tearingoutmythinninghair

[tearingoutmythinninghair]

Stop shouting at the grey skies above and start worrying about the stinking mire below

Monday night’s demo at Downing Street has since been broadly labelled as ‘anti-Trump’. I am no Trump fan (although I can’t knock his stance on TTIP), but an awful lot of us were there to protest Theresa May’s unmandated obsequiousness to the Tangerine Nightmare. And it is frustrating that this critical narrative has been railroaded.

I’m not particularly representative of any group. I’m a mixed race child of immigrants, raised to be a half-arsed Muslim by another half-arsed Muslim, and a rabid Filipina Catholic (and I find myself strangely on Duterte’s side when it comes to that particular branch of Papists). I went to almost every type of school, bar borstal - and my dying brain cells have done me alright ever since. I am well aware I have a very niche perspective, but from this lonely spot, it seems we’ve all missed the point. Or rather, lots of the points. 

Turning the narrative of the demo into an ‘anti-Trump’ one plays straight into the hands of the Tories. It is the unelected* Theresa May whom we need to hold account - not only for her actions in America and in Turkey, but they’re a pretty good starting point. I imagine most of us protesting on Monday were UK voters, and we have limited opportunity - if any - to change the politics of the Trump administration, and we don’t even have that if we have a Prime Minister who wilfully kneels before Zod.

*I’ll pop my asterisk here: yes, I know Gordon Brown was also unelected, but I was all for a general election at the time, and I fully believe that the lack of an election shuffled us closer to the demise of the Labour Party. Tragically I can’t see it doing the same for the Tories.

We also appear to have missed the point that Theresa May stands for very little. There’s no doubt she is a competent and professional politician - but what does she actually believe in? Her most famous actions at the Home Office were around immigration - despite her ‘Go Home’ vans, net immigration rose and rose during her tenure. Shame, eh? She’s changed her position on a wide raft of policy - sometimes for the better, such as on gay rights. Technically, she’s a classic ‘flipflopper’ - remember those? But her silence during the referendum, then pushing for a hard Brexit, while claiming to be a ‘one-nation Conservative’ (whatever the fuck that means) all belie her lack of conviction in anything other than retaining power.

This makes holding her to account an even more slippery task - but at the very least you’d hope she’d stand for basic human decency and the rule of law. I do not care if she uttered the meaningless words ‘special relationship’, ‘we’ll whack the NHS in when no-one’s looking’, or even if she channelled George Michael and whispered ‘put your tiny hand in mine’. But I do care that she did not confront Trump on the 6000 illegal homes Israel has started building on Palestinian land, which appears to have his (currently) tacit support. I do care that she saw fit to invite him to the UK on a State visit just days into his reign of terror. I am furious that she was told about the immigration suspension and did not speak out. And I laugh bitterly at the token nod to the upholding of human rights in Turkey as she grabbed her fistful of cash from Erdogan for more fighter jets.

We’re doing ourselves a bit of an injustice too by blurring that Brexit-Trump line. The phenomena of Brexit and of Trump are not same-same, however much you want to pop them into a sentence which ends with ‘rise of populism’ (which in itself also misses the point). The UK and the US are not same-same - partly because there are fundamental rights in the UK which were hard won, which we would never be prepared to ignore, and which are alien to the US: free healthcare, a national minimum wage, paid (or in fact any) maternity leave - even child labour laws. Importantly, our language is not same-same - but we’re happily, sloppily using the word ‘liberal’ when what it is taken to mean in the US is a bit different to the UK. And I fear we’re doing to the detriment of the word ‘socialist’.

[A boring aside here on how US-UK is at even the dullest levels not same-same: if you’re one of those people who circulates horror stories like ‘I USED TO EAT MUESLI ALL THE TIME UNTIL I FOUND OUT ABOUT THIS HORRIFYING INGREDIENT!’ - fucking work out which country it’s from. The UK - currently - has generally higher food standards and many of the nasties in US foods are banned. Well, they are until Brexit, because they’re EU standards. MegaLOLZ.]

Much as we want to stand up to what looks and smells an awful lot like fascism, changing the politics of the US administration is the right of the American people - not ours. Solidarity is obviously important - but if our Prime Minister is not yet prepared to stand up to Trump, then it is all the more important any actions taken in solidarity are targeted, and coherent. Again, bear in mind my tiny little perspective: I was genuinely surprised by the apparent need for an explanation of Trump’s tactics - illustrated by the heavy sharing on social media of this Medium article and this post by American academic Heather Richardson - did people really not see this coming? Shock tactics, divide and conquer - come on everyone, work it out. Of COURSE they will flood the political arena with heinous acts - and OF COURSE it will work because the opposition is in such disarray. (A nod to my Polish friends here, who were circulating these wise words days ago.)

There are concerted and noble efforts to defeat the terrifying Trump Cabinet and justice appointments - efforts in which US citizens can participate by calling their representatives to protest. The overwhelming response of lawyers when asked to volunteer to support refugees arriving at US airports was heartening and impressive. Veterans coming out en masse to support the former translators from Iraq and Afghanistan who were promised visas for the risks they were taking with their lives. The daily protests at the airports. The Women’s March.

Yet it still feels the US opposition IS in disarray - regardless of the huge (yuge?) surge in demonstrations, protests and activism. It is not clear who to look to, nobody is leading the way in terms of organising which battles should be fought or how, and the messaging (as perceived by me, from this side of the ocean) is a clusterfuck. (I’ve watched a couple of videos of demonstrators welcoming refugees at US airports - am I the only person who felt a bit grubby upon hearing the familiarly, deafeningly aggressive “USA! USA!” chants?)

But, er, doesn’t this sound familiar..? 

WE are in disarray - and we have been for much longer than the US has. But it’s all a bit more fun to slap a comedy Trump slogan on a banner and have a bit of a shout at Downing Street than it is to rock up to a 2-hour Labour (or other) Party constituency meeting, isn’t it? (Not a criticism - guilty as charged.) Popping yer name on the ‘open letter to oppose Trump’ only takes 20 seconds compared to rummaging around on the internet to work out how to send an email to your MP. (And there will be no link from me to this shameless data grab which has zero advocacy merit.)

Unfortunately for us, we don’t even have that tiny drop of hope that someone even vaguely as charismatic as Barack Obama might come riding in to bring the opposition to its senses with a brief yet considered Tweet. (Tony Blair rode in a while back, although I can only imagine he was greeted by a ring of the doorbell and a mysteriously flaming brown bag on his doorstep.) 

What we have is an all-powerful Tory party, with a Prime Minister who stands for little, and an opposition party that has torn itself apart - making it stand for little. We have 56 SNP MPs who will, for at least the next election, stop the opposition party having any chance of gaining serious ground (I know it’s only 9%, but all it takes is 1 more seat to have a majority, right?!). We have an angry electorate - on all sides - although May seems to be gaining ground with Brexit voters - on most sides. (I mean, probably not in Scotland.) And in case you missed it, we have a forthcoming boundary shake-up which will no doubt stick the boot into any resurgence of a vaguely socialist party or - gasp - coalition. NB I’m all for a new, progressive paradigm in UK government - but I’m not here to wang on about that.

So what am I wanging on about? Hmmm.

I once, briefly, joined a group on Facebook called ‘If David Cameron wants change, give him 50p and tell him to fuck off!’ Now the boot is on the other foot, 50p - or, maybe, signing a petition devoid of political merit - is probably not going to cut it.

If we want change in the UK, or anywhere else in the world, we have to keep protesting - but those protests must be directed at effecting change in the UK, whether that is to change the government’s policies or diplomacy with the US, or to change other UK policies - on immigration, public services, refugees - whatever. It’s also not enough to shout - we have to write. I am sloppy at this too, but we need to keep the pressure up on our representatives - ask them questions, make them ask questions in the House, and make them respond to you. Importantly for the socialists, you do not have to be a member of a political party to ask your MP how they plan to work with the other parties to defeat the Tories come the next election. (And to make it easier, here is a link which enables you to find and write to councillors, MPs, MEPs etc.: https://www.writetothem.com/.)

Solidarity can make a difference, but when you’re dealing with a Head of State who has the same attitude to non-Americans as Honey Badger does to, well, everything, it is really only our government which can try to hold Trump - and other world leaders - to account. We still have the power to force this kind of change in attitude from our government, and we have to use it.

[tearingoutmythinninghair]

The refugees are still there, and so is my burning rage.

After a demoralising ‘back to work’ day, I’m trying to salvage a little joy by updating my glorious friends and financiers (well, those who were bored enough to click the link) on my seasonal volunteering exploits.

Don’t panic - it won’t take long.

This experience was wildly different to last Christmas, and again to last Easter. I have few heart-wrenching tales of refugees clutching onto life vests as bittersweet souvenirs for their unborn children, or anecdotes of how I escaped the violent flailings of Kissy McStabby (the knife-wielding crack smoker) with just the aid of a plastic measuring jug, or even that many comedy incidents of smashing my car into the telegraph poles of northern Greece. Although the fact that hundreds of volunteers are still working to provide basic services, over a year later, should give you enough of an idea of the burning rage which remains aflame as brightly inside me as it was in 2015.

Around 50,000-52,000 refugees remain in Greece, mostly on the mainland, with around 15% held on the islands - which (predominantly) became detention centres after the EU-Turkey deal came into force in March. (And for anyone who doesn’t know why they’re all in Greece still, you might want to check the share prices of barbed wire and fencing companies operating in the Balkan region.) UNHCR reports that by the end of Feb, over 7,700 people will have been relocated from a total of (at its peak) over 57,000 people who have been stuck (or arrived) in Greece since the Macedonian border closed. It’s a tiny number of people compared to the millions who have fled into Jordan, Lebanon, Turkey and even into Germany - but it’s a tiny number that the Greek authorities, even with €49 million in EU funding, seem utterly incapable of treating with basic humanity or respect. 

I won’t pretend I’ve done my due diligence here - frankly, I can’t work out if the reason people are still living in tents is bureaucracy (or even a lack of bureaucracy as there aren’t enough people processing applications), or if it’s the deafening silence from the other EU states who are meant to be offering places to Greece. (And let’s not forget that the offer, on paper, was to take 160,000 refugees between them, from both Greece and Italy. 19 months later, just over 10,000 will have been relocated - for the maths lovers, based on the actual figures, that’s 6.5% of the amount pledged. In nearly two years.)

But living in tents they still are. Well, not everyone. Small numbers have been relocated into hotels, although anecdotally I understand this was partly because camps in the mountains were forcibly shut down once all water supplies had frozen. Even smaller numbers still have been helped to find apartments (again anecdotally; it’s volunteers who have contributed to this and continue to support refugees by providing food, clothing and even washing machines). Some of those in the laughably named ‘winterised’ camps are living in tents inside disused buildings - of which there are so many in northern Greece, you wonder why they haven’t at least managed to put everyone in one of these buildings - even if inside they are still in tents. Driving past miles and miles of empty buildings every day really makes you marvel at the spectacular level of clusterfuck that the Greek government is so clearly capable of - that in the last year, they seem to have forgotten that winter was coming. DID NED STARK TEACH YOU NOTHING? 

I’ve already ranted on for much longer than I had intended, so I’m going to put the rest in a list:

1. I did not work in the camps this time round - more than enough people wanted to do that while I was there (although they’re struggling again now). So I worked mainly in the Help Refugees warehouse, sorting children’s clothes (I know - possibly in some kind of attempt to work out if I’m still dead inside, which it turns out I am). I also did a bit of vegetable chopping, some marginal butchery, and one night I managed to cook over 70 portions of gumbo. I did a bit of driving, and probably the highlight was Fawsi, a Syrian chauffeur and the father of a family I drove into Thessaloniki for a hospital appointment, telling me I AM AN EXCELLENT DRIVER. Take THAT, DVLA and the traffic police of Stansted and the surrounds!

2. For those of you who gave me money, together we raised over £2000 this time round - taking the total you lovely bastards have given me since September 2015 to about £12,000. I bloody love you all. I split it between money and other donations to the Help Refugees warehouse, the Get Shit Done Team, and Soul Food Kitchen - as well as to the car insurance firm, obvs.

3. Like I said: 52,000 is a tiny number compared to the number of refugees and displaced persons worldwide - in 2015, 34,560 people were forcibly displaced every day, and almost 90% of the world’s refugees live in developing countries. I know the need is much bigger in countries other than Greece. But I return to Greece, partly as I can only volunteer short term, partly as I am an Arab (who embarrassingly cannot speak Arabic), but mainly because I cannot understand why a developed country is failing so woefully to deliver such basic needs.

4. Much like the Chinese, I am suspicious of the number 4, so there isn’t one.

5. I’ve met a vast amount of incredible people in the last 13 months - not just those I met in Greece, but also those from the People’s Convoy project to equip a new children’s hospital on the outskirts of Aleppo, and those I met when picking up and sorting donations around south east London for Calais. When I despair about Brexit Britain and the rise of bare-faced racism in our country, or when I want to scream in everyone’s faces to stop voting for the right because nothing will get better with them in power, I remember them all: they have run around a freezing cold warehouse looking for 76 pairs of 38″ waist men’s trousers, they have cried when chopping a thousand onions, they have struck three different deals to get as many pairs of men’s trainers delivered within a week, they can smear 30 pieces of khobbz with houmous in 60 seconds, they can wire up and provide electricity to a camp of 600 people, they can drive down an unlit mountain track in 30 minutes just to make that last delivery in time, they can clock the difference between a 6-8 boys’ jumper and a 9-12 boys’ jumper in the blink of an eye (or the tip of a hat), and they can always, always give a cold, wet, frightened child a lollipop when they arrive at a camp in the middle of the night. Now, if only we could get all of those people, and the people who have funded them, and the people who have supported them from afar, to overthrow our shitty right-wing governments, we’d be laughing!

Right kids, if you’ve made it this far, don’t forget to send me your addresses so I can send you a free gift of your choice. NB There’s zero chance you’ll be getting my BlockBusters encyclopaedia, but if I can muster 'em up there might be a Bendy Bully and a Crackerjack pencil in it for you. LOVE LOVE LOVE Sx

[tearingoutmythinninghair]

Like hummus for chocolate

This time tomorrow, instead of having another cup of tea in front of my 'puter, searching for data on adult literacy financing, & warming myself with the thought of the impending four days of Easter, drinking gin and staying in bed ‘til 2pm, I'll hopefully be on my way to Thessaloniki. Not for a retsina-fuelled assault on the men of Greece, but to try to be a teensy bit helpful by making hummus and other food for some of the makeshift camps housing tens of thousands of refugees who have been left stranded by the EU-Turkey deal. And I'm not going because I'm 'amazing' or 'brave' or any other word people have used to describe me which doesn't begin with a C, but because I have the time and money, because I don't have kids, and because Easter TV is notoriously shit.

The reports I've heard, and the videos & pictures posted, are unlikely to come close to what many might have imagined when the deal was struck to return 'irregular migrants' to Turkey & to deal with asylum applications for refugees already in the EU. People have been rounded up and are being held behind bars and wire in disused buildings and grounds across the Greek islands, told that they have been arrested, and are given no indication of how long their wait might be. Food, water and shelter are not always provided: volunteers who had set up functioning and humane transit camps have been told to clear out, knowing that they leave behind them refugees who have already been through months of trauma, who are cold, hungry and bewildered. 12,000-15,000 are stuck at the Greek/Macedonian border in such desperate conditions that two men set themselves on fire yesterday, and others are on hunger strike, or have sewn up their mouths in protest. For those who must now apply for asylum in Greece, there is laughable provision - new, long-term refugee camps, with canvas tents but only gravel to sleep on (and certainly not enough of them), no infrastructure, and few staff other than the military doing double shifts to make up for the lack of numbers. Of course, the people smugglers of Turkey are still making their millions; the boats might have slowed, but they have not stopped - each one sending at least 40 people to almost certain detention on the Greek islands, if they make it past the Turkish coastguard trying to spear holes in their boats, and the rough waters in the first place.

And in all of the situations above, around half of these people are children.

I appear to have surrounded myself with kind, generous friends who also think what is happening in Europe to hundreds of thousands of people fleeing war zones is a disgrace - and I was astounded to have received over €1000 in donations for this trip within 24 hours of posting about it - which actually takes me to almost €10,000 raised since September to support refugees in Calais, Lesvos, Syria, and northern Greece. To all who have donated so far, I really cannot thank you enough. I am not reliant on donations for this trip, but every penny that has been donated will go towards food, shelter and clothing for refugees, although there is a small chance I might also buy myself a bag of Skips at some point. If you have yet to donate and would like to, the link to my PayPal details are in an earlier post. The words seem inadequate, but thank you all so much, again. Sx

[tearingoutmythinninghair]

You can never have enough men’s trainers...

…or, The Muddled Ramblings of a Short-Term Volunteer on Lesvos.

October 2015 saw record numbers of refugees arriving in Lesvos and Chios; after supporting Calaid earlier in the year, and taking part in the Solidarity with Refugees march in London, I had joined a multitude of Facebook groups to better understand the crisis across Europe, and it was clear that volunteers on these islands were crying out for help - whether this was in the form of donations of clothing, money, or time. Some of my friends and I had been trying to find out how we could best contribute, and I was tentatively looking into becoming a volunteer; by then it felt to me that every policy enacted by the UK government was forcing me onto the wrong side of history, and just saying ‘not in my name’ was not enough. Possibly I was swayed a little by my heritage; I am part Jordanian, and while I won’t falsely claim any closeness to my family there, it’s pretty difficult not to feel any affinity with people who look like your aunts and uncles, your cousins, or your grandparents.

I was finally persuaded in November by the incessant coverage in advance of ’Black Friday’ – the thought of people chucking their hard-earned money away to get a new TV on the cheap made me bilious, so instead of punching women in the ovaries and men in the throat to get to my cut-price electronics, I booked a flight to Lesvos, for two weeks covering the Christmas and New Year period. (Although this was with the faintest twinge of regret; I do actually need a new telly.) 

I had spent ages researching where to stay on the island to be of most use, and which groups I could register with to volunteer. The information document provided by former and current volunteers was invaluable in my research - and through this I got in touch with a couple of the volunteer groups working at camps in the south of the island, as well as the volunteer courier service, MarhaCar, offering my unskilled but well-intentioned labour. Once I was a guaranteed arrival, all welcomed me with open arms - many people write to them without having booked flights, but it was clear from everything I had read that once you were definitely going to be in town, there would always be a place for you to work.

On my first full day I went to Pikpa camp – somewhat later than expected, having driven into a wall within 15 minutes of picking up my hire car (the Humble Hyundai), and spending the next 15 minutes self-soothing by rocking back and forth in the driver’s seat. Pikpa is an open, independent camp, which primarily supports vulnerable refugees – this could be someone who is elderly, disabled or particularly traumatised. The facilities are independently managed and paid for, and are comparably (to the other camps I visited) of really good quality – there is electricity, lighting, sanitation, kitchen facilities, and even a playground for children.

It’s fair to say that I didn’t do a vast amount while I was at Pikpa – the warehouse facilities were being upgraded, so there wasn’t a huge amount for unskilled workers to do – but it was incredibly useful as it allowed me to meet several of the volunteers I would go on to work with for the rest of my time on the island. So, despite my evidently poor spatial awareness on the streets of Lesvos, I was pleased to be called in to cover a shift as a delivery driver with MarhaCar. A group of volunteers runs this service from home (usually having been drivers on Lesvos themselves, or with the intention of becoming drivers): each camp or volunteer group puts in a request for items – blankets, clothing, shoes, for example – the volunteer coordinators contact the warehouses on the island, and the drivers pick up and deliver. For me, this was a fantastic experience. As a driver, you quickly learn the geography of the island (particularly where the hairpin bends on unlit mountain roads are), you have a good grasp of the stock levels of items in each of the warehouses (never enough men’s trainers), and you get to visit many of the different camps (and find out which ones have a toilet). The coordinators are incredibly committed – I spent Christmas Day being shepherded around the island by coordinators in the US and in Germany who were ducking in and out of family meals just to make sure the service didn’t grind to a halt.

After a couple of days dedicated to driving, I took an induction tour at Moria, the registration camp for all refugees arriving - regardless of where they land. (Ai Wei Wei rocked up for the last few minutes - genuinely thought I recognised him from somewhere in South East London, until a Danish volunteer whispered his name.) By then I had a good feel for where there was a real need, and I volunteered with the independent group, Better Days for Moria, to work the nightshift (midnight - 8am), while keeping up my driving duties from 6pm - midnight. It had been my aim all along to take on the unpopular work during my brief time on Lesvos, partly as I had seen from social media the astonishing number of people who only wanted to ‘do the boats’ – more of that later – so I was more than happy to sleep in the day and work through the night.

The nightshift was a huge learning experience, and after the nine or ten nightshifts I did it was obvious I would never learn enough. I worked in the kitchen – set up and run by the Bristol Skipchen – which, during the night, provides hot food for new arrivals, and tea to those who are already housed at the camp. As most boats land at night it is often busy, and the kitchen is warm so those who are wet and cold are ushered into the tent as soon as they arrive (others are split between the kitchen and the clothing tent to make sure that nobody was queuing for too long). Here is where you see the fear, anxiety, relief, exhaustion or joy of new arrivals – one or two who want to tell you their story immediately because they are so relieved to have made it, some who feel they have to tell you their story to explain why they are alone, but many more who are completely unable to speak, usually through exhaustion, or trauma. With the children it’s a little different: many are just hungry and want as much food as you will give them; the smaller children can sometimes scream uncontrollably because their hands and feet are so cold, and only when they are dressed in dry clothes will they calm down; and, very occasionally, there will be the children who stare into space, giving you no response when you ask them if they want some food.

Towards the end of my second nightshift, I had got to the point the veteran volunteers had told me I would reach – being so stressed out that you go crazy at someone, and need to take yourself out of the room. While I was outside, mentally flagellating myself, I bumped into Jasmin, a Syrian refugee whom I had met earlier in the shift; she was pregnant and travelling alone. She came over to ask if I could help her wash some fruit she had been given – she was worried about getting sick while pregnant. She started telling me about her family: her parents are awaiting, perhaps futilely, the return of her brother, who was arrested with no charge by the government months ago, her sister & nieces were killed by Daesh, and her husband risks conscription into Assad’s forces, unless he pays his way out, which he cannot yet afford to do. She was one of the first Syrian refugees I had a long conversation with, and in the following days her words seemed to be echoed by almost every Syrian I met: “Nobody is for us, the ordinary people - not the government, not Daesh, & not the countries bombing us.” In my emotional state I almost burst into tears – another moment I’m not proud of; nobody wants to be the volunteer the refugees have to comfort. Unusually, she was carrying her lifejacket still – these are often abandoned at the coast, but she smiled and explained why: “It is a souvenir! I want my baby to know what I did to protect him!”

When a new UNHCR bus arrives, with up to 50 people picked up from the coast, you do not always have a huge amount of warning – although the bus team when I was there was run by a fantastic group of Swiss and German guys who always tried to run up the hill to let us know about a new bus arriving, particularly if anyone had been rescued after falling into the sea. Once everyone has had a chance to catch their breath, they are either taken to the clothing tent, or places are found for them to sleep – in tents, in the UNHCR huts, or in the compound for families and vulnerable people. If it’s an average night – although is ‘average’ the right word about the buses of people fleeing war in dangerously overcrowded dinghies being regularly spaced? –  you check how much food is left, boil more water for tea, and clean up the tent while waiting for the next group to arrive. Busy nights give you no time to breathe, and you just have to keep rolling – even if the water pipes are frozen, even if the tap on the hot water urn is broken, and even if you’ve only got a camping cup to serve up from the simmering vats of soup and tea.

On one of the busiest nights I met Ala’, who was travelling with her two daughters Lujayn and Mamunah; Lujayn was only four months old. They had been in a car crash in Turkey on her way to get the boat – the children were fine, but she had fractured or broken her arm, and two men she was travelling with had broken ribs, and cuts from broken glass over their hands and arms. Ala’ was upset because her baby was in soaking wet clothes, and asked me for help. I asked another volunteer to try to grab any baby clothes he could from the clothing tent, and as we waited and tried to feed the children, Ala’ just started crying, and telling me, “we run from government, we run from Daesh, we run, we run, we run.” But as soon as the clothes turned up, she reverted back to protective mother mode, smiled, and, because of her arm, she gave me Lujayn to dress. In fact, I was left literally holding the baby for over three hours; as a happily childfree woman in ‘real’ life, this was terrifying. During those hours, Ala’ got her arm set, found new clothes for her children, and regained a bit of her sense of humour – her new trousers were too big for her, and with one arm broken and a child in the other, she did a Charlie Chaplin waddle for us, at which we laughed until we realised she needed us to drag her trousers up for her, and when she saw Lujayn was fast asleep in my arms at the two and a half hour mark, she told me I could take her back to London, and promptly left to get herself a cup of tea.

It wasn’t always like that. One quieter night I realised there was a group of long-term residents – who are ‘stuck’ at the camp because they are not from Syria, Afghanistan or Iraq – trying it on with us five or more times per shift, pretending they hadn’t eaten and, in one instance, shoving children out of the way, and taking food from a little girl’s hands. (I did not handle that situation well.) During quiet times, the refugees who volunteer in the kitchen fill the tent with the musical stylings of Enrique Iglesias – actually, just ‘Hero’, and on loop, to the extent that it is (almost) a huge relief to hear another bus of people is about to descend upon you.  And when the sea is rough, no boats come at all; indeed, I spent New Year’s Eve degreasing – pointlessly – the industrial stove.

Since I’ve been back, my friends keep asking how it was, usually with a fearful wince on their faces. My instant response is that it’s not as bad as they evidently think it is. Despite the humanitarian crisis, Greece is a developed, European country - it is not South Sudan. Greece is - for most refugees - a transit country, so few stay for much longer than they need to get their registration papers. The conditions in the camps on Lesvos are not the same as those in Jordan or Lebanon, or Calais or Dunkirk; while conditions may not be ideal, for the most part they are not squalid.

But, sometimes, it is that bad, and maybe I have stopped short of describing everything, because it’s still a bit too raw. I never became emotionally immune to the drownings. On the morning I spent holding Lujayn I was told by another volunteer that a woman had been trampled to death by panicking refugees trying to get out of the dinghy. As he told me the story I had to turn my head to stop my tears falling on the baby’s face. And now, two weeks after returning, I still cannot read the stories or see the pictures posted on social media – about the five-year-old boy who died of hypothermia as he reached the shore, the baby who kicked off its blankets in the night and froze to death, the NGO which refused to give out blankets because ‘some people didn’t look cold enough’ – without feeling anger, desolation and frustration.

And that frustration is partly because Greece is a developed, European country. The UN does not have jurisdiction here; the Greek government is meant to be running the show. Both the Greek government and the UN have asked the European Union to do much more – although so far that seems to have resulted only in broken promises – including the one to bribe the Turkish government to work harder to prevent people smuggling. The EU in turn is in meltdown over its immigration and visa policies, and is pointing the finger at Greece for not having done enough.

Had it been left to the Greek government, in October – when arrivals on Lesvos topped 135,000 – people would have been sleeping rough, with few sanitary facilities, no dry clothes and little food, for periods of up to nine days as they waited to be registered. While UNHCR and several of the major NGOs are still trying to operate there, they have, to some extent, had their hands tied by the Greek government. I still cannot see the Greek government or the EU stepping in any time soon to do anything positive. The police presence can be bullying and, on one occasion I witnessed, almost useless in the face of any real danger.

Instead, it is independent volunteers – local and international, short-term and long-term – who have established transit camps, and who have provided many of the facilities to help refugees as soon as they get to a camp or the main registration site. And it remains independent volunteers, working with Better Days for Moria, staffing the ‘unofficial camp’ 24 hours a day – a camp which is on private land, hired and paid for by the volunteers and their supporters. The provision of dry clothes, hot food, sleeping bags, and blankets, and finding places to sleep for those arriving throughout the night remains a service solely provided by this group.

It’s worth saying at this stage that I have worked in non-profits and campaigning organisations for my entire career, and pushing for the big wins you can and do get through advocacy – and I still believe that advocacy is the only way to achieve serious change in the world. But the situation at the entry points to Europe is dire – for me, as a citizen living on the ‘right’ side of those barbed wire fences, I cannot accept that the European Union – a union whose history includes WORLD WAR TWO – is actively trying to keep thousands of desperate people on the other side. And I cannot yet see how we achieve the big win here – is it stopping the bombing of Syria? Is it pushing for more refugees to be accepted into the UK? Is it even a cyberwar against ISIS?! Now, after my brief stint as a volunteer, the one solid thing I am holding onto is that the people will keep on leaving until the threat - and impact - of war and terror are over, and while they are leaving they need our help – not just on their journey, and not just in the camps, but when they get to Germany, Sweden, the UK.  

I would urge anyone wanting to volunteer on the Greek islands to commit to doing it with one of the organised groups; while it is incredible that so many people want to go and help lots of different groups, I cannot stress enough how helpful it is to provide reliable, regular support to just one or two groups. For example, some volunteers prefer to turn up at a camp and hand out donations they have brought themselves – while these are appreciated, it’s difficult to be equitable. Other volunteers might want to spend one day at one place, another day at a different place, and maybe an evening ‘doing the boats’ – again, while this type of support is usually well-intentioned, the advice I’ve seen from other returning volunteers (which I would agree with) is that on your first day or shift, the most useful thing you can do is observe – so taking on just one day or shift somewhere may actually deny you the opportunity to make the best contribution you can.

(I’ll drop my note on the boat duty just here: whenever I heard anyone saying they wanted to “do the boats, at least for a night”, it always reminded me of someone saying “I want to do the Louvre, and at least see the Mona Lisa”. The regular groups of volunteers who work tirelessly at the coast through the night, alongside the volunteer lifeguards and medical workers, play a vital role, poignantly proven by the reported failings of one or two of the ‘official’ groups when trying to take over certain parts of the coast; they too need regular support, and nowhere is it more important for new volunteers to learn from those more experienced in order not to jeopardise the health or mental state of refugees arriving on Lesvos.)  

I met some incredibly dedicated volunteers in my brief time on the island – some who were able to commit to helping long-term with one or two projects, others who were passing through on extended holidays and could not ignore the crisis going on before their eyes, and many more who have only one or two weeks to give, but who really want to cram in as much as they possibly can into those days. They, as part of organised, independent volunteer groups are doing an incredible job at trying to make refugees feel welcome, cared for, & human again. And, for a brief time, I did this job too, and I’d readily do it again.

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I’ll be making my final transfers to the groups on Lesvos at the end of January, so if you would like to make a donation to me, then you can do this here. If you want to donate directly to other groups then have a look at ‘How I Spent Your Money’ - the links are in there. If you are transferring from a UK bank or PayPal account, please change the currency to GBP. THANK YOU! Sx

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I didn’t take any pictures in the camps, because I got upset at the amount of people who were completely unethical when they were doing it. So I was one of those pain in the ass vigilantes who went round telling people to JUST STOP IT. That’s why these are so boring. Sorry.

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How I spent your money

This post is for all those bloody lovely bastards who chucked me money for Lesvos.

It’s massively belated, and for that I can only apologise and blame a combo of an unfathomable backlog of Christmas telly and sloth, but THANK YOU SO MUCH for your incredible support to me and the volunteers working on Lesvos. My initial target was €1255, to cover the hire car rental and deposit for when I smashed the car up, but so far, thanks to all of you, I have raised almost €7500. And I even got the deposit back.

Here’s how I spunked your cash.

Things I bought and donated to the different camps and volunteer groups on the island:

·        87 pairs of men’s trainers

·        65 pairs socks

·        103 sets of underwear

·        10 tracksuit bottoms

·        100 emergency blankets

·        40 torches/lamps and batteries for tents

·        40 felt blankets

·        10 sleeping bags

·        45 rain ponchos

·        40 sets of notepads & pens and other small items for children

·        30 pairs of gloves

·        126 packs of rehydration salts

Things I paid for:

·        2 weeks of hire car charges and petrol, which enabled me to make deliveries from all of the different warehouses to the many camps working across the island. I cannot count how many deliveries I did in that time, but I can sort-of recall my first day. I did a 12-hour shift through the night and visited three camps in the south (two of them twice), one warehouse in the north (where I got lost up a dirt track, cried after failing to do a three point turn, and peed in a bush), one warehouse in the south (twice; the first time Google maps made me drive along a dirt track through a never-ending olive grove, where I cried after realising there was no reception, and peed in a bush), two trees which were meant to be drop-off points (although it turned out there was only one ‘right’ tree, and the first tree was the wrong one), and the group staffing the nightshift on the southern beaches (where I really needed to pee again, but there was no bush). I also believe I still hold the record for the fastest drive between the northernmost camp and the southernmost camp, which is 54 minutes – apparently it should take 85 minutes - suckers.

·        Small items for the kitchen, although this was mainly because I really wanted bay leaves. I bought herbs, pepper, cleaning products, lighters and sack of instant coffee for the volunteers (oh! The sadness in their tired little eyes whenever we said ‘we only have tea’!).

·        Emergency items for the camps – basically, I bought all of the sanitary products in one man’s shop on Christmas day, after one of the camps heeded the advice of some of us older/less white ladyvolunteers to leave these in the women’s changing area, rather than to make women (who mainly cannot speak English) mime their way to getting these from the distribution tents. The chap was very pleased though – turned out he’d done a year at Essex University and was mad for my cockney-fishwife Essex brogue, so he gave me a discount. BOOM.

·        Cash donation to purchase urgent supplies – I gave €220 to one of my driving colleagues who was staying on the island after I left, to purchase whatever items were in short supply in the week she was there. The delivery team has a strong grasp on what items everyone is screaming out for and, as I understand, this money went to the number 1 most wanted item – more men’s trainers.

I have given cash donations or made bank transfer to the following groups:

The Bristol Skipchen: these guys run the kitchen at the Moria camp, which is where I worked at night. They provided and built the kitchen and tent, plus they cover the costs of the gas and any food items that they need after the food donations are used – although I don’t imagine anyone has yet found a way to use up those two large crates of mushy peas without putting a load of porky goodness in. I have so far donated €1250 to them, and I am transferring at least another €250 to them this month.

Better Days for Moria: this is the independent group of volunteers which organised themselves to provide services in the ‘unofficial’ camp at Moria – where people would otherwise be sleeping with no food, sanitation, clothing or shelter. They organise shifts to cover the camp 24 hours a day, and they pay for the rental of the land as well as maintain the other facilities such as the distribution tent (for clothes, blankets etc.). So far I have donated €2000 to them, and anything that is raised this month will go to Better Days.

If you want to keep on donating to these groups, then I’ve provided the links above. I know I’ve focused on independent groups a lot, rather than the NGOs which are on Lesvos at the moment, but it should be said that if you already regularly donate to Save the Children, Oxfam, ActionAid etc. then they are of course spending money and working to support refugees - predominantly in the middle-east, but they do also provide or pay for some services at the pressure points in Europe. The reason I’ve focused on the smaller groups is because they simply do not have the publicity machines to get their work to be known and supported, and their direct costs are not dissimilar to those of the NGOs (obviously excluding staff costs).

Thank you all so very much again - I have been overwhelmed by the level of support given by friends from every part of my life, and also by that given by those of you I may never have met. If this cause is important to you then just the occasional bit of sharing news and info on social media can help. THANK YOU! Sx

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Dawn at Moria, January 2016

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What am I doing here?

I set this Tumblr up back in October 2015 as an outlet for my frustration and considerable rage while I was in the Philippines for three weeks, trying to help my mother sell one house and build another. (Don’t misread this - we’re talking poxy amounts of money here - my 74 year old mother is no property magnate.) There is, of course, a vast back story to this, and maybe one day I’ll manage to write it down without sending myself into a spiral of despair. But that day is not today, and, as it turned out, nor was it any day during October 2015. 

So I’ve decided to try using it for more positive purposes, and the first one is this:

In December 2015 I travelled to the island of Lesvos, Greece to volunteer with the groups helping refugees who are making the journey from Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq and other countries suffering conflict and terror, to Europe. I’ve tried to write about my experiences here, partly for anyone who supported me financially or morally to understand more about what I was doing, partly for any potential volunteers seeking some insight into the experience, but mainly to give myself a bit of catharsis.

Sorry it’s so long.