A Day on the Shores of Greece
Chaos abounds at the emergency camps set up for people arriving into Europe.
by: David Engel
The phone went off. It was a text from Charly, the coordinator of the Norwegian team: “Are you able to transport a family as fast as possible from the beach to the hospital? Family member is very ill.” We finished the last bite of our breakfast and drove to Eftalou as fast as we could.
We met Charly in the middle of a chaotic scene of bright orange lifejackets and green safety vests. She pointed us to a group of people and continued to help boats get to the shore.
“Are you a family?” I asked them. “Do you need to go to the hospital?” A man tried to enter our mini bus and pointed at his family: “Yes, family”. I asked him if someone needed to go to the hospital. He answered, “Hospital… okay.” I apologised and said that we were looking for a family that was in need of immediate medical care. I couldn’t blame the man for trying to get his family away from the beach as fast as possible. Everyone there was cold and tired and was trying to get to a camp as fast as possible. Then I saw a very tired looking man and asked him if he needed medical attention. He nodded, we helped his family into our van and drove of to the hospital in Mytlini.
While we were driving along the small mountain roads to the capital, I remembered that it was illegal to transport refugees. I dialled the number of the local police, let it ring once and ended the call. If the police stopped us, I could persuade them that we had informed them about the emergency.
The family spoke almost no English and we weren’t able to determine what the medical emergency was. I was only able to get his name, Elias, after pointing at myself a few times and saying, “Dawud” (David in Arabic) and then pointing at him.
We arrived at the hospital and the second person we spoke to happened to be an Arabic translator. He spoke to the doctor and she told us that he needed a kidney dialysis, fast. The hospital staff brought him to the dialysis room and the doctor, a sweet woman in her 50s with friendly eyes, told us to take the family to camp Kara Tepe, and pick up Elias at 9pm. She gave us a note explaining his medical condition and the need for priority in Greek. Never in my life have I been more careful with a piece of paper; I checked that I hadn’t lost it every few minutes.
When we returned Elias to his family I found a contact with the International Rescue Committee who helped us to translate. We told them that we were going to take them to Moria where they could get registered. We were going to try to and get them through as a priority. Elias wasn’t well enough to spend another night in the cold. I added, “One more thing. When we get you to the registration, act like you are sad and tired to the police. We need to exaggerate to get the police to help us.” The whole family smiled and looked at each other as if we were plotting a little conspiracy.
On our way to the registration camp the mother and I managed to communicate some more using the Google Translate app on my phone. She thanked us many times in Arabic and blew us kisses. We drove to the gate of the camp and met Chris, an American volunteer who was going to help us get the whole family though the registration as fast as possible.
But when we arrived, there was another emergency. A woman fell down in shock and started to shake violently. Chris rushed in to help. I stood there feeling useless without any medical training. I found someone who could tell Elias and his family that it was going taking longer to get them registered because of the medical emergency.
The son, Anas, was very tired and found a plastic lawn chair with a missing leg to sit on. As soon as he sat down, he fell asleep with his mouth slightly open and snoring lightly. His father tapped me on the shoulder, pointed at his son and started to laugh. He took his other son and started to take selfies with the sleeping little boy with a big grin on his face. I also started to laugh because of the absurdity of it all and thought about how people, even in the worst of situations, always find something to laugh about.
It took a while for us to persuade the police to give Elias priority registration. But after a lot of perseverance and gesturing at the note the wonderful doctor gave us, they finally let us in. I walked into the registration office with the family, pretending I belonged there and knew what I was doing. The situation was chaotic, but their registration went swiftly.
Because of the lack of shelter in Moria, we set out to find another place for everyone to sleep. Someone proposed the idea of taking them to PIKBA, a camp for refugees who needed more attention and care. We called around, talking to people we didn’t know, but pretended to, and finally, at about 2am, we found them a safe place to sleep.
The next day, we went to PIKBA to check how Elias and the family were doing. They already left for the harbour to buy a ferry ticket to Athens. I felt a bit sad that I wouldn’t be able to see them again, but also happy that they were able to continue their journey.
Sometimes, when I look at the Arabic keyboard I installed on my phone to talk to them, I wonder if they remember their first day in Europe. I can’t make myself delete the keyboard because it makes me think about them. Every time look at it, I picture them in a safe place somewhere on the continent.
