Hummus Rights Project -Idomeni
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Ever since moving to the island of Lesvos to work in the refugee crisis, I’ve spent half my days in a state of hyperactivity and other half looking to create normalcy. But normalcy is beginning to flip. In theory I work at night and sleep during the day, but in reality I spend half my day in former olive groves now filled with weathered tents and haggard inmates, and the other half are spent binging on carbs and unable to sleep. Normalcy has become telling forty soaked refugees who just survived the hazardous Aegean Sea crossing, "Mafi bodak -- There are no shoes for you." Normalcy becomes talking to people about war and Daesh as flippantly as the weather, it's laughing when people tell you they're on war holiday, or a grandpa joking that you're so shit at assembling tents that he's going to blow away and end up back in Syria. A few weeks back I helped a young Syrian family assemble a tent and they now text me daily through WhatsApp. We normally send emojis back and forth, but yesterday they called me jubilantly to say, “Biljika! Biljika!” -- They’d made it to Belgium.
The longer I live and work alongside Syrian, Iraqi, Afghani and North African people on the Greek island of Lesvos, the more unqualified I feel to speak about it. The crisis is multifaceted, convoluted and perverted -- like an onion that expands rather than contracts with every layer peeled. After much balking and reluctance on my part, I am finally setting up a crowdfunding campaign to not only cover my monthly rent (€150) but also for Better Days for Moria, the non-profit through which I have been working with since December.
While Lesvos has long been the point where refugees and migrants come to receive the legal paperwork needed to travel in Europe, the island became an international crisis in 2015 as an unprecedented number of refugees poured in. Last year, hundreds of thousands of refugees and migrants landed on the coasts of Lesvos -- paying human smugglers exorbitant fees to cross the Aegean Sea on rubber boats.
I began following the refugee crisis in the summer of 2015, scanning articles to break up work monotony and closing the tab every time I felt a pang of guilt. Six months ago I had a 9-5 at a rapidly growing tech company and an apartment in a highly coveted Brooklyn neighborhood. Now, half a year later I share a two-bedroom flat in Lesvos with a Swiss, an American and a Moroccan. I work from midnight to ten in the morning at Moria, a registration camp for refugees, and now live in the situation I once read about.
Better Days for Moria was founded in November 2015 and prior to their inception, refugees were met with chaos when they arrived to be registered. Families, grandparents, and two-month olds would be forced to wait in six days registration queues, irregularly fed and unable to go to an outhouse because they could not leave the line. Through the tireless work of individuals, Better Days for Moria now addresses basic human needs where formal assistance from global NGOs failed to.
Better Days greets new arrivals with hot meals and chai, works to provide housing and blankets, distributes dry clothes and is trying to partner with existing NGOs and local police. Without the tenacious efforts of volunteers and the financial backing of donors, the camp could easily return to its former state. Moria, once comparable to a detention center, has been totally transformed by short and long-term volunteers who are dedicated in helping refugees hold on to their dignity.
In the past month I have been the night shift lead in the clothing distribution center where we strive to not only provide warm clothes, but also provide refugees with a sense of self-worth and pride in their appearance. On a nightly basis, I welcome shivering families, still wet from their three hour raft ride from hell and desperate for warm clothes. Other nights I work to find proper housing for new arrivals, coordinating with UNHCR and the Danish Refugee Council to make sure everyone has a place to sleep. And yet some of my most poignant yet powerful nights have been spent in the kitchen working alongside whimsical North African economic migrants, stuck in Moria because they are unable to get legal paperwork. One gaunt 23-year-old from Morocco with sunken eyes proudly showed me pictures of him in a gym, ripped and jacked; I show him a picture of me on my Bushwick rooftop, drinking with friends. We laugh, it’s a far cry from the makeshift kitchen we find ourselves in now.
I’m committed to staying at least to the two month mark, but possibly longer. There are stories I’ve heard and things I’ve witnessed that I’ve chosen not to write about, but in only five weeks my core has been deeply rattled. While your generosity will not only have an impact on the lives of many, I encourage you to find ways to work with immigrants and refugees in your own community, allowing your soul to be softened and political views challenged. I hope that as we allow the walls around our hearts to crumble, so too will the walls being built on the borders.
Thank you for opening your minds xx
Mal
The longer I live and work alongside Syrian, Iraqi, Afghani and North African people on the Greek island of Lesvos, the more unqualified I feel to speak about it. The crisis is multifaceted, convoluted and perverted -- like an onion that expands rather than contracts with every layer peeled. After much balking and reluctance on my part, I am finally setting up a crowdfunding campaign to not only cover my monthly rent (€150) but also for Better Days for Moria, the non-profit through which I have been working with since December.
While Lesvos has long been the point where refugees and migrants come to receive the legal paperwork needed to travel in Europe, the island became an international crisis in 2015 as an unprecedented number of refugees poured in. Last year, hundreds of thousands of refugees and migrants landed on the coasts of Lesvos -- paying human smugglers exorbitant fees to cross the Aegean Sea on rubber boats.
I began following the refugee crisis in the summer of 2015, scanning articles to break up work monotony and closing the tab every time I felt a pang of guilt. Six months ago I had a 9-5 at a rapidly growing tech company and an apartment in a highly coveted Brooklyn neighborhood. Now, half a year later I share a two-bedroom flat in Lesvos with a Swiss, an American and a Moroccan. I work from midnight to ten in the morning at Moria, a registration camp for refugees, and now live in the situation I once read about.
Better Days for Moria was founded in November 2015 and prior to their inception, refugees were met with chaos when they arrived to be registered. Families, grandparents, and two-month olds would be forced to wait in six days registration queues, irregularly fed and unable to go to an outhouse because they could not leave the line. Through the tireless work of individuals, Better Days for Moria now addresses basic human needs where formal assistance from global NGOs failed to.
Better Days greets new arrivals with hot meals and chai, works to provide housing and blankets, distributes dry clothes and is trying to partner with existing NGOs and local police. Without the tenacious efforts of volunteers and the financial backing of donors, the camp could easily return to its former state. Moria, once comparable to a detention center, has been totally transformed by short and long-term volunteers who are dedicated in helping refugees hold on to their dignity.
In the past month I have been the night shift lead in the clothing distribution center where we strive to not only provide warm clothes, but also provide refugees with a sense of self-worth and pride in their appearance. On a nightly basis, I welcome shivering families, still wet from their three hour raft ride from hell and desperate for warm clothes. Other nights I work to find proper housing for new arrivals, coordinating with UNHCR and the Danish Refugee Council to make sure everyone has a place to sleep. And yet some of my most poignant yet powerful nights have been spent in the kitchen working alongside whimsical North African economic migrants, stuck in Moria because they are unable to get legal paperwork. One gaunt 23-year-old from Morocco with sunken eyes proudly showed me pictures of him in a gym, ripped and jacked; I show him a picture of me on my Bushwick rooftop, drinking with friends. We laugh, it’s a far cry from the makeshift kitchen we find ourselves in now.
I’m committed to staying at least to the two month mark, but possibly longer. There are stories I’ve heard and things I’ve witnessed that I’ve chosen not to write about, but in only five weeks my core has been deeply rattled. While your generosity will not only have an impact on the lives of many, I encourage you to find ways to work with immigrants and refugees in your own community, allowing your soul to be softened and political views challenged. I hope that as we allow the walls around our hearts to crumble, so too will the walls being built on the borders.
Thank you for opening your minds xx
Mal
Organiser
Mallory Lee
Organiser
