Syrian Refugee camps of Lesbos

This is the film I made from my time interviewing refugees in Lesbos.

Syrian Refugees in Lesbos - Getting in

I passed several groups of tired yet excited and bright-eyed refugees.  They came in clusters of 20 and I saluted them as I passed.  I must have passed over 120 refugees before the engine of my 50cc scooter cut out.  

It would be over an hour for a new bike to arrive, so I took a walk towards the ocean.  The sun was beating and I got a small taste of the 17 mile walk each refugee had to make.  The sun burnt but it was beautiful and quiet.  

Most of the refugee boats land in a small village called Petra.  From Petra they must walk roughly 20 miles to the refugee camps to be processed and then another few miles to the town of Mytillini where they will hopefully join a packed boat to Athens, if they find a way to afford the ticket.  

The groups I passed on the road represented only a fraction of the refugees that came that day.  A separate bus shuttles the women, children, sick and elderly.  But sometimes even this bus cannot fit the numbers and so many women and children take to walking as well.  

I rode along the dirt road parallel to the shoreline and saw the accumulation of busted rubber inflatable boats (aka dinghy) and orange life jackets and cheap plastic engines left from over 100,000 refugees over the course of the past year. Someone collects the engines that survive each trip and ships them back to Ayvalik, Turkey for the next group of refugees.  Eventually the cheap engine will fail for some poor overcrowded group and without luck they will make the headlines as another failed attempt (if they are ever found.)  As I walked along the shore I ran into the engine collector.  He wasn’t at all happy to see me with my camera and he let me know it.

I wanted to see how far the shore of life vests and black rubber refuse went on and so I rode for miles with no end in sight.  

I came upon a group of about 15 aid workers with neon vests as they were flagging down a dinghy in the distance.  The boat made its way to the rocky shore much quicker then I expected.

What happened next was confusion, jubilee, sadness with a splash of an existential crisis.  

The refugees scrambled upon the rocks with wobbly feet and shot nerves, excited to be alive but shocked by what they had just gone through.  

Here is what they go through, taken from interviews and a little bit of artistic merit: 

A refugee finds a smuggler who promises a certain degree of safety.  The refugee pays as little as $800 and as much as $1600.  Many refugees (roughly 1/3 of my interviews) are robbed of their extra money, watches and phones at gunpoint before hastily and forcefully put on an overcrowded rubber boat and cast to the sea.  

The rubber dinghy is designed for 30 people but usually 40-50 are packed in.  The smuggler shoots a round into the air to get them moving with a kick of adrenaline. At this point the refugees must designate a captain.  Hopefully they get a wise one.

With luck the sea is calm.  The Mediterranean tends to be calmer just before sunrise so most go early in the morning.  With too much wind the waves are high and the excessively weighed-down dinghy takes on water, or in the worst case, flips.  

If it flips many people will probably die.  If it takes on too much water a few brave kind souls can swim alongside with a rope as is the case in this story - http://ottawacitizen.com/news/politics/left-for-dead-in-the-aegean-syrian-teen-refugee-swims-16-hours-back-to-turkey. If the dhingy comes upon the greek coast guard, the refugees puncture the dhingy so that the authorities have to take them in.  

Once they make it to the shore they are met by humanitarian volunteers and cameras. There is a scramble and jockeying for position by the humanitarians and overly ambitious cameramen as the refugees hit the rocky shore.  The humanitarians go to aid the children and elderly as the cameras push in for the right angle.  It is an awkward scene accented with the hysteric cries of women and children who 20 minutes ago thought they were going to die or who may have lost someone along the way.  

I did have an overwhelming urge to hug people.  Everybody off the boat seemed to really need an embrace.  I did hug an old man, he was stoically standing to the side of the madness out of the way but he had the gleam in his eye suggesting he had seen something beautiful and sad.  

Many refugees have the premonition that it is smooth sailing from here, and compared to where they came from it is better, but it is no cakewalk.  

Despite the dirt, heat, smell, sickness, lack of food and water, cardboard beds and poor treatment by some uniformed men; for many this is the first time they can finally relax. 

After years of random explosions from the chaos of war, the insecurity, terror brought on by ISIS, Assad, Taliban and all of the Russian and U.S. guns and bombs - here in the prison-like atmosphere of the Tera Kepe and Moriah camp these tired and shattered eyes can begin to imagine a new future.

Most of these refugees don’t know about Islamaphobia and are unaware of the fear and rejection that awaits them —  not only for the months ahead on the road to Germany, but also for the years ahead from distrustful locals who have to make space for them.  These refugees will feel the pressure from cautious Europeans afraid of losing a piece of the pie and fearful of the abstract and overblown threat that we have come to simply define as terrorism.  

I would like to address articles such as this one from the Daily Mail - or anything from Fox news essentially.  The premise that ISIS will send terrorists mixed in with the refugees is a logical fear.  I love logic and I cannot deny it when I find it.  From a tactical perspective it is a good move and if it happens I wouldn’t be too surprised.  I brought this up in most of my interviews with refugees and most would not consider it but I will not dismiss it.  

Still it begs a bigger question.  Do we let a threat of fanatical reprobates get in the way of our humanity?  If so then who are we?

Here is a good organization to help - https://www.wfp.org/countries/syria

Moriah Refugee Camp

A refugee camp is like the grand canyon.  Photos don’t do it proper.  Shoot with a wide angle but you miss the intimacy and personal.  Shoot tight  and you miss the prevalence of it surrounding you.

I awoke with aching legs from the 5-mile-hike back the night before.  I didn't leave the refugee camp until midnight.  My friend wanted me to go to a picnic but I declined, I would have ended up drunk by 6pm and been worthless for the rest of the eve.  Instead I rented a 50cc scooter and rode into camp Moriah for the first time.  

Down a bumpy dirt road I made it to the double fenced prison yard that is Moriah camp.  I walked up as a bus full of mostly women and child refugees was letting out.  I walked in with the crowd of over 100.  Everybody was tired and miserable looking and nobody including myself seemed to know what to expect.  The kids were crying and dragging their feet.  The group was fresh from a boat that landed in Petra, the small town about 20 miles North.  

The 2 layers of fence were wound with razor wire and stuck in the wire was a Minnie Mouse doll and a stroller.  After a 5 minute walk we all came to a gate tended by about 5 riot police wearing sterile gloves, sunglasses and face masks.  The crowd gathered in front of the gate and everyone was eager to get in.  Everyone was confused and a herd mentality seemed to take air.  All hot, tired and eager to get into this prison to be processed and hopefully get refugee status to continue to Athens.  

The riot police manning the door were yelling a bit more then necessary.  The crowd was slightly unruly and failing to form a cohesive line.  Every three minutes the gate would open, the police would grab someone and yank them inside while screaming at the crowd swarming at the gate to get in.  As soon as the refugee was pulled inside the police would yell “Go!  Go!!  Go!!!!”  As if a bomb was about to go off.  The only place to go was up a flight of about 12 stairs to fill out paperwork.  

Trash was everywhere and the sun was scalding.  The smart refugees waited in the shade while the aggressive ones jockeyed for position at the gate.  

I asked hundreds of people in the camp if they spoke english and of all the people I found only 4.  Most refugees did say they speak english, but when we got to it they didn’t know much past, “yes, english.”  I began testing them.  Not only testing their english but their story-telling abilities.  I definitely set a high bar for who I interviewed, I didn't want to waste anyone’s time or make a scene with the cameras.  Many were rightly afraid of being interviewed, for fear of retaliation from either Assad, Isis, Taliban, or whoever else they were trying get away from.  

People were crowded and treated like animals, not much different from going through airport security but with heavier implications and a much less controlled environment.  

Still, many were happy.  For many it was the first time in so long they felt some degree of security.  A brief respite from bombs and human smugglers.  Not quite the final destination, but close enough.  Many had left behind homes, family, friends and their culture.  Most had nothing, the cheap rubber boats they arrived on were over-packed with the weight of flesh and bringing on any more was out of the question.  

They left behind so much but they also left behind great fear and to most this was a fair trade.  

It was getting late and clusters of people were still lined up.  The police officer had finally come from behind the gate and was being a bit anal-retentive separating the crowd into small groups and making them stand and sit.  

Their was a young boy, probably 6, about the age you begin to conceive of ridiculous ideas like God and eternity.  He was jump-roping in the middle of a dramatic scene of refugees seated in the dirt, completely oblivious to the world and politics.  Contrasted by the presence of riot police with sterile gloves and face masks.  I took a photo and the riot police didn’t like that.  He started yelling at me asking me who I was with.  

This is one of those moments where being an independent journalist does me no good.  Best bet is to make up some official sounding title like the The Daily Voice, or the Herald Tribunal or the Tribunal Times or EKF Productions.  :)   Unfortunately my brain was cooked from the sun and I said I am an Independent journalist.  This to him must have translated as “Please take my camera and delete any of the photos I have that you don’t like” as that is what happened.

Afterwards he told me to leave and to get permission from the county clerk to come back.  So I promptly left and went around him and continued my work.    

I want to clarify that I see the need for a strong arm in this situation.  87% of the refugees are good people but 13% are douchebags and the quiet, polite ones must be protected from line cutters.  I do think this particular officer was a bit over the top and might have enjoyed the power yielded over so many desperate people.  

As the night set in the refugees started fires with whatever brush was left from the thousands before them.  They made tea and ate out of cans with their hands.  Everyone I talked to offered me food and tea and insisted that I sit with them.  It’s sweet how affectionate the Syrian men are with each other.  They cuddle up with each other on the filthy mattresses or rugs like they have never been tainted by the culture of machismo. 

The moon rose and it was huge and orange.  People gathered around talking, singing and dancing.  In some ways the scene reminded me of my earlier days covering music festivals, only with less tents, food and no drugs….  Okay, so maybe it was nothing like a music festival but the spirit of it felt the same to me.

Refugees of Lesbos

Lesbos is an adorable Greek Island about 7 kilometers off the coast of Turkey.  Everyone drives around on scooters and the main source of income is tourism.  It has also become the main crossing point for Syrian refugees entering the European Union.  

Nobody is entirely sure how many refugees have come through.  Refugees come from the coast of the nearby town Ayvalik, Turkey have always been doing this, usually roughly 100 per year.  However in the past year the numbers have grown and at one point in August the refugees handled over the course of 2015 was above 90,000 safe to say it is now past 100,000.  They all come and go but at one point their were at least 2 refugees for every Lesbos resident.  

It was 2pm at the kebab shop.  The sun was beating down and many refugees were taking shelter, charging cell phones and eating cheap burgers.  The cook was yelling at the refugees because he had given them a number but they couldn't understand the process or what he was saying.  

I heard the local shops were charging refugees double.  This was not true for this burger spot.  It was all cheap all around.  I spoke with the cook.  He told me that half the refugees were here to carry out jihad and said he saw photos of heavy artillery on the covers of their cell phones when he charged them.  He also told me they were out in the street in front of the shop all night fighting each other.

This cook was full of shit.  I was out in the exact same street until 3am watching the street the whole night.  I was trying to avoid a really annoying drunk greek gal that was smothering me in adoration, so I sat outside the bar and watched.  Nobody was fighting.  I can say after several days of walking around the 3 refugee camps on the island that I have never seen anybody fighting, day or night.

I stepped out and interviewed a young Syrian refugee named Omar.  He was telling me about his conspiracy that Assad and Isis are working together.  He said Assad needed a monster bigger then himself to take the spotlight off of him.  He didn’t want to be filmed as he hopes one day to return to Syria.  His boat was leaving for Athens in one hour.

I tried to rent a bike but the fat asshole wouldnt let me without a passport.  He told me the first refugee camp was just 2km, after about an hour hike I realized he misled me by about 3km.  

The camp was a large dirty dirt pile with tents and shrubbery.  Reminded me of an Arizona desert.  Kids playing, kind, hungry faces that were easy to approach although nobody spoke english.  

I met a Norwegian working with an NGO who told me the next refugee camp Moriah was only a 15 minute walk away.  Turns out she misled med by about 4km.  I walked about 45 minutes and then I hitched a ride back to town.

The car that picked me up was two beautiful blond Danish girls with a car packed with about 6 refugees.  Picking up refugees is no small deed as it is illegal to transport refugees on the island.  The girls simply came to help.  They didn’t come through the conduit of any NGO wich they said was a great decision.  They were free to help in any way at any time by any means they see fit at any point.  No rules.  

A few days later I would run into them again and see just how much they were helping.  They were always busy and always making progress.  They found other like-minded random people who wanted to help and they joined up forces and got hundreds of people fed and gave out information in large scale. 

No disrespect to the NGOs, but sometime being part of a bigger organization is freezing.  The large numbers and bureaucracy can take away from the feeling of empowerment and sense of responsibility.  I have seen many NGO people just standing around often not doing much.  I tried to interview some of them and I was told to contact their public relations officer.

So we rode into the town of Mitilini and the Danish girls started blasting Right Said Fred’s “I’m Too Sexy” and singing along and they dropped us all off at the ferry.  One of the refugees in the car was an Iraqui journalist who told me the Taliban threatened to cut him into little pieces so he left.

I walked to the ferry building, which I count as the third refugee camp in town.  It’s not technically supposed to be, but it has more refugees at any time then the other 2 camps.  It was late by this time and it was a dark parking lot filled with tents.  The lucky refugees had tents and the less fortunate (about half) slept on cardboard. 

I was searching for interviews and I was quite uptight at first.  After about 5 minutes though I had acclimated and it felt quite normal.  All the people were desperate and desperation can be dangerous when you are one of the “haves” but all of these people are running away from evil.  They run either because they are afraid of evil or they are afraid of becoming it, so they are good people.

Teens were playing soccer next to overflowing porta-potties.  Younger kids were racing in shopping carts down the hill while others sat in conversation and sang Muslim prayer songs in accapello.  Every 5 minutes a cop would drive through the parking lot way too fast flashing blue lights, otherwise it was peaceful.  Some were washing their clothes in the salty sea and swimming.  

Finding Taraf de Haïdouks

I was a bit weary from the road and losing inspiration spending most of my days hiding from the cruel heat of the summer in a pool of sweat.  I had it in my mind to give up and just head on to Bulgaria.  I met a good friend and she reminded me that nothing good ever came easy and that a good journalist is a fighter.  So, with that reminder I woke up early and headed out into the 98 degree weather determined for the small town of Clejani to ask random people in town if they knew any musicians.  I honestly wasn't looking forward to it.

On the way Clejani the bus picked up a drunk who smelled terrible.  The sun was beating down on every poor soul who couldn't get away and in the bus we all suffered through the musk and still heat together.  I didn't want to be there.  I tried to tell myself that it was a waste of time.  I was shooting in the dark at something that may not be there.  I couldn't tell if I was overly romanticizing the culture, to think I could show up in a town and ask at the local soda pop shop if they knew any gypsy musicians around that I could film. 

I had little note cards that explained my journey in Romanian, but if anyones answer were more complicated then yes or no it would all be lost in the wreck of the tower of Babel.  I would later have a friend translate my note card and realize it said something like, “This is how you make american journalist.  I have music you make for film and I will camp for short time.  Do you help?”

After buying a coke and being rejected twice I ran into George, a wide unshaven silly man who wanted me to buy him beer and cigarettes.  He seemed like he knew something about town and so I followed him into a peasant style shack with about 30 chickens, two ducks, a dog, 3 daughters, one baby boy and a tzigane grandma with a hard look.  My main connection was John and his wife.

The grandma kept telling me to give the baby some money to buy “booboo”.  I tried not to do it but she had a hard look to her and I liked her and believed that whatever booboo was, it was important so I paid up.  The grandma would always be doing things and shrugging her shoulders as if to say, “What else can I do?  Booboo turned out to be candy and balloons.  

John and I had a relaxed coffee talking politics and life in our respective worlds.  He told me to make some babies and get married.  He was just waking up, it must have been about 1p.m.  He had been up until 4a.m. and so had I.  It was not a problem for me to sit around and watch the chickens and babies play. 

We jumped in his car and drove to his cousins house.  His cousin is “Caliu” aka Ghoerghe Anghel, the main disciple of the recently deceased Nicolae Neacșu.  Nicolae Neacșu was the lead lăutari (musician) of Taraf de Haïdouks.  

Caliu is absolutely amazing.  He is actually the reason I set out to Romania to film musicians.  Every great musician I have ever met has a spaz in them as they play.  An uncontrollable twitch as they find their way through the notes.  You can see it in Hendrix as he hits the high notes, the way his bottom lip caves in as if someone had kicked him in the shin.  

Caliu’ spaz seems as if he is serving it to you.  He starts off smiling with eyes that beg the question, “Are you not entertained?”  If his eyes receive the answer he wants his smile get bigger and takes over his face but during the madness of the notes there is a struggle going on in those eyes.  It looks like a dance into madness with quick flashes of sobriety and sadness in between the staccato.  

He has a huge presence and is very kind.  I had given most of my tips to the other players before him so all I had to give him for this performance was a pathetic $2.  He took the money and acted like he was shaving with it, which apparently is what they do.  

I read the biography of my favorite gypsies Django and learned that no matter what success or amount of money, his life didn't change much.  He acted upon his will and never caught the bug that most successful people catch, of wanting more.  The money went about as fast as it came and was treated like the paper it actually is.  

Piatra Craiului Mountains

I got off the bus in Zarnesti and walked into a cafe which turned out to actually just be a bar with a bunch of geriatric Romanians drinking way to early.  I ordered a machine cup of cappuccino for a lei ($0.25) and began walking.  I made my way past town, down a dirt road and up into a trail that went up and up and up some more for about 3 hours into Cabana Curmatura.  

In a average setting if you hike deep into bumfuck and are surrounded by the majestic beauty of nature and there is a man with a cabin with hot food and cold beer somehow in the middle of nowhere with you, the free market suggests that he will charge you a ridiculous amount of cash for anything because he is the only option and he has you by the chode.  

Not so here.  A cabin for the eve was 30 lei (7.50) and a meal was 10 lei (2.50).  The man was quiet but had a genuine smile.  He lived in that cabin all year round.  He was either in tune with nature in a way that I can only hope to achieve one day, or borderline insane preparing to chop everyone up into pieces during the cold cold winter of the southern Carpathian mountains.  

The next day I suffered from a great stomach pain and I was covered in bug bites as I hiked on with a camera, 16oz of water and a snickers bar.  The camera went first as the battery died, the snickers next and finally I was out of water.  This was not before climbing straight up a damn near vertical rough rugged mountain.  

After three hours and a lot of sweat I was up top riding the crest of the Piatru mountains.  The hike was tough and dangerous, but it looked more dangerous then it actually was.  There were long deep drops into rugged sharp limestone 60 -100 feet down on both sides but the grounding was always strong.  The rocks beneath my feet were heavy and not budging and so long as I don’t allow vertigo or the fear of the visible drop all around me effect my concentration then I stay safe.

This was the easy part though.  I had to be in Zarnesti by 8 so I had planned take the crest trail to the blue cross trail to make it back down into town.  I don’t like to re-trace my steps.  After 3 more hours I made it to the blue cross trail and looked down.  

It was tight on both sides with brush and steep.  It was the ass crevice of two mountains coming together and there was tight and steep decline allowing an escape at a very high risk.  I knew the danger rating for this trail was worse then the crest trail but I figured it would still be doable.  

At the start I was apprehensive.   I would have slid deep down into certain slow and painful breaking of bones and possibly life if not for the brush surrounding me on both sides, smacking me in the face as I slid down the muddy decline.  I figured at the start of a trail going down the highest peak in the land I should expect danger and assured myself it would get better.  It got worse though.

My last big hike was through 6 feet of snow off a trail straight up a mountain in the sonora pass at 11,000 feet.  I went numb in both feet and suffered snow blindness and could hardly breath the lack of oxygen at such a high altitude.  Still I felt safer there then this trail.

This trail was loose limestone rock.  Every step was a small avalanche.  It didn’t look as dangerous as the crest trail, it wasn’t as dramatic, but it was much more dangerous.  My sense of danger and death is described best in the book “To a God Unknown” by Steinbeck.  He kills off a main character in that book with one sentence in such a simple dumb way.  Just a tiny mistake on a normal day, nothing dramatic, a bit boring but so real.  

One mistake would mean a bruised ass and possibly bloody head, but a mistake coupled with a coincidence would have been unforgiving and the way the terrain was setup there was land teeming with possibility for all kinds of coincidence.  I took it slow and steady and that worked well but after hours of the same terrain around every steep corner the energy it took to stay focused  suffered a bit.

I made five mistakes during that passage.  Not good numbers for me but still okay.  I was so happy to make it to flat land and eventually back to Brasov for South Indian Curry.  

It was beautiful, if you get the chance go!  Don’t bring a tent, stay in the hut with the nature man and keep your pack light, and avoid the blue cross trail!  Thats my best advice.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piatra_Craiului_Mountains

The Gala

This was the final day, after a hard week fueled with Palinka and music.

Kalotaszegi dance

This short piece is a collection of dance moves from the men's dance competition in Sancriau, Romania.  Watch the feet!  They got moves!

Lad's Dance

Andrew took the time to show me this dance after a hour long teaching session.  He was covered in sweat.  "There is no equality when it comes to dance, nothing is ever the same.  The Lad's dance is an opportunity for a man to show that he has the most power.  Not power in the sense of brute strength, but grace and intelligence."

Rain in Kalotaszegi

 

After 72 hours of madness the last sloppy drunken notes left the last standing violin as I was waking up at 8a.m. after 2 hours of sleep on Thursday.

Over the next 6 hours exhaustion finally took hold of everyone combined with what I believe was food poisoning from the main cafeteria.

The sky takes a deep blue and the rain began pouring as an old man in river boots mozies under the canopy where I am having coffee.

The shop lady struggles to keep what is breakable dry and delivers a palinca and whisky to the local old farm hands.  It looks like it takes a lot to them drunk.  Big mustaches.  Palinca is the Romanian answer to moonshine.  I had bought a round for the gypsies band in Budapest and I paid off the next day in a terrible hangover. 

The rain is pounding.  I would ask for another coffee but everyone is trying to save either themselves or something from the rain.  Booming thunder and every breath of wind empties gallons of rain collected from the top of the tarp.  The barista is almost giving up and the roads are looking like a swimming pool.  The man has taken off his shirt as the barista grimaces and I realize it just started to hail. 

At this point in the story it is too wet to hold ink on the page and anyways I have to help with the unloading of rain from the tarps. 

I took this shot of two elderly townsmen half drunk and arguing with each other.  This resulted in 20 minutes of back and forth gesturing and incomprehensible Hungarian culminating in them giving me their signatures for some strange reason. 

Rhapsody in Sâncrai, Romania

I left Budapest for Huedin, Romania at about 11pm for an 9 hour trip through lightening next to a sweaty stinky man.  I got off the bus in Huedin at 9am as two old ladies argued while sweeping the sidewalk with homemade brooms.  There were no restaurants or cafes but many bars so I stepped into a bar and drank coffee as the old men of Huedin were getting started with their first brew puffing away at their cigarettes in classy hats.  The bar was adorned with lotto machines, naked lady posters and the barkeep looked like a Floridian grandmother. 

From there I hitch-hiked to Sâncrai where a folk dance was to be held.  Very soon I was picked up by an older couple and what I assume was their younger daughter.  Nobody spoke english but the daughter had a tattoo on her arm reading, “I love you baby.”

I walked into town in a sleep deprived haze and plead my case to the operators of this event.  Music was ringing out of several buildings, the sounds of feet pounding the ground and the swelling of over 20 violins chiming the same melody. 

As I write this it is 4a.m. and I can still hear them out the window chanting tougher in an ancient language to songs that begin slow and bittersweet and build until the floor is packed with dancing, singing, spinning and slapping knees and feet in rhythm to a melody that weaves through changing time signatures and builds for about half an hour.

Flat bridge violas keep rhythm as fried sausages are sold for 2 lui each (half a dollar).  The joy spans the faces of multiple generations who are entranced in a frenzy of exuberance. 

What I would pay to import this atmosphere to the U.S.  This was built over the course of many generations and carefully fostered and protected.  Bluegrass comes close but doesn’t have the amount of regional nuances and skilled dancing as the music of Eastern Europe.

Something that makes you sad and joyful at the same time is worth heading into.  This music pushes towards obsession so it is no surprise that the performers and scholars of this music are so detailed about its technique and origin.

Here is the first of what I hope to be many films that explore this culture.  My only limitation is my time here and I have a decent amount.   

Pure Lung: Short film on Honduras

This film represents months of filming and editing with the help of many Hondurans and friends.  This film is not the whole truth, this film focuses on a problem.  The true Honduras has more beauty and kindness then I could fit into a camera.  This film should show the problems facing a typical Honduran living in a city.