This is my locker at my gym in Lesvos. For 50+ hours a week, I am surrounded by extremes of love and hate. No one in camp holds neutral feelings for me. For 50+ hours a week, I am hero and villain.
For 50+ hours a week, I have rocks thrown at me, I’m screamed at, and I’m threatened by men with self-inflicted scars all over their faces, arms, and bodies. For 50+ hours a week, I am told that I have no humanity, that I’m a bad person, and that if they had been from one country rather than another, I would be doing more to help them.
But for 50+ hours a week, I am thanked graciously, hugged, kissed. For 50+ hours a week, fathers of families who have been through more than I could ever imagine shake my hand and down stop. Their wet eyes looks deep into mine with the most sincere gratitude I’ve ever encountered.
“Shukran, shukran, shukran…”
For 50+ hours a week, children I’ve come to develop relationships with and love deeply excitedly run up with packed bags and hug my leg or neck.
“Àthina, Thad! My family is going to Áthina!”
For 50+ hours a week, I get to see my friends cleared, after months or years, to be moved from an overpacked, violent refugee camp to Athens, where they’ll be interviewed, processed, and welcomed into a Western country who will accept them as legal residents.
My locker is number 4, and for me, that’s some semblance of normalcy and home. For two hours, I get to turn my music on and my mind off. For two hours, I get to be alone.
From Dak Prescott to chest day, this number 4 gives me a glimpse of my home.
And for two hours, I’m thankful that I have one.
