My first Dispatch from Greece
Monday, October 9
I have been in Greece for three weeks: eleven days in Athens, and ten days on the island of Chios. In Athens, I went to a punk rock show at the Agricultural University of Athens and saw what Evergreen could be. The main foyer was covered in graffiti and posters for events, workshops, and protests, as were the buildings’ exteriors. They often turn off lights everywhere in Athens to save electricity, and much of this event was in darkness. In the courtyard was the stage, with a crowd of at least 300 people. At the back of the courtyard was an open-air bar, a souvlaki station, and tables of band merch. HEY EVERGREEN ALUMNI, are you reading? Where are you? I heard this school used to have fun. Let’s do this again!
In another part of town, I sat in on an informational meeting held in an open-air yard of a squatted low-rise complex called Prosfygika. At that meeting, they talked in Greek and English about Nazism, antifascism, and what the government (whether Greece or EU, it is unclear) wishes to do with the refugee crisis. They used the term surplus populations, a Marxist term, which in context refers to how greater European society (and America) sees refugees. I also watched a man from Iraq build a scooter out of a toy bicycle while he asked me what I wanted out of life, and when I showed him pictures of homeless encampments in Los Angeles and Seattle, he told me that “this does not happen in Iraq. In Iraq, we take care of each other.”
In Chios, I worked with a “charity” organization that operates like some Food Not Bombs groups I have worked with. They source culturally relevant staple foods, package them in plastic bags, store them in a shipping container facility, and distribute them outside the Vial Refugee Camp once a month. We cannot go inside the camp and therefore must figure out creative ways of communicating with the 900 camp residents in four or five languages: English, French, Arabic, Somali, and Urdu. The organization depends on volunteers from inside the camp to communicate the presence of food, and residents make their way up a dirt road to collect one kilogram each of shelf-stable rice, chickpeas, vegetable oil, halal chicken, and sardines. It is only one or two meals worth of food, but it is less about the food itself and more about showing camp residents that there are people who care for them. Sometimes, the organization I have been interning with has been able to give more: sugar, hygiene packs, and other necessities. However, they do not have much money and are therefore hurting to deliver any aid at all.
Residents and volunteers came from Yemen, Somalia, Sudan, Palestine, Syria, Djibouti, Ethiopia, Pakistan, Sierra Leone, and Cameroon. Living conditions for those inside Vial include family-style dormitories, showers, and food that makes people sick. Vial is designed to make conditions “uncomfortable” (read: dehumanizing and painful) and encourage people to go back.
In the week I have been here, I have done manual labor side by side with electrical workers from Sierra Leone, prayed with a former camp imam, bonded over drinks with a young, former business owner from Aleppo, and chatted with a wealthy Polish sausage factory owner about politics in Poland and Belarus. We also played football and shared food and music. Two days ago, I talked about the afterlife and extraterrestrials with a guy fleeing dictatorial persecution in a [redacted] African country. Yesterday, I swam in the cerulean Mediterranean with a smiling man from Palestine. Between watching videos on Instagram of American-made bombs dropping on Palestinian apartment towers, he oscillated between worry for his family and enthusiasm for showing us his favorite beaches. When I asked him how he dealt with the constant barrage of trauma and grief, he said, “It is life, we were born in it. You get used to it. One day, Palestine will be free.”
Going overseas is not for everyone. Of course, I have white privilege and male privilege. There have been numerous learning curves that would have depleted my enthusiasm and frustrated me deeply when I was younger. Deciphering the motivations and intentions of those around me as well as being honest about mine have been games I do not wish to play. Telling African refugees in line about America, about what I have seen in my four years of homelessness, and listening to them speak of the racism in Turkiye and Greece has been more stressful than emotional relief, or my goal: successful attempts at building solidarity.
Psychologically, I am learning over and over again, that I am often wrong to directly criticize the US to people who believe in America, even if this America does not (institutionally and formally) believe in them, or even many people I know here in North America. I still feel correct in assuming living conditions for those fleeing violence, persecution, slavery, and genocide are not so unlike the living conditions of people experiencing homelessness in the United States. The UN agrees with me, and I say this with knowledge and stories of people from all walks of life, including refugees from other countries who have made it to the US and live on the street.
I do have a little agenda right now. It was on a dirt road outside Vial where I first met Shaher. Shaher is a young, Palestinian beekeeper that has come to Greece to find work. Of course, this is before the events of October 7 and the ongoing genocide happening there. Currently, he is still without long-term work. I am collecting money to support him and his family through GoFundMe. This is the link: https://gofund.me/b2ff77f7 Money donated to the GoFundMe campaign will go to two places: my friend Shaher, so he can regain financial stability, and to his loved ones and family still in Gaza. Because of his situation, I am collecting the money on his behalf. 0% will go to a non-profit, or me, and I will do everything I can to ensure any money GoFundMe or Moneygram takes will come from my pocket. Thank you.
