Slamming Shut the Golden Door

Back in 2011, I was spending two months on Cyprus writing a research paper. “Writing a research paper” is code for “drinking and goofing off on government money”.

One of the few places my broke, skinny ass could afford to eat was a small cafe just off Plateia Eleutherias (Independence Square) in Nicosia.

It was a Syrian cafe, serving cheap and delicious food. You could order what must have been a pound of excellent falafel for three Euros (less than five bucks).

Add to that lightning-fast wi-fi, and you’ll understand why I came there every day.

I’d drop by, grab a table in the back, and spend a few hours working, or procrastinating on work, or Skyping with my then-girlfriend.

The owner, who looked eerily like the actor Arnold Vosloo, would greet me and shout, “Falafel again, eh?” He never seemd to stop smiling, that man.

So, one day I came in and noticed right away that something was amiss.

Everyone on staff was glued to the TV.

…Much later, I realized what that news segment was about. It showed coverage of the protest in Daraa.

The first four deaths of what would become a civil war. Nascent signs of what would turn into five years of bloodshed, and counting…

Like always, the owner greeted me. But the smile couldn’t touch his eyes.

As soon as he handed me my meal, he went back to watching the news.

That was March of 2011.

We’re halfway through 2016 now. Every time I read or watch any news from Syria, I picture the crestfallen look on that man’s face.

I think about his family back home.

Did he get them out in time?

What does he think of the world’s embarrassing indecision that all but condemned millions of the Syrian people to death?

What would he say to the politicians on both sides of the Atlantic, spouting hateful rhetoric, and accusing his family of being terrorists in disguise?

I could never fully grasp what he was thinking and feeling — but I can imagine. And so can you.

Imagine the place you grew up in torn asunder by bombings — as it happened in Zabadani, and dozens of other cities.

Imagine your loved ones trapped in the everyday hell of bombings and artillery strikes. Imagine their friends and neighbors being blown to pieces on their way to pick up groceries. With no warning and no mercy.

Imagine them handing their livelihood over to human traffickers, huddling up on rickety boats filled to five times their capacity. Imagine them crossing the Mediterranean in a storm, knowing full well that to survive the voyage would be an incredible stroke of luck.

Picture crowds of people, many thousands strong, shuffling deeper into the continent, in a long, winding chain of terrified, confused humanity. Along roads and train tracks, across fields and bridges — everywhere.

Picture them clawing their way past razor wire at border checkpoints. Pleading with customs officers. Staring down barrels of machine guns (ask the Hungarian government what that was all about).

Imagine millions of destitute, desperate people becoming a bargaining chip in a power struggle in some faraway country. A country they are only trying to get into because there’s a good chance nobody will drop a bomb on you there.

Or detain you unlawfully.

Or demand a gigantic bribe for letting you in.

Or deport you without due process.

When your life was in mortal danger, when you braved so many hazards just to get to safety… is humane treatment really such a big ask?

It was a horrible idea to sit down and write this. Mostly because the situation makes zero sense to me.

You’d never catch me dead preaching moral absolutism… but if there’s any issue that should be understood in black-and-white, clear-cut, right-and-wrong terms, this is it.

These people need help. By the millions, they have been deprived of what should be the inalienable right of every human being — to live and work free of the horrors of war.

But apparently it’s not so simple. That’s what morally bankrupt cuntfaces keep saying to me. Apparently, by some fucked-up getting-high-on-farts logic it makes sense to let innocent people die by the thousands, and live in poverty by the millions.

Wouldn’t you know, there’s nuance involved.

But here’s the thing…

Just because it’s happening somewhere else, doesn’t mean it’s not happening. It doesn’t mean it won’t ever happen to you — or someone you love.

It’s not a migrant crisis. Migrants choose to leave. Refugees have it forced upon them by circumstance. And thus they deserve our help.

And to be completely honest, it’s not 100% a refugee crisis, either…

It’s a crisis of governance.

It’s a crisis of solidarity.

It’s a crisis of compassion.

And it’s high time to step up.

P.S. When I talk about refugees, I don’t speak from experience — but in different circumstances, I easily could have…

Because it almost happened to me.

A native of Eastern Ukraine, I was lucky enough to emigrate in the spring of 2013. By the end of 2014, this is what happened to the airport I used to leave the country…

I won’t show you what happened to my hometown, because I still can’t look at those images.

Does it make me biased? Hell yes.

But does it make me wrong?

I don’t know. But if I am, I’d rather not find out what being right looks like.