surreal little island.

Like a small child, I eagerly gather around the storytellers of Lesvos. The old-timers who were here before the media circus arrived. Helpers who roamed the island a year ago, but you could be forgiven for thinking I’m talking in decades. Things move quickly, this is not the same crisis it was a week ago, let alone a year. The stories they tell talk of desperation, lack of infrastructure. Packs of two or three rescuers hauling in boat after boat unaided. Missions waist-deep in silt handing out 100 meals to 10 times the number of begging, faceless arms reaching up from swamps of mud. Each day brings a new way to experience hell.

I’ve landed here at a pivotal point in the evolution of this refugee hot spot. A time when the media attention brings volunteers by the boatload, where NGO’s meet and plan and structure things on a daily basis. Every moment I exist here I see new signs of organisation taking hold, things beginning to integrate.

But they are still dying. Drowning at the hands of the Turkish coastguards by the boatload. No amount of organisation or NGO integration on this side is going to change what is happening on the other side of that invisible line dotted through the Aegean.

This morning Lilian shared:

“33 people drowned tonight. You probably won’t hear of their deaths. 3 boats left Turkey yesterday evening and only 1 made it to Lesvos. The other 2 were intercepted by the Turkish police who slashed the boats with knives and used a hose to fill them with water. Everyone drowned.

Apparently this is normal.

The EU is investing €3billion for Turkey to “close its border” with Greece. I now realise what that really means. Borders don’t physically exist.

A man broke down crying in the medical tent a short while ago, he was on the boat that made it across. He watched the other boats sink. He begged for this information to be passed on to the rest of the world. He begged for the lives of those lost to be counted.”

Border control takes on a different meaning in my life these days.

My own story of Lezvos tells another tale of evolving tragedies. I’ve been observing through endless coordination meetings how the landscape of a disaster changes through NGO integration and appearances. Once a week, often more than that, I find myself perched around a boardroom table. Official representatives of the UNHCR control powerpoint slides on the second floor of a rather official hotel. My first visit to this meeting began with directions to find the large hotel with the flags outside, follow down the side, past the pool then up the spiral staircase. A different world from muddy camping spots and half-sunk rubber boats.

These meetings are part of the reason that the outlook is slowly shifting at this end. Things are changing, people are integrating. The days of too many volunteers running around the shorelines like headless chickens, desperate to adorn baby’s shivering toes with tiny socks, is coming to an end. Some order is being restored to the chaos on Lezvos.

Over the summer a call was put out. HELP. We need volunteers, this is too much. So they came, in droves. A new problem emerged, we had too many people in some places, at some times, but still a deficit in others. With so many different organisations mixed with large handfuls of independent volunteers, there was no central system to tell people where to go or what to do. Distribution of people was unbalanced, things have needed to change. Now the challenge is to organise these helpers from around the world into a structure that is not only useful, but balanced.

Newcomers are pulled to the drama of the shorefront, the feel-good experience of pulling babies out of sinking boats, and it has become everyones job to highlight the importance of other operations. How desperately we need to clean up the beaches, wash the clothes and sort the donations. The coast guard are taking care of the boats for now, but whilst you stand staring at an empty horizon rising over the sea, we have hungry mouths to feed back at the camps.

The SOS is shifting to the other side. Questions are coming up around how to educate refugees before they leave Turkey. So many are naive, being sold extravagant stories by slimy people smugglers. Promised nice boats, safe travel…

just hand over all your money.

There are small things that could make a big difference if only they knew what they were getting into. “Please, people – wear emergency blankets under your clothing” I want to run over there and shout in the streets. “The life jackets – they aren’t real!” they need to know. However, with the strong hold that the smugglers have over that community, it is risky business and a message that is going to be difficult to pass on.

A friend of mine, Vanda Smrkovski recently explored Izmir, confirming all my fears about uneducated refugees just beginning their jouney

“I ask the waiter for a small plastic bag. I take off my right boot, slip the bag over my sock, and show the Iraqi guys. “Please, find some plastic bags, cover your socks. It will keep your feet dry when your shoes get wet,” I say with urgency.  They seem surprised that their feet could ever get wet.”

As always, life here on Lezbos continues to pass by in a series of soul crushing vignettes.

I watched the sun rise over the Turkish Izmir coast this morning. The mountain ranges cast watercolour silhouettes across the sky, the mandarin sun crept up through the horizon. It had been a quiet first night on the night shift, watching for tiny boats out on the horizon.

We met in the deserted town square at four AM. The air was biting cold, and I had barely twenty minutes of restless sleep beforehand. This all left me extrodainarily nervous about what the morning might bring.

Within 15 minutes of being on the road we arrived at a boat landing site with the refugees already on the shore, accompanied by many different groups of volunteers from organisations and NGO’s based in the South part of the island. It was a gentle introduction to the world of meeting boats and I spent most of the time hovering around the edges attempting to figure out how to be useful.

By the end of the morning it became natural to just jump in and do what’s needed, but for most of the morning I found it a hectic and somewhat confronting environment, it was challenging figuring out how to be of help.

After the first initial rush of arriving at a boat landing, our patch of the island south of Mytilini quietened down. We retreated to our cars to cruise up and down the coastal stretch of road, listening for updates and scanning the horizon for boats. Memories of overnight ambulance shifts flooded back as we patrolled around the area waiting for some news.

It was during a moment of tranquility, watching the clear night sky give way to a gentle sunrise across the water that an SOS light signal was spotted far off in the distance by a keen eye, soon confirmed with a pair of binoculars.

This was to be the first of a string of three consecutive boat arrivals on the same stretch of beach over the next hour.

The process of guiding arriving boats to shore involves a squawking and emotional chaos of torch flashing, waving, flares and finally people wading out into the ocean in wetsuits to meet & pull the frightened and sodden humans from their terrifying excuse for a boat.

It can take close to an hour after first spotting a boat for it to arrive, and to guide it in toward a safe landing destination, as free as possible from the rocky outcrops that frequent this coastline.

Due to the landscape, poor quality rubber boats and the oppressive darkness, the risk of drowning is high.

Even once the boat has arrived to land, it is not yet safe.

People smugglers overcrowd boats, fitting as many as 50 into rubber boats designed for just a dozen. This overloading, combined with the anxiety and excitement of arriving, can often lead to boats overturning at the last minute. A situation that sounds manageable, but results in large numbers of cold wet people and a significant increase in the risks of severe hypothermia.

It is at this crucial ‘docking’ stage where volunteers and coastguards step in, jumping often knee deep into the ocean to grab hold and pull the boat into safety. Once secured, people are helped out one by one. Babies are handed out to the outstretched arms of waiting volunteers and the passengers drenched baggage is piled up on the beach.

Dazed and confused people are helped out onto the sand where they often collapse from shock, hypothermia or just emotional overwhelm.

This is the most chaotic part of arrival, yet everyone manages falls into sync. Whilst doctors attend to the serious cases and ambulances are called, we all get in and do whatever is needed. Cold wet feet are dried with towels and babies are quickly changed into warm & dry clothing. Boxes of donated items sorted by type are laid out on the beach, and the mission is to get everyone changed into dry clothes and shoes before hypothermia has a chance to take hold.

Emergency foil blankets are wrapped over-skin of the particularly wet or cold, covered by clothing and blankets. Those who arrive in a good state are free to take the clothes they need to change into, whilst the young, old and sick are attended to by volunteers. Items being handed out include everything ranging from sweets and chocolate to perk up the kids, bottles of water and bananas to stabilise blood sugar levels and disposable cups of warm tea to help in the relentless battle against hypothermia.

Once the UNCHR buses arrive, ready to transport the refugees to the largest camp for processing, it becomes a rush to get everyone on board as soon as possible – allowing us enough time to clean up the beach and organise our resources in time for the next arriving boat. Then, with barely a moment to catch a breath, we do it all over again.

My day ended almost 11 hours after it began. Feeling bewildered and overwhelmed, touched by so many stories and faces, I made my way groggily back to camp. There wasn’t much that needed doing, and to be honest I wasn’t much use in my present state.

So I headed back towards Myteline for some rest, walking along the coastline to clear my mind. The sticky scent of pine needles wafted from the forest on my left, and I could hear the frothy waves snapping at the shores to my right.

The orange skies of dawn had transformed to a brilliant blue, reflected in the crystal clear ocean. I picked up a smooth, polished rock and skipped it back out into the water. If it weren’t for the reflective orange catching my eye from a wayward lifejacket bobbing in the surf, or the ominous black shadows of deflated rubber boats sitting on the sea floor, I could have almost pretended this was a holiday.