Palwas

I had one of those moments last night that gladden the heart and ease the feeling of helplessness from swimming against the tide of so much human misery.

I was standing outside our housing allocation unit, waiting to help the next person waiting for a place to sleep, when a handsome young couple with a small child in her father's arms, approached me. He spoke English well, and asked me where they could get a jacket for the child. She was dressed in thin pants and top, and a thin pair of socks. They had her wrapped in a blanket, but she was obviously cold. I told them they could get a child's jacket at the dorms—Samaritan's Purse does most of the clothing distribution, but I had taken someone else there earlier looking for children's jackets, and they were out—and led them up to the top of the hill. I told the team leader at the gate what we needed and she told me to go ahead and get it for them.

That's not strictly according to the protocol. I should have handed the family over to the volunteers at the dorm clothing distribution room, but it was the dorm level the group I'm with is responsible for, so sometimes you can bend the rules a little. And sometimes, there's something about a certain person or family who just tugs at you, and you need to see them through. So I bent another rule, and took the family inside the distribution room with me. I pulled a jacket out of a box of baby's coats, but it was obviously too small. As I was putting it back to try another, the mother reached for a pink coat that was out of place in the wrong box.

It was thick and fuzzy and soft, with a hood with little rabbit ears. Together with it was a pair of thick matching pants, the cuffs turned up to reveal the same flowered lining as on the coat. The little girl's face lit up as though the sun had just come out. The clothes fit perfectly, and though I didn't see any shoes in her size, we finished up with a thick pair of hand knit socks, cream colored and soft.

On our way out of the distribution room, we passed a table with a few toys on it. The little girl (she was 2 and a half) reached for the toys, wanting each one in turn, as I said no to one after another. I explained that they were kept at the dorms for the children to use during their stay. Palwas—who had been so happy with her new warm clothes—started crying at this fresh disappointment. Not a temper tantrum, just silent tears running down her small face. I gave her an orange hoping to cheer her up, but though she took it willingly, it didn't dry her tears. Her parents and I were sad too. Fortunately, i'm not the only one who bends the rules. The volunteers at the door said it was okay for babies to take a toy. Palwas' father, looking much relieved, picked up a giant stuffed smurf doll, Palwas had been taken with. I asked him if he really wanted to carry something that big throughout their long journey still to come (I'm a mom; been there, done that) and we all kind of laughed as he put the smurf down. But we held up two other stuffed toys—of a size Palwas could manage herself—and she chose a sort of dragon looking puppet. With Palwas smiling again, one lone tear still on her small cheek, and clutching her dragon in one hand, her orange in the other, we left the dorms.

As we started down the hill, Palwas started singing softly, but as we walked her voice swelled from barely audible to ringing. All the way down the hill Palwas sang her joyous song, her small orange clenching fist conducting. All the way down the hill, Palwas' song brought smiles to the faces of passing refugees and volunteers alike.

At the bottom of the hill as we were parting, Palwas said (back to her quiet voice) “I love you.”

I love you too, Palwas.

Afghan Hill

I'd been hearing about Afghan Hill ever since I first started going to Moria. It's above the main camp and is a separate entity, run by a group called Better Days for Moria.

The registration area for Afghans is also at the very top of the hill in Moria, behind the dorms. I'm not sure why Afghans have a separate registration area, but I suppose it's the fact that Afghan registration is at the top of the hill that gave Afghan Hill its name. I was a little confused at first, thinking that Afghan Hill was part of Moria, and couldn't figure out why so many Afghans were staying in the RHUs and dorms, if they had a separate area. I also couldn't figure out why they had a separate area, just as I still don't know why their registration is different, as I mentioned above. By the way, since I started volunteering at Moria, two and a half weeks ago now, I've noticed that we are receiving considerably more Afghans than we were when I first arrived. An Afghan friend who works for the DRC (Danish Refugee Council) did tell me last night that the security situation in Afghanistan is deteriorating. Maybe that accounts for the increased numbers of Afghans vis-a-vis Iraqis and Syrians.

In any case, now I know that Afghan hill is not exclusively Afghan, and that it's not part of the Moria registration camp.

I've been wanting to go check out Afghan Hill for a while. From the road where we park outside Moria I could see some very cool looking tents, and other volunteers raved about how good the food was. But my shift at Moria is always so busy, and I walk up that steep hill many times during a shift, taking vulnerable families up to the dorms, fetching blankets...I walk it often enough that the thought of an unnecessary trip up the hill, should I find the time to go exploring, was more daunting than my curiosity warranted.

Last night though, we had a man come to us feeling ill and wanting to see a doctor. Since the MSF (Medecins Sans Frontieres) clinic at Moria isn't open overnight, and the clinic in the dorms was permanently closed a few days ago, the only doctor available was on Afghan Hill. Our team leader for the night said he would walk him up, and since I needed to learn where the doctor was I accompanied him.

Oh that hill. We first walked up the hill past the dorms, past the Afghan registration booth, to a small gate that had been open lately. It wasn't open. So we walked back down the hill (you have to walk it slowly, it's sort of ridged, but still slippery), continuing on past our office and the RHUs, down the road to the gate, and just outside the gate turned left, back up the hill. At the very top of the hill, another left (still climbing) takes you into Afghan Hill.

What a difference from Moria! It's palpable in the very air. Where Moria feels like a prison camp, Afghan Hill feels like a rainbow gathering.

The top of the hill is quite rocky, as is much of the island, so walking in some areas requires paying attention. The outside edges of the camp (which is much, much smaller than Moria) is ringed with those cool tents which I saw from the road, and a few other big tents like the Rubhall from Moria. The center of the camp holds about 20 or 30 tipis to house refugees, so most of the tents at Aghan Hill are cool. Though smaller numbers and its hilltop location make drainage less of an issue, there are small hand dug drainage ditches meandering throughout the camp. There is far less mud. And while service tents are well lit, there are no flood lights as there are everywhere but in the RHU area of Moria.

Scattered around the camp people are standing around small fires, chatting and smoking. The air smells of delicious food and woodsmoke. Somebody is playing music somewhere. People look happy.

Inside the medical tent (one of the big square ones, like the Rubhall) plywood walls have been built to separate out storage areas, exam rooms, and the large open reception area. The volunteer doctors and nurses are friendly and unhurried.

Of course, to be fair, Afghan Hill doesn't deal with anywhere near the numbers of people that are in Moria, but nonetheless, the camp seems a far more humane place. After climbing the hill twice to take the sick man to the doctor, I immediately had to turn around and climb it a third time to escort a couple with a fretful child—turns out the cute-as-a-button seven-month-old wasn't sick, after all. Probably just cold and tired and upset at the changes in his routine that the family's perilous journey had wrought. Even at seven months, I'm sure a baby picks up on his parents' fear and exhaustion.

But despite being tired and winded, my legs a little sore, from all the hiking uphill, just spending those few minutes in the free air of Afghan Hill felt rejuvenating. I wish Moria felt as welcoming.

Night Shift

It's six am at Moria and I've been on shift since around midnight. There's a ferry strike on, another one, so most people in the camp can't leave yet. Once they are registered, they are free to leave, but with the ferry strike on, only those who can afford to put up at a hotel in Mytilini, or fly to Athens or elsewhere, can really leave. Few refugees have money to spend on hotels, so stay on in the camp where, whatever the conditions, they are housed, fed, and clothed free until they can take the ferry.

Since the weather has been clear too, and boats arriving, Moria is fairly full, although not as full as it will be if the weather continues clear. In fact, we just got a radio call that a bus load of Syrians have just arrived. I don't know where we'll put them. The Rubhall--the large tent for single men, the family compound in the dorms for small nuclear families and particularly vulnerable people, and the RHUs are all almost to capacity, and we've given out all but a few of our remaining tents. We set a record tonight, that none of us want to break or even match for the number of men in an RHU, a refugee housing unit--the IKEA hut built to hold five. Our record for adult men in one? 28.

Additionally, we have a severely traumatized man--deaf and basically illiterate (who just asked me for water, but bottled water is something we don't have, and though I gave him a cup I don't think he understood me trying to tell him where to find the taps. When another volunteer returns from meeting the bus, i'll take his cup and fill it for him),  a missing child, and a woman in labor. Just another night in Moria. But I can hear the birds starting to chirp at the dawn of this new day. Somehow we'll all manage.

The above was written early this morning. Now it's late afternoon and i've had a few hours of sleep before going on duty again tonight. i'd like to get some more sleep before we meet up at 11:30 pm for the drive down, but i want to get this updated and posted for you all before I take a nap.

There have been a few changes at Moria since I was last there. the construction (of what, I don't know) has picked up considerably. I hope they are 1. working on drainage ditches, and 2. leveling ground for more housing. We desperately need at least one more large tent like the Rubhall for single men and more RHUs. Given that's it's winter, fewer boats are arriving than are expected this summer. If projections are correct, and Lesvos sees an influx of 3 million people over the summer, our meager resources at Moria will be completely overrun. As it is, we house anywhere from between 1,000-3,000 a night in cramped and crowded conditions. A better drainage system is also a dire necessity. Near the bathrooms at the bottom of the camp is a row of faucets. There are probably about twenty of them, and this is the only access to drinking water most people have. Besides the fact that they generally have no cups or bottles to hold water in, and we have none to give out, only one of the faucets has a tap on it so that it can be turned on. When I asked the director of the camp why that was, she told me it was due to drainage issues. Walking around Moria, it's easy to see what she means. The entire lower level (Moria is built on a steep hillside) is a morass of thick, sticky mud. On my way to one of the lower RHUs a few nights ago, I stepped into an area where my foot sank into the mud about 5 inches deep. I can see the depth mark of the mud on my boot.

The picture above doesn't really capture how bad the mud is, because the mud is everywhere. and what no picture can show is the stench when you approach the bathrooms. As if all that weren't bad enough, whoever planned the camp put a bank of electric outlets outside the bathrooms, so that there are always a number of (usually) young men just outside the door to the women's toilets. Unsavory anywhere, in a culture that puts a premium on women's privacy, this was a major gaffe at the very least. There are many women, including some volunteers and NGO workers who will not go to the bathrooms alone.

Another change is that someone had the brilliant idea of closing down the 24-hour medical clinic in the upstairs dorms where the most vulnerable, including the sick, the elderly, and the pregnant are housed. We've had several births at Moria during my tenure in Greece, and with a woman in labor last night in the dorms, and no other 24-hour medical assistance available, it's hard to fathom just how the decision to close the clinic was made, and why.

The best update from the time I was writing is that the missing child was found. He had apparently gotten up in the night to go to the bathroom, and when he got back went into the wrong RHU, the one next door to where his family was staying. The mistake was discovered when everyone was turned out of the units. Every morning at 8 am we volunteers have the onerous duty of waking everybody and ousting them--with all their belongings--from their shelters so they can be cleaned. It's not till 3 pm that we start allocating shelter again, unless it's raining. Though it was cloudy today, it wasn't raining when I left, and it hasn't rained here. 

Finally, those of us on duty last night are worried about the deaf man. Communication with him is almost impossible, and I don't know what kind of effort is being made to find an Arabic sign language translator. After I gave him his cup and failed at communicating how to fill it, and before my colleague returned from escorting and assisting the busload (about 50) of new arrivals, I asked a volunteer from the hot tea tent across the way from us to get him a bottle from the dorms. It is the only place we have any bottled water to give out, and it is scarce, so we are stingy with it, giving it only to those who cannot make their way down to the taps (although there are bathrooms in the dorm rooms with showers and perfectly fine water for drinking from the taps in the sink). The other volunteer obliged me by running up the hill (I was alone and couldn't leave; she had a colleague with her and could run the errand without abandoning the tea tent) and bringing the man a bottle of water. He took a few sips, stood up from the chair he had perched in outside our building all night, wrapped the blanket we gave him around his head, asked for a cigarette, and disappeared. My colleague who was down at the gate with the busload of new arrivals, saw him linger near the gate a moment, then go outside. That was the last anybody saw of him before we left. I hope he is alright, and will come back so that we can find him some help, however long it takes us.

Nap time. Good night all.

Other Ramifications of the Refugee Crisis

I haven't worked the past few days as I've had a pretty nasty cold. Though I rarely get sick, it's not too surprising. I was just recovering from the flu when I boarded the plane for Athens--a pretty long flight--then, an overnight trip by ferry to Lesvos, and a bus ride through the mountains to Molyvos. The next morning, I attended an induction meeting for Starfish--the volunteer group i'm working with--and immediately jumped in to work. At Moria, the registration camp where I mostly work, we come into contact with thousands of people every day, some of whom are bound to be sick. I'm also cold all the time; we all are. Though I was monitoring the weather in Lesvos while still in San Francisco, and it appeared to be comparable, it's not. It's much colder here. The only real similarity is that you don't warm up when you go inside, either. There is heat in my hotel room, but it's not terribly effective. Those lovely marble floors which I'm sure would be beautifully cool to walk on in the heat of summer, are ice cold in winter.

I'm lucky this hotel is even open though, at a price I can bear. Usually, it's only open for the season which should start after February. I surely hope that means it's going to warm up soon. But the nice people who own the hotel have opened it for volunteers who need a place to stay. They have told me that they're losing money by being open, but that it's not a lot and they want to do their part to help too. They've also told me, more disturbingly, that their bookings for the season are down 80%.
That's a huge--even prohibitive--loss of revenue. Tourists don't want to come to a place where they might see a refugee boat landing, I suppose. Other business owners here have told me the same basic story. One woman spoke of a friend who owns a jewelry store. She's not getting any business either. The woman who spoke has a job six months out of the year at a local tourist agency. She's wondering if she will have a job this year; she doesn't think so. No job, no income. The woman who founded Starfish is garnering some income from her restaurant from the volunteers who are here, but all we volunteers are watching our money carefully. Since we aren't getting paid, we don't have much to spend beyond bare necessity, and bare necessity doesn't include a lot of restaurant meals.

And of course, the Greek economy is already in bad shape. The revenue lost from a severe lack of tourists is not going to be made up by the limited monies that volunteers, NGOs, and refugees spend on Lesvos, and it's a shame that tourists won't be coming.

Lesvos is lovely. Situated in the northern Aegean, a short distance from Turkey, the island has miles of beautiful coastline, a petrified forest I really want to see while I'm here, two of Greece's finest art museums, the ruins of a city that Achilles conquered, the most diverse wildlife in Europe, and numerous hot springs, festivals, cafes... There's an old castle here in Molyvos I plan to visit on Sunday. It's spectacularly beautiful here. The people are nice, the air is fresh, the music of tinkling sheep and goat bells plays continuously in the background. The streets in the old city center of Molyvos are cobble-stoned and crooked, climbing the hills that rise just off the coast. I'm told there is an old covered market as well, but I haven't made my way there yet. When I'm not working, I'm usually too tired to do much exploring, though I must visit before my time here is up.

I worry that tourism is not going to pick up here any time soon. Last summer, about 850,000 refugees came through Lesvos. This January, alone, there have been about 50,000, and the number is expected to reach about 3 million this summer. As mentioned above, the revenue brought in by refugees, NGOs, and volunteers probably doesn't begin to match that normally brought in by tourists. and of course, the refugee crisis is a huge drain on extremely limited Greek resources.

I wish the governments of the world were concerned enough about the refugee crisis to spend their resources finding a way to end it. Rather than spending resources on the continuation of bombing and the closing of borders, spending those same resources on finding a way to end the devastation would clearly be a far better expenditure. Of course, I personally gave up on placing my faith in government long ago. At the very least, though, governments should  help alleviate the financial drain on Greece that their policies are causing.

But really--just stop the damn wars.

I am troubled

I am troubled.

I've just come from the Starfish weekly meeting, and I am troubled.

For the past few days, we have been asked for our passports as well as our Starfish badges when entering the Moria compound.

The greek police run the camp and it's getting increasingly restrictive and oppressive. Supposedly a registration and aid camp, it feels more and more like a detention center. In my first post I told you about the barbed wire surrounding the camp, the restrictions on photos, and I think I mentioned the police presence, but the gate is far more heavily manned now, and one Starfish volunteer mentioned at the meeting tonight that an undercover policeman had wanted to wipe out all his photos on his phone after seeing him take a picture with a refugee.

If you've been reading this blog, you have likely noticed that after saying I wasn't allowed to take photos, I have added a background photo to the blog page. It is a view of the barbed wire surrounding the dorms from the top. The forbidding coils of barbed wire contrast sharply with the beauty of the island sunset, as the hell of Moria contrasts with the beauty and grace of Lesvos and most of its people, whether Greek, refugee, or volunteer.

After observing others—refugees included—taking pictures with their phones, I decided I could too, as long as I used my phone instead of my far more conspicuous bigger (and better) cameras. And so I somewhat surreptitiously began snapping away. Though I love taking portraits, the journalist in me was more focused on documenting conditions than individuals.

Last night, during my quiet night at Moria, the DRC staff and we volunteers were discussing the photo restriction which is now becoming more of an issue, apparently. The Greek police who are administering the camp are reportedly surfing the internet—Facebook, mostly—and cracking down hard on those who are sharing pictures of Moria, banning the photographer and possibly the organization from the camp. The ostensible reason is to respect the privacy of the refugees, and I can understand that. In a worst case scenario, pictures of individual refugees, if recognized, could conceivably endanger relatives still in whichever war torn land they hail from.

But the impression most of us have gotten is that the police are more concerned with their own image and privacy. Some volunteers have seen the police being abusive toward refugees in the registration line. I have seen some yelling and shoving, but have not personally seen the kind of abuse reported by some of my fellow volunteers. Given my general impression of police everywhere, though, I can't say I was surprised to hear their reports.

Our meeting tonight was much longer than usual as we debated our role in Moria. It is not the only effort the Starfish Foundation I am affiliated with is making. We also help the IRC (International Rescue Committee) with clothing distribution at a center here in Molyvos, sort and store clothing donations at a warehouse we call Donkey (for the donkey farm next door), and do harbor duty out of Captain's Table, the restaurant Starfish founder Melinda owns. Harbor duty involves a certain cooperation with the police as well. When a boat comes into Lesvos on its own, the refugees on board are free to make their way to Moria for registration and new lives as EU citizens, as are refugees rescued by Greenpeace. However, refugees on boats that are brought in by the coastguard are automatically under arrest, and harbor duty with Starfish includes registering the arrested refugees and transporting them for the police, though we also provide them with food and dry clothes. I have not seen any boats on either of my harbor shifts.

However, the long debate at the meeting tonight included the question of whether Starfish should be assisting the police in their looming clamp-down on Moria—whether we should pull out of the camp altogether.

We have been asked, as a provision of entering Moria to perform our duties, to fill in and sign a form with some personal details, including email, telephone, passport number, a photo, and a photocopy of our passport, even though as volunteers we have already had to register with the police. By signing the form, we are also agreeing to the Moria rules printed on the back of the form. Most of them are unobjectionable, stating what we all believe about treating refugees with dignity, not exploiting them sexually or financially...basic tenets of respect. But the ban on photos is in the rules, and some people argued that by our continuing presence at Moria in the face of the increased restrictions, we are supporting an aspect of a police state—that we are tacitly sanctioning the abusiveness some have seen at the hands of the police, and that Moria is turning into a detention camp. In light of the ever increasing tightening of borders against the massive and growing refugee population, it isn't hard to imagine Moria becoming a detention camp.

Others argued that it's better to be at Moria ensuring refugees get services to the best of our ability than to abandon the task.

Politically, I certainly agree with not wanting to support any kind of police oppression, but in the face of the enormous need, I cannot agree with turning away from offering what succor we can.

And as far as signing the document? My word is important to me, but my word given under coercion or duress is a different matter. It's important to me that the rest of the world's population is shown the conditions under which the refugees are suffering, every step along their treacherous path to what I hope will be a better life for all of them.

If Starfish Foundation does in fact decide to withdraw from Moria, I will withdraw from Starfish. I may anyway, but that is another story. I came here to help where I am most needed, and that's what I intend to keep doing. Wish us all luck. We need it.

A Quiet Day at Moria

My shift at Moria yesterday was quiet. The ferry strike over, many refugees who had been stuck at Moria for the duration of the strike had left, and the weather had precluded many boats from arriving. For once there was enough room in camp to offer a measure of comfort and privacy we don't usually have the luxury of providing.

I was able to move one large family of Afghans from their unheated RHU prefab hut to one of the very few with heaters. their new heated quarters cheered them and the queen mama of the family and I shared hugs and smiles to supplement our limited verbal exchanges with my extremely limited Farsi. (Funny, but I find my memory of Farsi is coming back more readily than my Arabic, though I spoke Arabic far better than I ever did Farsi).

Each night at Moria, as we clothe, shelter, and feed the wet, tired, and hungry refugees, as things settle down, we seek out those who are sleeping outside in the cold. It has been especially bitter the past week or so with snowstorms, high winds, and lower than average temperatures, plummeting to below the freezing mark. Last night, with room to spare, we approached not just those with no shelter at all, but those in small tents as well. An Afghan staff member and I approached one tent harboring a family with several small children. We tried to convince the family to move to one of the RHU huts or the heated dorms up the hill, but they refused to go.

Though our mandate is to treat all with dignity, there have been many issues over privacy. As I noted in an earlier post, we often have to cram the huts and the dorm rooms with far more people than capacity. Ikea, who manufactures the huts, says that each building will house five people. We usually have at least eighteen to twenty in each, and sometimes more. When we bring a new group to an already occupied hut, either those already in residence, or those we are bringing to share the small building, or both groups, are resistant.

This can be particularly frustrating. Of course it is easy to understand that people have been through so much yearn for some measure of quiet and comfort—and as I noted above, it is part of our mandate to treat all with dignity and respect. However, if it's a case of ceding a bit more comfort to one family at the expense of another being quite literally left out in the cold, the whole notion becomes more problematic. It can be difficult to understand the lack of empathy with others who are in the same boat. As in the case of the second imad I wrote about, families who were again literally in the same boat were reluctant to share shelter.

Still, I would have to say that it was a relatively good night at Moria. Many, if not most, had some heat in addition to shelter. There was plenty of food and hot tea to go around. It's far easier to take care of people with the limited resources at hand when there are fewer people clamoring for them.

With less work on our hands, we Starfish volunteers and the DRC staff spent more time indoors as well. The DRC office is one of the Ikea huts and the door is always open, so though we've had a small space heater longer than the housing units, the office is nearly as cold as outside. And when we're busy, most of us spend most of our time outside, talking to those looking for shelter, taking them to where we place them, pointing out the blanket line, the food line, the charging stations, the bathrooms... and when we do have a moment inside the hut, unless we are directly in front of the small space heater, we are still cold.

Of course it's difficult to complain. We volunteers and staff are dressed in multiple layers. We generally are wearing shoes that are adequate. We are generally not completely wet, although I've been pretty damp a few times. But even decently dressed and dry, it's difficult not to get cold when spending hours in freezing temperatures and brisk winds.

So last night, since all was so quiet, we fashioned a door to the DRC office hut. We squandered two

flimsy,clear plastic rain ponchos for the makeshift door and for once, huddling in borrowed refugee blankets over our layers of clothes, felt a measure of warmth. I felt the warmth on the inside too, as our little group, united in our efforts, had the opportunity to share tea and stories with each other, relatively relaxed for once.

Not that we haven't shared some stories before. The hour or so commute each way between Molyvos and Moria is often a time of sharing. A smoke outside the hut in a stolen moment sometimes opens a window on a colleague's life. Even within the course of our duties, we sometimes glimpse an insight.

I gained new respect and an appreciation for the tolerance and humor of my Afghan friend at DRC. the other night when he and I were talking to a group of Iraqi men. He was explaining to them in Arabic that they would be sharing the hut with other single men we had already placed there. One of the men started babbling about how they didn't want to share with Afghans, that they were this and that and talked too much. He assured them that they would be in a hut with other Arabic speakers. They were all clearly relieved, and the man who had made the racist comments shook his hand, and told him he was a good man. He responded that he wasn't a good man, he was an Afghan.

The men at least looked ashamed, but I've seen this kind of prejudice more than once at Moria, against aAghans, against Somalis, against Iraqis and Syrians and Kurds, and non-Kurds. Running for their lives, some people still find time to scorn others. Sometimes I despair of humankind.

Gul isn't the only person I've met with a witty appreciation of irony. One of the Greek family who runs the hotel where I'm staying, cracked me up just after I posted my last blog entry yesterday.

(Was it really only yesterday? So much is packed into a day here, it feels longer ago. I can't believe I've been here less than two weeks.)

Anyway, I asked him where the closest place to get cigarettes was, as I've run out of those I brought with me. He told me, then offered me a couple to hold me till I could get there. I demurred, but he insisted, giving me three cigarettes. With a straight face, but a twinkle in his eye, he told me that they were good good German cigarettes; that he wanted to support the German economy because it had suffered a little over the past couple of years. We shared a good laugh over that one.

Though his family's business has suffered greatly throughout the duration of the refugee crisis—the tourist trade has dropped off by more than half—Vasilis told me how honored he was to offer discounted housing to volunteers, that he was impressed and moved at how people came from all over, sometimes far away, to work for no pay to help out, and that he was happy to do what he could to help. I have a lot of respect for Vasilis and his family, and most of the Greek people I've met here who are rising to the occasion and offering what they can despite their own grave troubles.

I've written a lot today. It was my day off, so I wasn't hurrying to make my shift, but I feel like i've given you all enough to digest for today.

There's so much to say it's hard not to just spill words in all directions.

Rose and the Tents

During a lull in the clamor outside the DRC (Danish Refugee Council) hut while we volunteers were resting briefly, a young girl came alone to the door. We invited her inside and asked her what she needed. It appeared she wanted to chat--to practice her English, which was already better than my Arabic. Still it was limited and our conversation with Rose proceeded with many hand gestures, puzzled looks, and repetitions on both sides.

She was adorable. In a cherry red coat with bright, inquisitive dark eyes and wavy black hair, she looked to be about 9 or 10. when we asked where her parents were, she told us her mother and father and brother and sisters were sleeping. Though we were enjoying her company, and she seemed okay, after 2 or 3 visits from her I think we all began to wonder if there wasn't more to the story than we were getting. Surely her family weren't all asleep somewhere while this young girl wandered the camp alone.

Eventually I asked her, in Arabic, what the matter was. I was distressed, but not surprised, when her smiling, inquisitive face dissolved into tears. After holding her for a minute, I somehow managed to get her to take me to where her parents were. 

Holding hands we walked, not far, across the rudimentary road to where two men and a little boy were trying to set up one of the small tents we dole out when the dorms, the Rubbhall tent for single men, and the RHUs (refugee housing units) are full. This was her father and an uncle perhaps, and her little brother. Her mother and sisters nowhere in evidence I realized she had not told us precisely the truth. 

I don't mean to imply that she lied. Rather, it seems as if she could not process what might be the truth, that her mother and sisters sleep was permanent. They were not at the camp in Moria, and I don't think they were just left behind.

Her father and (presumably) uncle were struggling, trying to set up the tent. I can only imagine how long they had been attempting to erect their scanty shelter, because Rose had been visiting us off and on for at least an hour by then. maybe longer.

Those of you readers who know me would be the first to attest to the fact that I'm a city girl. not really the outdoorsy type at all. Nevertheless, I did know how to set up the tent, and proceeded to show them, helping them gain some small shelter from the cold and wind. I spread out some cardboard underneath for a little extra warmth and padding from the rocky, muddy site they had chosen. Of course, all the possible sites were muddy and rocky, pretty much, although a few people had set their tents up on concrete slabs here and there.

After the tent was set up, Rose didn't come to the DRC tent to visit us anymore that I saw, although she had made particular friends with one of the other volunteer women, and did see her again. Rose insisted on giving two pairs of earrings from her little bag of treasures to Michelle, her volunteer friend. Michelle, in return, gave Rose the earrings she was wearing. 

Still, Rose and what was left of her family must have gone to sleep shortly after their tent was set up. I hope she slept warm and well, and that her future is better. This bright, beautiful, and strong little girl has much to offer the world.

The funny thing, is that after setting up the tent, one of the DRC staff members realized I knew how, and, ironically, I have become the resident expert in tent construction. The night after our sojourn with Rose found me demonstrating tent set-up to a group of about 30 Afghan men, including the DRC staff member.

I certainly never thought I'd be the person people turned to for camping advice, but I do get a kick out of it. Hope those of you readers who know me got a good laugh out of that one.

More tomorrow.