Oinofyta Refugee Camp ~ The Duality of Hope and Hopelessness
Names have been changed to protect the identity of the residents of Oinofyta.
Since I returned from volunteering in Oinofyta refugee camp in Greece ten days ago, the question everyone has asked me is ‘How was it?’
Each time I am asked this, I want to reply ‘How long have you got and how deeply would you like to engage with my answers?’ Do you want to know ‘What did it look like there?’ or ‘What were the living conditions like?’ Do you want to know ‘What personal stories did I hear from the refugees I met?’ or ‘What were they like?’ Are you asking me ‘Did I form bonds with people there that will stay with me for a lifetime?’ or ‘Did I question why I was there at all?’
Because since I returned I have written over 9000 words in an attempt to answer some of these questions for myself. Since I returned I have realised there is no single story to tell and to try and frame my experiences and what I witnessed into a neatly top and tailed blog post, would be to rob us all of dignity, in what is both complex and challenging, beautifully hopeful and heartbreakingly hopeless.
And so with that in mind, coupled with the understanding that you probably don’t have time to read 9000 words, I share below some moments, which for me form part of the mosaic of experiences, emotions and insights I will carry with me from Oinofyta.
~ The Children ~
Children are everywhere I look, smiling, laughing… playing with rusty nails and shards of broken glass. They are living in a dilapidated industrial warehouse, but if it weren’t for Oinofyta camp, they may not be alive at all.
With 191 of the 500 people living here aged 17 and under, it’s not surprising their presence makes itself known. All safe guarding procedures go awol as they wrap their arms around my waist and leap into my lap, begging me to play Frozen’s ‘Let It Go’ on my iPhone, so they can sing along.
“Let it go, let it go… You’ll never see me cry. Here I stand and here I’ll stay… Let the storm rage on.”
Their voices carry the lyrics of emotional resilience and fearlessness in the face of isolation and chaos, with a piercingly dramatic irony. As I travel through the camp, the children place their tiny hands inside my own, refusing to let me walk anywhere alone. They call into presence stories of innocence lost, of lives taken and displaced by wars that have desolated the homes they once played in.
Yet as I paint a giant glittering red heart on Marisa’s face at her request, the brush stroke tracing over a scar just under her left eye, I not only see a little girl who has walked through three countries to get here, accompanied by her older sister, younger brother and mother; carrying her youngest brother on her back. I also see a little girl giggling as the cold paint tickles her skin, her eyes full of the excitement of transformation. I see a child who, in this moment, is more than a canvas for the trauma she carries, she is a young life full of potential.
I am struck by the lack of parental supervision in the camp. One afternoon a baby in a nappy waddles towards me alone crying. I instinctively pick him up to comfort him, which seems to work for a moment, before he breaks into tears again. It’s then I realise his nappy is full.
I feel totally helpless. I don’t have any nappies, nor do I know where to get any. I can feel judgment creeping in as I wonder where his parents are. A little girl I’m painting walls with tells me his door number is 89. I knock on the thin MDF board with trepidation. I feel like an intruder. No answer. The crying becomes louder and I knock again, this time with more force. Still, nobody comes.
I stand there holding this tiny child, feeling just as helpless as he is. A woman walks past the end of the corridor. ”Do you know where his mother is?” I ask her. She shakes her head and gestures outside. I know some of the women have been taken into Athens today, so I guess this is what she means. I hold the boy up and signal to his nappy, which is starting to emit a familiar stench. She seems to understand and mutters something in Farsi, which ends in “mamma” and gestures for me to pass her the boy. I can’t be sure, but it feels like she is saying that she will be his mother for now.
As the week draws on I find myself accidentally playing parent again and again and I come to realise that these children aren’t raised by their parents alone, but by all of the adults and older children in the camp. It’s a group effort, volunteers included. The phrase “it takes a village to raise a child” echoes in my mind.
~ The Leader ~
“No one will starve in this camp.” Lisa, a matriarch who embodies tenderness behind her steely and determined action, says. And I for one believe her.
She’s just had to deliver the news that on May 1st the Greek government will stop delivering food, previously funded by the EU. Instead, the residents will be given payment cards to buy their own food. All except for the 56 individuals who don’t meet the current criteria that is. Their fate is yet to be decided, but one thing they do have is the love and will of Lisa Campbell, co-founder of nonprofit disaster relief organisation Do Your Part.
“As a small charity out of the United States we get no government funding. We can’t just call up the EU and say we now need to provide food for 56 people, give us some more money. So we are limited in what we’re going to be able to do for everybody, but we will make sure nobody starves. We will,” she promises.
The camp was set up by Lisa just one year ago and already there is a carpenter’s workshop, a gym, a school with its own garden and veg patch, a sewing room where the women make bags to be sold online, a hair salon, a football pitch and garden area in the making, as well as a basketball court in the early stages of fundraising.
Lisa raised four children and 13 foster children before becoming an adopted mother to all 500 people living at Oinofyta refugee camp. She says the camp was designed to be a place where refugees can live, not just exist.
As she recounts some of the stories of the people she serves here, her voice cracks and a heavy tear rolls down her sun stained cheek. Her husband would rather she were back home in his arms, but Lisa has a vision and she is determined to see it manifest. She breaks into Farsi as some of the children gather round her and the camp puppy Bagheera leaps at her feet.
“The goal is to get people out of the camp and into homes,” she says “but people are still arriving. The weather is changing and as you talk to the people coming in on the boats, they’re saying that people are waiting. There are hundreds of thousands that want to get here and they will come.”
It is estimated that 43,357 refugees have arrived to Europe by boat in 2017 alone, with over 274 dead or missing.
“It’s a dangerous journey, but they’re still coming. The only thing that’s going to actually solve this crisis would be to solve what is happening in the Middle East and unfortunately I don’t see that happening anytime soon.”
Lisa is angry that Afghans, who make up 88% of the people in this camp (the rest being 6% Iranian and 6% Pakistani), are not currently even considered refugees by the UN, despite being the second largest displaced population, after Syrians. Instead they are being labelled as economic migrants and forcibly deported back to Afghanistan, a country riven by fighting with the Taliban and other armed groups.
“My biggest question to the UN,” Lisa says, “is why are Afghans not considered war refugees? Why?”
“My country is bombing the hell out of them. I have a nephew who’s in Afghanistan right now with the American military. His job is to be a crew chief on a black hawk helicopter and go in and pick up wounded people. If they are not war refugees then why the hell is my nephew there?”
Her voice breaks, as though she’s about to cry with sheer frustration: “And the little girl, who I love so much, that I would take home in a heartbeat, who is here in this camp because her father left Afghanistan, because his uncles and brothers and cousins were being conscripted by the Taliban. Whose sister ended up being killed in Turkey, by a smugglers car. Who has spent the last year in this camp. Tell me why she is not a refugee. Tell me why she’s a migrant,” she almost spits this last word.
“That’s what I want to know from the UN,” she says, anger rippling through her voice, “Why did you let Angela Merkel tell you not to make them war refugees?”
“That’s what they [the residents] want to know too,” she adds defiantly.
Lisa’s direct experience of the way the refugee crisis is being dealt with by the UN and other large organisations has clearly left her feeling angry and frustrated. “They [the UN] haven’t done what needs to be done in taking care of the people here,” she continues. “We built the infrastructure and brought everyone inside, the day before we got a massive snow storm that collapsed most of the tents. It wasn’t the big organisations doing it.”
Lisa tells us that the UN were given 68 million euros to prepare the camps for winter and all she saw of that money here at Oinofyta was a blanket, a sleeping bag, a pair of tights, a pair of socks, a poncho and a hat for each resident.
“The United Nations High Council for Refugees,” she says, slowly spelling out the irony. “See now you’re getting to the point where I get pissed. I get pissed because I see the money bleeding out of here.”
“Forty percent of every euro that has gone to IOM, UNHCR, Save The Children, Mercy Core, Samaritans Purse etc, has gone to salaries and other crap.” She says. “The answer to that is to get back to basics and to dismantle these humongous business entities, because that’s what they are.”
Lisa advises that financial donations should be made directly to small charities working on the ground. She pleads with us to tell people to stop sending clothing donations, as the mountain in the warehouse is mostly unsuitable and costs hours in wasted labour to sort through. Instead she recommends the Needs List for those wanting to donate, as this enables the camps here to get what they actually need from local sources, avoiding waste and boosting the Greek economy.
Mostly, she urges us to talk to people about our experiences here.
“You need to tell people the truth. That’s the first thing you need to do.” She says. “Our media doesn’t tell the whole story. They don’t tell the truth. You’ve come to a camp with 500 people in it and 191 of those people are children. What you see in the media is a totally different story.”
“As you hear the stories of the people here, you find that what you’re hearing in the media is not true. And so it is up to us to make sure that what we’re telling is the truth, that we’re telling the stories as they are.”
“And we must work at changing the government. People are the only thing that will do that. So work at creating understanding and changing government policies that will allow these people to move on.”
I think of Theresa May’s closure of the Dubs scheme, which promised to accept 3000 refugee children into the country, but only delivered a tenth of this number. Her government claims they closed the scheme because it acts as an incentive for refugees to make perilous journeys with traffickers. But I have met people in this camp who have put their whole family onto a boat heading off into the black night sea, the men ordered by traffickers to strip down to their underwear, so as not to weigh down the flimsy vessel.
These people have never even heard of the Dubs scheme and the only incentive they have is the choice between certain death if they stay, and possible death if they go. The fact is our country and many Western countries like ours are not taking in as many refugees as we could and until we the electorate start holding politicians to account, nothing will change.
~ The Men ~
The hope is the families here will, eventually, be moved into homes, but a bigger question mark hangs over the single men. Greece has a 65% unemployment rate for their demographic with low paid, seasonal work on the land often the only option.
Lisa is waiting on the go-ahead from the Ministry of Migration to turn the camp into a vocational centre for the single men, once the families have been moved on. Sixty men would live on premises and be trained up in computer-based skills, working remotely for employers outside of Greece. The result, sustainable careers for the men and a much needed to boost to the Greek economy.
In the meantime the single men hang around, sometimes playing sport, but mostly bored out of their minds. Chasing escapism, some turn to drink and drugs, easily obtained outside of the camp. Lisa estimates a large majority of the camp residents suffer from PTSD and depression and has hired psychotherapists to try and reach out to the most traumatised.
One man tells me he is afraid to leave his wife alone for too long, as she already tried to kill herself with his earphones once, in an attempt to escape the punishing uncertainty of their situation.
For some of the men the pent up frustration and mental health issues become too much and fighting between them is common. “We are tired of fighting” is scrawled across one of the doors in the men’s corridor and I wonder whether it refers to life before or at the camp. Perhaps it’s both.
The men are far from hostile towards us, perhaps welcoming our new faces as a break in the monotony of life here. A group of men from Pakistan welcome us into their room for tea and delicious home cooked snacks, bearing flavours of their country. We thank the men for their generous hospitality. “These are the memories we will treasure forever,” one replies.
On the wall of his room, Abraham, an Afghan man in his early 20’s has painted “It’s hard to wait around for something that you know might never happen. But it’s even harder to give up when you know that it’s everything you want.”
In the main corridor of the warehouse Kabir, an older man, has painted a beautiful boat. I spend the afternoon helping to finish the sky and sea, as he finishes the people. Drawn in pencil outlines with strange squiggles inside, I am told they represent those who didn’t make it. A rush of grief bolts through me, as I recognise his pain of loved ones lost. It’s in these moments of shared emotion that I experience our true interconnectedness.
We ask the men what they would like to paint in the men’s corridor, in an attempt to make it look less like a prison. Their answer is a garden.
~The Women ~
As Lisa puts it the women have “taken a step back in the centuries.” They’re having to cook with tiny stoves and wash everything by hand, hence why I don’t encounter them much. But when I do it is the highlight of my week.
I am invited to the makeshift hair salon for a party. When I arrive I find Jawan, the camp’s infamous carpenter outside a closed door, jigging around from foot to foot, waving his hands in the air to the music. He grins at me and we laugh. The door is opened and I am ushered inside. Jawan, on the other hand, must stay outside. This is how things are done here, women and men do not socialise with one another unless they are family.
The women have painted love hearts on the cold white washed walls, survival of the feminine. They form a circle, their smiling faces filling the room with beauty. We take it in turns to dance in the centre, held by the clapping hands of the rest. I lock eyes with one woman as she teaches me her moves. As I give it my best effort, she raises her eyebrows with a smile and mouths “you teach me too”.
The music pulsates through the room as a momentary feeling of shared joy takes hold of each of us and I feel the hairs on my arms stand up. Waves of gratitude, joy, and deep pain at the beauty and fragility of this unlikely moment wash up inside of me and I fight back my tears more than once. As we dance I feel silently and unbreakably linked to these women, the story of our sisterhood woven far before any of us entered this room.
One of the women is reluctant to dance and is coaxed into the circle by the others. As she gestures at her clothes and shakes her head in refusal, I recognise something I too have felt before, not wishing to garner attention, because I am not feeling like the best version of myself.
Eventually, she removes her jumper and smooths her headscarf around her face, joining the dance cautiously at first. A deep sadness in her eyes dances with hope for a few moments as she moves her hips and arms in motion to the music. Both her pain and her joy are held tenderly by the other women in the room.
~ Saying Goodbye ~
Each evening as we prepare to leave the camp, the children gather in front of and around our vehicles in protest, making us promise we will return tomorrow. My heart pangs knowing that soon I will no longer be able to make this promise.
It’s as though Lisa knows what I am feeling as she offers; “The knowledge that you cared enough to come here, really does offer a hope they need. Because they need to understand that there are lots of people out there who want things to be different and who are working to help make those changes.”
Still I sit with a feeling of anxiety that perhaps I shouldn’t have come. That perhaps it will do my new found friends more harm than good, as each connection they make eventually leaves them. Abandonment is something I have struggled to come to terms with in my own life and I do not wish to be the perpetrator. I ask long-term volunteer Jess to tell me honestly if she thinks it is better for volunteers like me not to come at all, if we are only able to come for a short time.
“I have thought about this a lot,” she says “And my answer is no. People give what they can. For some that’s a week and for others it’s 6 months. The children get so much from you and nothing can ever take that away. I said this to the girls the other day, you cry because you have love in your life.”
On my last day in the camp I catch Bahara, an eleven-year-old girl I’ve spent time with during the week, hiding behind a car crying. She squeals “I love you” at me and grabs my hand, demanding I come to her room, which she shares with her mum, dad and five siblings.
Her parents are thrilled at my arrival and usher me inside handing me chai, biscuits, fudge, slices of orange and their two-month-old baby Azeena.
Azeena looks up at me, as I hold her in my arms. She is one of 27 babies born in the camp and one of 10 million ‘stateless’ people worldwide. Later I will read that a child is born stateless every ten minutes.
Azeena was issued a birth certificate here in Greece, but she is not a Greek citizen. She is not even an Afghan citizen. She belongs nowhere. In order for her to be granted Afghan citizenship her parents will need to set up a meeting with the Afghan Envoy, who will require histories and paperwork proving that her parents themselves are Afghan citizens.
But some of the parents in this camp are second or third generation refugees themselves, having grown up in Pakistan or Iran, after their parents and grandparents fled Afghanistan up to four decades ago. As such they may not possess such papers. It’s a question I am unable to broach as we sip tea and look at one another, the limits of our shared language bridged by smiles.
Bahara speaks in Farsi and her mum, who is the same age as me, giggles. “She tells me you are friends,” she says.
I desperately fight the tears welling up in my eyes, as a wave of painful gratitude washes over me. I feel so acutely aware of my own privilege, to be sitting here in this family’s space as they share all they have with me. I am privileged to be here in this camp, scrubbing floors, sorting clothes, painting walls and faces. I am privileged to look these people in the eye, to hold their hands and to hear their stories; to witness their strength, resilience and kindness. I am privileged to be a part of their lives, even if just for a week. And I am privileged I have the freedom to leave, to return to my comfortable home, knowing the people I love are safe.
On the wall in the corridor two doves have been painted above a sealed envelope. “The blue envelope has a message for the whole world,” the artist explains, “We are not poor or needy, we don’t want to come to your country and live like beggars. We don’t want the world’s money; it just perpetuates war — we need peace so we can go back to our beloved lands.”
~ Speaking the truth ~
After I visited Calais in 2015, I struggled to write about my experiences so much that in the end I didn’t. I struggled because I had witnessed a snapshot of the duality I have shared above and I felt silenced by the dominant narratives at the time, which painted a polarised picture of refugees being either helpless, or a threat. I worried that perhaps my experiences were not comprehensive enough to deserve me a voice on the matter. I questioned ‘Who am I to speak up against the status quo?’
Returning from Greece I feel differently. I know exactly who I am. I am a person who believes in truth and integrity and in exploring the dualities of life. I am a person who believes in sharing what is on my heart, because only I can share it. Because to ignore my own truths is to somehow do a disservice to something much greater than myself.
Of course I will only ever be able to tell parts of this story, given that I will only ever experience it through my own lenses, and that the refugee crisis is still very much unfolding. But Lisa’s final words of encouragement stay with me: “Tell the truth. Tell people what the truth is. Talk to people. Make changes. You can do it.”
~ Hearing the truth ~
A wise woman once told me that the forced displacement experienced by refugees all over the world right now, is a physical manifestation of the displacement we are all experiencing from one another and from ourselves.
I hope that through learning to hold all of my experiences, the shadow and the light, I can begin to heal this displacement inside me which has allowed me to numb my emotions and turn away from that which feels unbearably hopeless at times.
As the faces of those I met in the camp visit me in dreams, I know I will no longer be able to turn away from the pain and injustice I have witnessed. As the love I feel permeates my heart, neither will I forget the kindness and joy we shared, enabling us to live for a moment beyond differences and boundaries.
I am learning that to see something in its whole form, to accept life in its dualities, is to be free. Free from the fear of what might be, and free from the paralysis of thinking I cannot do anything to change what is. Because whilst none of us may have the power to single handedly solve a global crisis, we each have the power to experience life in all of its dualities and to listen to the call of our own heart.
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