“Welcome.” We say as each refugee passes through the gates of the camp, after they’ve reached the shore of Greece from their two hour voyage across the waters from the Turkish border.
“Please wait.” We say as they patiently shiver under the moonlight.
“My children, my children first.” They plead as we hand out dry clothing.
“My family. Afghanistan. My family. I tell them I made it.” He shouts with a blue lipped smile that stretches from one ear to the other.
“And where we go now?” They ask with furrowed brows of shear confusion.
“When the boat, it fill with water, we were all crying, and we pray for the child, because we thought we were all going to die.” They say as they tell us of the journey they’ve just survived.
“No. We can’t all come. My family, they are still there. They will not come. There is no money.” I’m told by a mother of three, making the voyage without her husband.
Photo by Caleb Owens. More at: https://www.facebook.com/Caleb-Owens-Photo-1794850900741513/?fref=ts
“My little sister cried the night I left. She begged me to stay. We’ve spent the last two nights in the woods, fleeing the Turkish police, but we made it.” He speaks with no enticement. The words pour out of his pale, lifeless face.
“Welcome.” The word is now a little shaky as it leaves my lips. I’m unsure if it’s now a lie we say to each refugee passing through the gates of the camp.
We find torn, burnt passports lining the path from the beach to the camp. People are destroying every physical piece of their nationalities, as the word spreads.
“I will go to Germany to study.” He says with wide, hopeful eyes. I’m too heartbroken to tell him he will probably not make it past the Greek border.
What were premature rumors last week, are true today. Syrian refugees are the only ones that will pass through with certainty. Many will be sent back to the war torn nations they gave their life savings to flee.
Photo by Caleb Owens. More at:https://www.facebook.com/Caleb-Owens-Photo-1794850900741513/?fref=ts
“When we go? Please. When?” “My baby. You see. My baby sick.” “My family is inside. Can I go now?” The crowd pleads as they anxiously wait in line for hours on end to register, the constant cold contact of the officers’ riot shields against their bodies.
Photo by Caleb Owens. More at: https://www.facebook.com/Caleb-Owens-Photo-1794850900741513/?fref=ts
“Look for minors traveling alone. Strike up a conversation with them and try to find out their name and age. We’ll need to track them through the system as they move from camp to camp so we can be sure they won’t be sexually trafficked by other refugees. That’s been a big problem.” The camp leaders advise us with monotone voices.
“The life-jackets lining the island are sad, but just think, every jacket represents someone that made it.” A volunteer tells us with hope in her tired voice.
Afghanistan, Morocco, Iran, Syria, Iraq; the list goes on, and on. People from all over the world are flooding into Greece to seek refuge from their broken nations.
Germany, Albania, Scotland, the U.S., South Africa; this list goes on, and on, too. People from these parts of the world are also coming to Greece, to stand alongside the Greek people, as they welcome these victims of corrupt governments, genocide, war, and poverty into their country, with open arms.
“And so we gather, three times a week, because, how beautiful is it, that we come here, from all over the world, to worship the same God, to call out to Him, in all our languages, all together, on behalf of the thousands that will slip through our camps each day?” The speaker says as he breathes this inspiration into the cold, dim tent filled with strangers from countless nations.
“Sometimes, all we can do for them is to pray.” He says, almost in a whisper. So, we gather around, volunteers who’ve never met before, and who may never meet again, and we bow our heads in unison.
