Author, wanderer, enthusiast
The Syrian family had strikingly clear eyes. A refracting blue like crystal – hard and bright and the color of the shallow waters off Korakas or the eastern sky before dawn.
But I didn’t notice.
I didn’t notice when I met the family of four on the beach, surrounded by thirty Afghanis who didn’t speak any English, but who shone their appreciation in the illuminated sigils of white smiles and worried hands resting, exhausted, at their sides. I didn’t notice when they answered questions and helped organize the other refugees and migrants, or when I spoke with the father on the walk up the steep dirt road to where we would wait for transportation.
Cats wander among the tables ringing the moored boats and calm waters of Skala Sikamineas harbor. The cats come in every variety of mange, scruff, scar and distemper, and a great many of them crowd around anyone eating at an outdoor table. They’re the only thing unkempt. The carefully cobbled stones of the harbor, the elegant, ancient taverns and cafes lining it, the pastel puff coats and leathers of the patrons, worn to ward off the last murmurs of spring chill loosed as the sun sets behind a curtain of too brilliant stars, all of these things would fit correctly into a Hollywood romance set. The only things out of place are the Frontex police with sidearms and the table of Spanish rescue boat operators in stylish red uniforms. Only those guns and red coats whisper a word amiss.
Yet something is amiss.
As of this writing my first week at Korakas lighthouse draws to a close. The day before I arrived, six Afghans landed on the rocks east of Korakas in the boat pictured here. No-one has landed on the North shore since.
I don’t have a count of exactly how many boats have landed here this year, but the shores keep their own ledger. Wrecks are difficult to remove up the long and uneven dirt road. They lay in great heaps around every possible landing point and some impossible ones, tallying the landings with marks of rubber, fiberglass and wood. Until now there hasn’t been the time to spare for the rubbish problem, except to cut up the dinghies to get them out of the way of the next landing. (more…)
Departure in the early hours, before the sun rises, has a special smell which to me is one of the treasures of living.
This morning I stepped out onto the road. No sooner had a grey dawn risen over the Eastern Iowa Airport then I had my first “oops” moment, when I realized I hadn’t finished my paperwork for an international drivers license. Volunteer stories suggest Greek car rental agencies often don’t ask for one, so it may not end up mattering.
Perhaps that will be all that goes wrong. Hah. (more…)
Below is my original post for why I’m spending the month of April volunteering in Greece. The situation has evolved since I wrote this, but I’m moving it here for context.
I go on April 1st to spend one month on the Greek island of Lesvos. This is not a vacation. In the past year more than half a million Syrian, Afghani and Iraqi refugees have arrived on that island, fleeing terrorism and war. Every day I see new pictures of their boats overturned, their wet clothes and hunger, their desperate need for help. Each story tears me up inside. I can’t just watch from afar. Fortunately, I don’t have to. Stacey Hurlin launched her Lesvos Refugee Project to raise donations of clothing, medical supplies and food for the refugees. I am fortunate to have the opportunity to help her, and now we go together to lend our hands to the work. The needs are many: to help the boats land safely, to help stave off hypothermia from the cold Aegean crossing, to help distribute food, transport people and clean clothing, set up tents and other immediate and urgent necessities of basic survival.
