EU leaders - your citizens are mobilizing to help refugees while you sit idly by

EU leaders - your citizens are mobilizing to help refugees while you sit idly by

We first met the Samir family (name changed) at the gates of the Nea Kavala refugee camp, which is run by the Greek military and situated in a field about 20 minutes from the Macedonian border…which remains closed to refugees. We were on our way in and they were very clearly on their way out. We were trying desperately to convince the guards and army doctors to escort us in so we could deliver two emergency oxygen tanks we had purchased to an Iraqi man who had a 3-month old baby with a lung defect, and the Samirs were, after two months in the camp, attempting to leave with all their belongings in garbage bags, after realizing that there was not enough food inside, and that their son most certainly wasn’t going to get the medical care he needed. They didn’t know how, but they were planning to head back to Syria and beginning to walk in the general direction of Thessaloniki…some 100km away, along a major European highway. Earlier in the day, they explained via gestures, they had learned of a family member back home who was beheaded, and that, for them, that piece of information must have been the final straw. Our paths crossed for a fleeting second. All of us were desperate for different reasons, and it was then that we realized that if the guards wouldn’t help us get the tanks to the Iraqi father (they most certainly would not), we could at least try to help the Samirs.

After three trips to various camps and interactions with thousands of Syrian/Iraqi/Afghani refugees over a period of 6 months, I saw something new in the Samirs’ faces that I hadn’t seen before — despair of the most unnerving kind, and a look of complete resignation. The despair was most visible in the mother Amina’s face when I hugged her tightly, as the tears streamed down her lovely but tired face. Their young, but awkwardly tall, teenage son stood innocently in the background ashamedly wiping away his own tears and clinging tightly to his flimsy Samaritan’s Purse backpack. What must have happened to you, poor family, that you would choose to return to a land where the odds were so stacked against you that you suffered blow by crushing blow with no respite, and through absolutely no fault of your own? The place where you, Amina, we now know, were kidnapped by ISIS with your young daughter and put through a nightmare I can’t even fathom, but is written all over your face. Syria — where two of your children were killed in Russian bomb attacks…where you lost your livelihood as a nurse and your husband lost his as a taxi driver…where your now 9-year-old daughter never — not even one time — had the opportunity to set foot in a school. Where your humble house in the city of Homs was obliterated by bombs. I think about how hopeful you must have felt when you finally gathered the courage and resources to make the trip to Europe. You packed as much as you could into what bags you had, and I don’t even know what you were told about the future that awaited you in Europe. To us, it seems an unimaginable risk. To you, it seemed like the only alternative to death by starvation, bombs and an ongoing rape of your dignity. You were almost certainly overcome with joy and exhaustion when you finally crossed that border from Syria into Turkey, and then hauled your soggy, water-logged beings and only worldly belongings from the raft in Lesvos onto the cold shore…Europe, at last. A final shot at humanity. Did you think you would be greeted with open arms? I am so sorry that you were not, because you deserve it…more than anyone I’ve ever met. Europe would be lucky to have a million you’s.

For the Samir’s teenage daughter, Nabila, an old and broken cell phone, a stylish hijab and her favorite jeans and sneakers made the journey. For the teenage son, a bright blue faux Adidas hoodie and his precious medication. For the father, what money he had, his cigarettes and an ancient Byzantine coin that he found in the bomb rubble near his former home, wrapped carefully in tissue and put into a safe pouch in case one day it was needed for money…the only item of any value they had to their collective name. And perhaps most heartbreakingly, for the youngest daughter, Rania, a few tattered crayons and bits of coloring book, along with her favorite purple shirt with hearts on it. When we met her, she had been wearing the same shirt for many months. They all had. But we happened to meet them on the day when they ran out of hope.

We stashed the oxygen tanks in our rental car and started the engine. The Samirs were a ways down the dirt road by that point, but we quickly caught up with them and parked our car, gesturing that we wanted to speak with them. A few younger Syrian men from the camp walked with them, trying to help them in any way they could as the family departed and frantically using their little English to explain to us what was happening to the Samirs. Using iTranslate, we pieced their story together and explained ours, right there by the side of the road. I wondered what must they be expecting from us, and why did they think we were pulling over to talk to them. I’m certain they expected more exploitation and disappointment. Had anyone shown the Samirs any kindness since the war began 5 years ago? Based on the interactions I saw between them and the guards at the gate, I’d imagine not. And Yusef told me as much later.

We paid for them to take a taxi into the farm town 6km down the road, and we followed closely behind in our rental car (it is illegal for individuals to transport refugees in mainland Greece, even if they do have their papers.) The family didn’t ask any questions, and all we had to reassure them that we meant well was eye contact and gestures. At that moment, I think they would have willingly followed Assad himself from the camp… surely it couldn’t get any worse. Once in town we led them to a café where the three of us volunteers had eaten a few meals in the past few days. Air conditioning, wi-fi and a quiet table. We used our phones to communicate, drew pictures, ordered pizza and Coke, we laughed, cried, tried to crack jokes and we made it very clear that we cared about them. Every so often I’d glance at Amina…every time I looked she was wiping tears from her eyes. We begged them not to go back to Syria just yet…at least not until they’d rested, eaten a proper meal and had some time to think. They seemed receptive to this thinking. I called my Syrian refugee friend Amjad, whom I’d helped in Moria camp on Lesvos several months earlier and who is now living in Germany. He happily translated over the phone and explained to Yusef that we were there to help. He explained our plan. While they were eating, we had quietly booked them a week’s stay in a hotel in the nearest city. One full week to rest, restore their dignity and consider their options. One full week of beds, showers, absolute safety. “We don’t have enough money,” Yusef said. “You don’t need any money for this hotel,” we explained. Once the plan hit home, they seemed overjoyed, and there was much talk of angels and God.

After a few hours of respite, we packed their bags into our car, negotiated a price with a taxi driver, and led our small, weary convoy on the road to Thessaloniki. We watched their faces in the rear-view mirror, looking out for signs of fear or confusion. It was difficult to read them, but I wanted badly to stop the car every few miles and remind them not to be scared. After what seemed an eternity and with a bit of a price increase from the driver, we arrived at the hotel. A dated, 1980s high-rise hotel near Thessaloniki’s waterfront…this would be home for a week. We helped them check into two bedrooms and, to avoid any embarrassment on the part of the family, we let the staff know the situation. We explained that we were footing the bill and were responsible for them for the duration of their stay. They demanded identification papers. We showed them papers, and paid up front with a credit card. That seemed to satisfy them. Back to the room we went, where we spent several hours chatting, getting to know each other and playing games with the children. Amina’s tears continued, but they were different now. “Daughter” she said to us, and hugged us tightly. “Mama,” we said back. Yusef unwrapped his beloved coin and wouldn’t take no for an answer. After three refusals, I accepted. It is the most meaningful gift I’ve been given.

When I turned back around, with tears in my eyes, I saw that Amina was unwrapping a small parcel of apples, kiwis and oranges which she had salvaged from the camp. Masterfully, she turned a few paper towels into a bowl and began to slice the fruit into a deli-style assortment. I stifled laughter when I saw her pick up a piece of kiwi and forcefully cram it into my friend Lisa’s mouth. It was a clear gesture of love and was not to be turned down. She did the same to me a moment later, and we all shared a laugh. The teenage girl, Nabila, seemed slightly embarrassed by the routine, but we used emojis on our phone to show that we were grateful and that our mothers did similar things. We all laughed. It was getting very late. We exchanged WhatsApp details with Nabila and explained that we’d be back the next day.

After another full day of work in the Polykastro refugee camp outside a gas station near the border, we returned to their hotel in the city. This was our last night in Greece, which we explained carefully. We wrote down and printed out as much information as we could find on the asylum process and the current political situation. They had found an Arabic TV station on the hotel television — a welcome find and source of current information. Nabila had successfully connected to the hotel wi-fi and was messaging friends and family back home. They had all had a shower, eaten free hotel breakfast and gone out to explore the town. Nabila showed me a picture of her near the waterfront. We again emphasized that it was very important that they go to the addresses we had given them each day to enquire about asylum and to try to find accurate legal information. They agreed. We highlighted the Skype number that refugees are given to call for a 2–3 hour window one day a week. We knew this wouldn’t work, and they did too…they’ve all tried to claim asylum in the legal manner, but the doors are firmly closed, despite best efforts.

We knew that as soon as we left, we would need to begin work to find a more permanent solution for the Samir family. We implored our personal networks via social media to donate what they could to our crowdfunding account. They did. We joined forces with a small Spanish NGO to bring a lasting source of help to the family. That NGO found a doctor who went to the hotel to treat the teenage son and give him his badly needed medication. We used the funds we had raised to rent an Airbnb property outside the city for 1 month. They are currently living there in a bizarre limbo of temporary comfort and peace. Our Spanish friend will visit them in 2 days to bring supplies and to speak with them in more detail about their options for asylum. We bought a new phone for Nabila and mailed it to her. The man who sold us the phone here in London is a Syrian refugee himself. When we explained our purpose, he gave us a hefty discount on the phone and asked how he could help…because he is a refugee, he is not allowed to send money back to his own family that is still stuck in Syria.

We are doing what we can. The many independent volunteers we’ve worked with are doing what they can. The man in Carphone Warehouse is doing what he can. My colleagues and friends are doing what they can. Other refugees, like my friend Amjad, are doing what they can to help. The real question remains: what are those who hold the most power…the most wealth…the most potential for wide-scale good….why aren’t they doing what they CAN to help?

Sadly, our bank accounts will dry up, the Airbnb will expire and we will go through this cycle many times over with no guarantee of the border opening or these people being accepted. Our love for these people will not dry up. We (independent volunteers) will do what we can to help anyone we can in whatever way we can, even at great personal expense and risk…but what does it say about a society when those elected to represent us choose to turn their backs on the Samirs, and on us? Elected officials: how do you want history to remember you? Are you going to put the entire burden on the shoulders of your people? We’ll accept it, but we won’t forget.

(For the record, we very randomly ran into the Iraqi father on our final day in the non-military, “illegal” camp and gave him the oxygen tanks to guarantee his baby could breathe for a few weeks. He let us know that the military guards and doctors said they had never spoken to anyone about any oxygen tanks.)

This blog first appeared on:  Medium.com - reprinted here by permission