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.
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