Rain is pouring from the sky over a fenced in plot of land about two and a half acres large. The scene before us is almost unreal. We had done some research, but we were far from prepared for what we were about to see.
My team and I stepped into the Refugee Transition Camp at 7 am on Saturday morning to relieve a crew who had been there all night. Because of the rain, there had been no boats sent over the sea from the coast of Turkey, a few miles from Lesvos, the Greek island we are stationed on. We learned from other volunteers that the smugglers getting them on the boats are charging them 2500-5000 Euro a head and often are forcing them on with guns in hand.
With no boats coming that morning, my team was given an opportunity to complete some special projects around the camp. We picked up trash, organized clothes, and prepared the area for the influx of refugees that were sure to come when the rain settled down. It was great. Sure, I was soaked from working in the rain, but the work wasn’t anything I hadn’t ever done before.
Then we got the call that boats had just made it to shore. Pretty soon the camp was a whirlwind of action as people took up different roles to get the refugees in. We ended up having probably around 70 people come through in the shift we were working (not many at all compared to a normal day). We spent the final three hours preparing them for the busses that would come for them, getting them some water and a banana, and getting them some dry clothes.
One family walked in. The dad led his wife and four children to a corner then approached me and said two words: “My child,” as he gestured to one of the children. All of them were soaked from their travel on the raft and walking in the rain. We began immediately to get them some dry clothes and blankets. As we finished each kid, the father would just move on to the next kid, saying, “My child,” turning away any help offered to him until his family were all dry and resting.
One of the volunteers told us that very early in the morning, one of our translators, Yanni (Not sure if that is how it is spelled, but this man has an incredible story) had to console a mother who had a panic attack on one of the rafts and during it, her four year old child fell in the water and drowned.
Today we worked the same shift. Everything is beginning to run way more smoothly and we are well prepared for when the several hundred refugees hit us. Thankfully, the sun was out, so even those who were damp from the raft were dry before long, so we were able to move them into the waiting tent quickly.
Yanni, who instead of going home the night before had just grabbed a couple of hours of sleep on a cot and jumped right back into it, helped me hand out bud tickets to the line of people as the entered the camp. I learned a couple of phrases like “Hello” and “Welcome” in the languages we were encountering the most. It is so easy in this moment to look at the long line of people as just a mob that need to get from point A to point B, but we were challenged before we entered this ministry to see each individual as some one who is dearly loved by the Father.
Today I saw families laughing with glee as the realized they had reached another checkpoint in their journey. I saw children bundled up, shivering, with tears rolling down their faces. I saw a family watch a doctor attempt to warm up their mother, who had collapsed upon making it to the camp, having to be reassured constantly the doctor was doing everything he could. I was embraced by three men just happy to have made it that much farther.
This is real.
It is so easy to read about it, or to watch coverage on the news. It is a whole other thing to be face to face with a refugee, to see the pain written on their faces from leaving everything behind, and to see the hope they have of a better future for them and their family.
I will never be the same.
Please join me in praying for them, as well as the other volunteers here who are being stretched incredibly, both physically and emotionally.
