Last month, I had the chance to receive the refugees as soon as they landed on European soil. Just hours after their boat left Turkey and arrived on the rocky coast of Lesvos, a Greek island, we were there to clothe them, feed them, and wish them farewell as they continued traveling in hopes of seeking asylum.
This month, my team and one other had the chance to work with the refugees farther in their journey. The very last camp in Greece before they cross over to the Macedonian border.
I’ve interacted with these people, I’ve talked to them and gotten to know their stories. I know their faces and their smiles and when you give me a warehouse full of donated clothes – I can now tell you which clothes they’ll take and which ones they will turn down, choosing instead to be cold because even though they have little, they don’t want just any clothes. Most of them have better style than I ever will and most definitely better than my current world race wardrobe.
The camp here is several times larger than the camp we were working at in Lesvos. Several different organizations are volunteering but there is no chain of command. Apparently Greeks disprove of hierarchy.
For a while now, only Syrians, Afghans, and Iraqis are allowed to cross because those are the only nationalities allowed to crossed farther down the line at other country border crossings. We have met and gotten to know several people from Iran, Morocco, Somali, and Pakistan that are stuck. They can’t cross the border so they are currently just living at the camp. And let me tell you, there have been some very cold, very wet, and very windy days and nights.
When I get to the camp, ready to work my 8-10 hour shift, I know that the cold and rain is temporary. These people don’t get that same luxury. These people don’t get any of the luxuries they are used to.
This camp isn’t set up to be permanent. But these people have no where else to go.
Every day we arrived to the camp with a little bit of uncertainty. Some days (when the supplies were available) we were able to pass out clothes – mostly gloves, hats, scarves, and jackets with the hopes of making those bitter cold nights a little less miserable.
About a week in to our time in Thessaloniki, our clothing distribution tent became sleeping quarters and passing out clothes was no longer an option.
Some days we would sort through the donations. You would laugh at some of the things people try to give the refugees. Summer clothes and high heels were the first to go. From there we would sort them in to men and women, children and baby and then sort in to pants, tops, jackets, and shoes.
Some days we would help pass out lunch. While several of us tried to maintain order and peace among the line, others would try to make sure that everyone only came through the line once. Some of us would pass out the food, some would pass out the water, and some would manage crowd control.
Passing out food wasn’t as simple as it sounds. Many of the refugees had been stranded for days or weeks at a time. They were hungry, most of them near starving.
We didn’t always have enough food for everyone and once too many people had snuck through the line multiple times, the food supply was cut off. To everyone. Even those that hadn’t received a meal yet.
Our time at the camp was heavy. We saw riots, chants, Macedonian vehicles armed with machine guns, riot shields, and news reporters everywhere.
Several Iranian men even sewed their mouths shut.
Because sometime silence has a stronger cry than the loudest scream.
I remember the day I saw these men for the first time, sitting on the railroad tracks right in front of the border. Their faces are some I still carry with me today. Their faces, along with so many more, are some that I will carry with me forever.
Everyone keeps telling them to go back to Athens, to turn around. But how? How can they go back? If Iranians return to their country after leaving without permission, they get executed.
They cannot go back. And we, as human beings and even more importantly as Christians, could never ask them to. They need our help.
I know that my perspective is different from most peoples back home because of what I’ve seen, because of what I’ve been a part of. And I am undeniably okay with that. Because what God has shown me here about loving others has been one of my favorite life lessons thus far.
I don’t want to just love my friends and family well. I want to love my coworkers, my enemies, the people who have betrayed me, the people I’ve lost touch with, the strangers that barely even become acquaintances, and most of all, the millions of people in the world that I will never meet. I want to learn how to love them better. With more grace, encouragement, and more Jesus than I’ve ever known.
And that starts right here, right now.
I’m not ready to leave this country. All I want to do is help these people.
Looking back on the past two months, all I can do is thank Jesus again and again. He knew we were going to be here when Greece was never planned to be on our route and he knows how much this place, these refugees, are engrained on my heart.
Leaving right now, when the crisis continues and they need our help now more than ever, is hard. And if God wasn’t calling us to continue this race we set out to do, myself and many others would probably be staying behind.
But now we have arrived to South Africa. This month is what the world race calls manistry month. For the first two weeks, all of the boys will be working together in Botswana, building a roof, and all of the girls will be working in White River, South Africa.
From what I know, we will be doing maintenance/garden work as well as organizing Christmas parties for local orphans. After the first two weeks, the boys will join the girls to continue our ministry in White River.
Goodbye Europe, Hello Africa!
