Last month my team was at the Greece-Macedonia border working at a Syrian refugee camp. When we first arrived at the camp there were thousands of refugees camped out in tents, eagerly waiting to cross the border and head further into Europe. These refugees were denied the right to cross due to being classified as “economic refugees” – meaning they’re searching for better job possibilities and living conditions. “War refugees,” however, were granted the right to continue their journeys north.
We spent our first two days at the camp assisting other volunteer agencies with passing out food and water primarily to the economic refugees. But on our third day, Greek police denied all volunteers access to the camp as they evicted the campers – economic refugees – in an effort to make the camp a transition point rather than a full camp. When we returned on the fourth day, we encountered hundreds of empty tents, fields full of clothing and blankets, and no idea on what to do next.
After contemplating our next move, we were told that we had access to a warehouse full of clothing – being stored until it could be passed out in an orderly fashion to refugees in passing. We then started, along side another group of independent volunteers, sorting boxes of clothing and shoes in order to pass them out. Since we did not have access to any of the camp’s tents due to being independent volunteers, the following day was spent passing out clothes from the side of the road.
As we were sitting around a fire waiting for the next group of busses to arrive, a man invited me to join him in a meeting at a nearby trailer. When I entered the trailer, I quickly felt misplaced as I was introduced to representatives of the Red Cross, the UN Refugee Agency, Save the Children, and Doctors Without Borders – all of the head organizers of the camp. As the meeting progressed, the committee asked me if our group would be willing to be responsible for all clothing distribution at the camp moving forward. After a quick “Yes” we were provided with a large tent and keys to the Red Cross’s clothing trailer located at the camp.
The transition point was open twenty-four hours with an average of 5,000 refugees traveling through every day. The twenty-four hour schedule was divided between the two World Race teams located at the camp and our independent counterparts, in an attempt to clothe all of the underdressed refugees baring the winter conditions of northern Greece.
The typical journey for a refugee is a long and excruciating one. Their journey begins as they dangerously leave the war torn countries they call home with nothing more than a bag of clothing. From there, they trek north towards Turkey where they pay a smuggler who sends them off into the Aegean Sea, often alone, on an overpriced inflatable raft. They then spend the night, or even days, at sea hoping to safely wash up onto a Greek island. If they make it to Greece alive – many don’t – they continue the journey north by foot and bus as they travel to a place in hopes of freedom they’ve never had.
Late one night, when we were still handing clothes out from the street, a bus rolled into the camp with another group of refugees. After helping a few adults, I noticed a young child standing off to the side on a piece of cardboard. She was barefoot, and only had a thin long sleeve shirt and pajama-like pants to endure the cold. I sat on the ground, put socks and shoes on her feet, and found warmer clothing for her. Throughout the month this became all too familiar, with children and women and men alike.
The month was filled with fully clothing newborn babies and children and providing grown men and women with jackets, shoes, scarves, and gloves. These progressively medial tasks never ceased to be heartbreaking, but I’m not shallow enough, at least I’d like to believe, to be ignorant to what was truly happening in front of my eyes.
We arrived to the camp only weeks after the terrorist attacks that took place in Paris. It was the day following the attacks that I received word we were going to a refugee camp the following month. I recall getting on Facebook that day and reading my friends hatred, disgust, and fear in regards to refugees and Muslims as a whole…and to be honest, my Facebook friends (some of you that are even reading this) were successful in installing fear into me. Being in Albania at the time – where 90% of the population is Muslim – propelled me into a protective and defensive way of thinking.
I immediately started living in fear and I knew I was wrong to do so.
One day as we were sitting in a pizza shop, a young man with a full and large beard, which we were told meant a practicing Muslim, brought out our food and I immediately became intimidated. While I was cautiously observing the restaurant, I noticed him walk to the fridge and grab a collection of sodas, which he proceeded to pass out to our table – for free.
From there I started to notice more of the life that was behind each on of them. I began to appreciate the fact that they were just individuals in this world trying their best to make ends meet, just like all of us.
During one night at the camp, a father came into our tent with hopes that we could clothe his child. His son, maybe four years old, was covered in wet clothing and crying. As we collected a new outfit, the father began undressing his son. When I turned around to hand the father the clothes, I saw the child standing there naked, vulnerable, and exposed. It was then that I truly saw humanity for the first time in my life.
Before I was born, my father made his way to America after he left the communist country he was born in. When I stood there and saw that child naked, I realized how easily the human standing there could have been me, and how the father hoping the clothes would fit could have been my dad.
It’s hard to explain the emotions you feel as you profoundly experience a moment like this. But something that I do know is this; my dad would have been thankful for the individuals who helped me…who helped us.
Throughout the month it didn’t matter to us who was Syrian, Iraqi, Pakistani, Moroccan, Iranian, Afghanistan, Bangladeshi, Nepali, Lebanese, or Somalian (I’m sure I missed some). And to them it didn’t matter that we were American or that other volunteers were British, Greek, French, and German – amongst others. But what did matter was that they needed help, and that we were there ready to give it to them.
A few years after coming to America, my father joined the military and served our country for the next fourteen years. Today he works for one of the largest medical companies in the world and trains doctors on how to use various types of medical equipment used in heart surgeries. If your parents don’t have similar redemption stories, then maybe your grandparents do…or great-grandparents. He made it to America, and is now living the “American Dream.”
Something we Americans seem to so easily disregard is that we are a country full of individuals who – somewhere in their lineage – started no different than the migrants currently crossing the Middle East and into Europe. We as humanity share a common desire – having our God given right to the Pursuit of Happiness.
I find myself wondering what the future holds for the people we encountered last month. Some will be soldiers or doctors, lawyers or teachers. Kids will grow up with a chance to actually live out their dreams. Maybe one will cure cancer and others will become Nobel laureates. What I do know for certain though is God has a plan for each one of them – a plan that in someway will work for his glory.
It’s easy for me to look back to last month and to see God’s presence in so many ways. He provided an endless supply of clothing for us, and put me in the right place at the right time in order to get into the meeting. God used us to show selfless love to the refugees that they had never seen, and to give a sense of hope to people who have been hopeless for far too long.
Towards the end of the month I was talking to a refugee who was restricted to his wheelchair after being shot in the back by a stray bullet while in Syria. He asked me, “Why are you here helping us?” I told him God sent me here to show him His love. He proceeded to tell me such a thing would never happen in the Middle East, and that he was truly thankful for what we were doing.
Last month we showed the unconditional love of Christ to those who needed it most while very few in the world were willing to do so. I’m not sure how many people will end up being Christians from their encounter with us. But I do know that those who encountered us were grateful, and that they experienced love in a way they never have before.
I’m thankful to have been apart of the Lords plan in the “Refugee Crisis” and I’m honored and humbled to be a vital part to His world – just like you – everyday.
To all those who have donated to this trip: thank you! You are why I am able to live out this experience. I am living this dream thanks to you.
