California writer JJ Mitchell writes of his experience as a volunteer entrenched in the refugee camps on the Greek island of Lesbos just before the recent wave of deportations began.
Boats in Mytilini Harbour tell stories of the refugees they ferried from Syria and Afghanistan through the remains of what they left behind. Against the horizon, refugee boats in desperate pursuit of asylum present an unmistakable, lumbering profile; while in Mytilini Harbour, others confiscated by the Greek Coast Guard appear like a ghost fleet put to rest in some naval graveyard.
Inflatable dinghies and small fishing boats mix with large, aging yachts. In the belly of one boat, life jackets, a lost shoe, a map, a bottle of medicine lay scattered. Before I arrived in Lesbos, I'd seen pictures of these boats, but it's the intangible parts—the smell of sweat, feces and gasoline—that startles me; their departures were so hurried.
I'm arriving in Greece as a volunteer, having just spent two weeks in the Calais Jungle—the so-called encampment in Calais, France where so many refugees are hoping to enter the U. I suspect the situation here is oversimplified and misrepresented by the press as it has been in Calais.
These Greek islands are the front line of Europe's refugee crisis. Occupying an ancient garrison, Moria Camp is all barbed wire and fences and a heavy presence by Frontex, the EU's border patrol agency. As a BDFM volunteer, though, I'm here to focus on improving the quality of life for refugees in this temporary landing spot, where others like me are staffing a meager children's nursery, distributing dry clothes, maintaining a kitchen, and all around absorbing the increasing problem of overcapacity.
