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.