It’s almost noon. We pull up to camp in a van with multiple windows covered with plastic. Our driver, in her adorable British accent, says we can wait for her at the gate.
What gate?
The gate to the refugee camp we are working at for the month here in Greece.
We watch other volunteers make their way through the gate and up the hill. We are just trying to take in the sight of it all.
We were told that every person is surprised when they first come to a refugee camp. And I understand why. There is truly no way to know what it is like walking into camp.
Until you do.
Our driver leads us through the gate, past security, and up the hill.
The camp used to be a prison. And it still looks that way. Tall, metal fences with barbed-wire line the driveway, and you feel like you have been transported to another world. So many people from all over the world, holding on to hope in such a desolate place.
Then you start to see it.
The tarps.
The dusty, worn, used tarps. They are hanging on what looks like string. There are a few actual tents scattered about, lining the hill. A few makeshift coffee and tea stands are also around. Smelling the wondrous grounds make me remember I’ve had maybe a total of 4 hours of sleep.
We arrive at Info: the main office for the NGO we are partnering with this month. One of the volunteers gathers our group of 18, and takes us on a tour of the camp, with about an hour and a half of training.
Then, we hit the streets.
Another volunteer comes out of the office and asks, “I need two volunteers for an ambitious job.” Shannon and I jump at the opportunity.
She tells us a family is located in the new arrival area, and they have been placed in one of the large tents, called a rub hall. She asked us to get a cane for the father to help him walk, and then take them to their “home” for their stay in the camp.
We are so excited. We are getting to help move someone into their home until they are granted asylum. This is going to be great.
Another volunteer from South Carolina accompanies us to help show us the ropes. The three of us arrive at the new arrival area. We must go through two gates to get there. We locate a cane, and then find the family in another big tent hall.
Praise Jesus! The wife speaks excellent English. We start to tell her about her family’s new living space.
“No, we refuse to leave here.”
Little did we know, but her husband has medical conditions. His feet are messed up to where he can barely walk, and he has a heart condition that could cause him to have a heart attack at any moment if he walks uphill or too fast. He and his daughter also have diabetes, and need to keep their insulin by an AC unit.
We didn’t know what to do. We find someone in leadership and explain. They make it clear to us the new arrival hall is a temporary solution, they have to leave.
We go back, and firmly, but kindly tell them they have to move.
“No, we refuse to leave. Why can’t another family of four go?”
We don’t have answers to these questions. We have to keep repeating that they have to leave. We offer to help them carry their belongings, help the husband walk. We offer a wheelchair. We say we will go as slow as he needs.
Still no yes.
I radio Info and fill them in on the situation. I am told if they don’t take this space, they will have to live in a tent, possible up the huge hill that lies in the middle of camp.
When I go back, Shannon was able to convince them to leave.
As we were packing their things and heading out, they hadn’t even finished folding blankets and putting on shoes before another family started taking over their space, blocking the narrow path between bunks and benches.
Loaded up with a backpack on my back, and stomach, with blankets, coats, and bags in my hands, the three of us volunteers make the short trek across the base of camp to their new home.
We take our time for the father, and I’m able to see more. There is a huge, caged off area to my left that is sued for interviews for asylum. So many people were around, trying to get out of the camp and start a better life.
We pass more tents, with clothes lines hanging from their doors to the chain-linked, barbed-wire fences that line the road. Children are running everywhere, laughing, giggling, and running up to us saying, “Hello!”
A ray of sunshine in the despair.
We arrive at their hall, and drop off their belongings. Shannon and I run to grab their lunch for them while their paperwork is processed at Info.
We realized they don’t have the daughter’s insulin, and she needs to take it soon.
The wife comes with me and Shannon, along with her beautiful daughter. We started talking, and I asked her where she was from and how long she had been traveling.
“I am from Iraq. My husband worked for the U.S. Army for four years, but we were not allowed to move there. So we lived in Syria for four years, then Lebanon for three, and have been in Turkey since then. We left Iraq in 2007.”
I’m in tears as I write this now. For ten years, this family has not lived in their home, and has been struggling for a better life.
She said they hope to go to Holland or Germany. They have friends there.
She asked about us and our trip, and thanked us for being so wiling to serve, and give up a year to work around the world.
A year isn’t enough ma’am. Not when there is so much work to do. But I’m honored to have helped in the small way I have today.
Shannon and I helped her get her family’s insulin, and parted ways soon after. As we walked back up the hill to Info for our next task, I looked back down on the sea of tarps.
Each one holds so many stories. Tragic stories. Sad stories. From all over the world.
But somehow, they all still have hope, and they know it starts inside this camp.
*Please be praying for us. There are 5,000 refugees in the camp we are working in, with more coming in every day. Pray that we abide in Jesus and rely on the strength of God throughout this month.*
**Photo credit IRIN News**
