All week I’ve been trying to find a way to put my experiences at the refugee camp into words. A way to put the things I saw, the emotions I felt, and the interactions I had with the refugees on paper in a way you’ll understand, in a way that teaches you what it has taught me, and in a way that hits your heart the way it hit mine.
You guys, God has a plan through this. He is bringing thousands of Muslims into open countries where they can openly hear the Gospel – the very first people who are serving them, waiting with open hearts and big smiles, are Christians.
There is so much devastation, so much hardship, and so much sadness but imagine how much good He could bring to this situation. Imagine how many new believers there could be.
Finding the words to share with you has been really challenging. Quite truly, I’m not sure that I’ve slowed down long enough to process what I’ve seen and what I’ve felt, but here is my attempt to show you what these past few days at the refugee camp have looked like.
My time at the refugee camp has opened my eyes in a way they’ve never been open before. In a way that no news coverage ever could.
picture credit: AnnaKate Auten
How do I explain the look in the refugees eyes when they arrive at the camp, the happiness and the gratitude they express for being given a blanket, fruit, water, and high energy biscuits, and the desperation of getting on the bus, because what if they don’t have another chance?
I’ll never forget the drive up for our second shift at the camp. It was approximately seven am, the first time the site resembled my mental picture of a refugee camp. We drove up and the streets were lined with hundreds of refugees. Fires had popped up everywhere (fires aren’t allowed) and the entire surroundings of the camp were covered in trash. Clothes were lining the fences, with hopes of being dry by morning, but the weather was too cold, the air too damp.
picture credit: AnnaKate Auten
That day was the hardest shift thus far. The people were anxious and families were separated – some inside the camp while others were still in line.
Once the refugees are inside the camp, the only way out is by means of a bus. There were too many people pushing up on the front gate, trying to fight their way inside, that letting people outside to locate their family members wasn’t an option. For their safety, as well as for ours.
In order to find their family members, they had to sit inside the camp and wait. Three siblings waited all day, practically the entirety of my ten hour shift until they finally saw their mother walk through the gate. With tears of joy, they embraced each other, their fears of being separated no longer becoming reality.
These people left good jobs, expensive clothes, nice homes, and comfortable lives. We’ve met people from Syria, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Africa, and so many more. We’ve heard their stories and had the chance to ask first hand how their travels were.
Most have been traveling anywhere from a week to a month and almost all of them explain the journey from Turkey to Greece as a near death experience.
picture credit: AnnaKate Auten
Most of the refugees have been arriving on rubber boats. As soon as they hit land, the refugees pop the boats so that no one can push them back out into the water. Their feet hit the sand, the boats get popped, and they are here to stay.
But things have changed in the past few days. The smugglers have ran out of rubber boats and are now using large wooden boats. They are putting hundreds of people on each boat, far more than these boats can hold, telling the refugees that wooden boats are safer than rubber ones.
The smugglers are lying about the safety of the wooden boats. Just a few days ago, an overcrowded boat capsized with approximately 600 people on board, leaving 300 in the water, waiting to be rescued.
We never received official numbers but several are missing and several dead bodies have been washing up on the beach. Winter is coming and the weather is cold. At dark, the temperatures drop to the 40’s and 50’s, the water near freezing.
Every time I think to myself and/or say out loud, “I’m cold,” my heart sinks. These people just came across ice cold water, soaking them from head to toe. I go home at the end of the day to a warm hotel room, while these people have no idea when the next time they’ll have a proper bed.
It isn’t fair.
When they find out we are volunteers, they usually respond the same way: “You mean this isn’t your job? You came all the way from America for us?”
In just a week, these people have touched my heart. I’ve mourned alongside them when we can’t pass out food or clothes, because we don’t have enough on site for the masses.
Having organized everything at the inventory supply location, I know what supplies we have. Arriving to the camp to be told they are out of mens trousers and shoes, knowing how many of those are sitting in the big green tent, crushed me again. We do have those supplies, I thought to myself. We just don’t have the people or the means to help get them here.
I’ve celebrated with them as they get on a bus, movement meaning progress, regardless if they don’t even know where that bus is taking them.
Their faces and their stories are some that I hope to never forget.
A young girl, around six years old, in a bright pink puffy jacket stood by my side for hours on end during one of my day shifts. There were too many people, too much chaos for us to be able to pass out food. The crowds were too rowdy and fear of mobs meant no food could be given out. She was hungry, probably starving, who knows when the last day she had eaten. By my side she stayed, every so often asking for food. All she wanted was a biscuit and I couldn’t even give her that. My heart broke a thousand times that day. Each time I looked down, her desperate brown eyes staring back at me. There was nothing I could do, nothing I could say that she would understand. All I could do is look down at her, smile, and try to occupy her mind with anything except for thoughts of food.
Another little girl, tired, hungry, and crying of pain. She has been battling cancer for seven months; a tumor on the side of her face – her cheek – and an even larger one on her leg. The parts of her legs that don’t have tumors are about the size of two of my fingers, side by side. Her parents have two other kids, an infant who is too young to walk, and a young boy, maybe eight years old. As we waited for a bus to arrive, all I could do is cry out to Jesus, praying for her health, praying strength for her family, and praying for the medical help that she desperately needs.
Another set of siblings, around my age, were getting on the bus when one of the brothers said, “wait my sister.” He ran off and returned with a little girl, maybe five years old, with down syndrome. A little girl who all day had been running off from her siblings looking for her mother. The mother that didn’t make the trip over, the mother she wouldn’t find anywhere throughout the camp, the mother she may never see again.
Babies, wrapped up in medical blankets so tight they can’t be seen. Frail and fragile, limp in their parents hands. Children with heart conditions, slightly turning blue, children hanging on by a limb.
Three little children: a young girl around five, a boy around four, and another boy around the age of two or three. One of the other volunteers walked up to Andrea and me. They were separated from their parents who were somewhere outside the gate, in the middle of the mob of people. The middle boy started crying out in fear.
We spoke different languages, making it much more difficult to ensure him that it would all be okay, we would find them. But I kept telling him over and over again, even though he couldn’t understand a word I said.
A few hours later, we found their parents and reunited their family. It was a sweet moment, knowing they were with their parents. As sure as I was that we would find them, I was fearful. What would happen if we didn’t? What would happen to these children?
It’s safe to say my heart was breaking again and again.
Every time I look into the eyes of a young child, I see the little brown eyes of my baby niece staring right back at me. I lose my breath and then slowly the feeling of drowning goes away and the reminder of where I am comes back to me.
Every day we hear stories about the bombs going off in Syria. One man says 20-30 people were dying from bombs in his area every single day. Another man showed me his arms and his back, distorted and shriveled. While I didn’t understand his language, his charades led me to believe it was the result of the bombs in the area.
The journey across the sea, an area known as the death grip, is a near death experience, but staying in their home countries is just as risky.
A sixteen year old boy volunteered to help the girls on my team pick up trash. I asked if he came over with his family and he instantly stopped talking. He rounded the corner and started crying. His parents, both doctors working for MSF, were killed by the Taliban, he shared with us. He came over by himself, along with a couple of friends from his district of Afghanistan.
Knowing that my questions caused this boy tears, caused that pain to come back and those tears to be shed, wasn’t an easy pill to swallow. At only sixteen years old, this boy is traveling across the world, figuring out a new life. He has no family to encourage him along the way, no family to comfort him when times get tough.
When I was sixteen, a sophomore in high school, would I have been able to do that? Would I have had the strength, the courage to do the same?
Several of us have talked about what we would do if we were in their shoes: would we risk the lives of our children, crossing the death grip, or would we stay in a war zone, neither one promising life and neither one promising safety.
We don’t know what living in their countries is like and we don’t know what the road ahead of these refugees holds. But God does and we are faithful that He will use the sadness and the devastation for good.
So dear friends, readers, and supporters, pray with me. Pray with me that these families can stay together, that the boats will make it across the water safely. Pray that the camp will continue to have volunteers, even after our squad leaves for our next ministry. Pray for the two teams on our squad that will be staying here, volunteering at the camp for month three of the race. Pray that the children will be able to smile, to laugh, and to find joy in each and every day. Pray that they can find somewhere to call home, a place where they belong.
And continue praying with me for these people, long after the media stops highlighting them on the evening news. Pray that their stories mean something. And most of all, pray that they come to know Jesus Christ.
