A few months ago, I stood in an Eko gas station parking lot in Northern Greece with a young, seven-month pregnant Iraqi lawyer sobbing on my shoulder. I’d hugged the woman tight, wishing there was something I could do to make things better—wishing there was a way to mend her fragmented life. “I’m so sorry,” were the best words I could think to say. I wanted to tell her that things would get better, that her decision to leave Iraq, risking everything, was the right decision, and that the best was still ahead of her. I couldn’t bring myself to say any of those things, though, because honestly, in that moment I didn’t know if any of them were true.
The woman and her young lawyer husband had fled upheaval in Iraq and were now refugees far from their families. They had hoped to make a home for their growing family in Luxemburg, but for the past 25 days, due to closed borders, “home” had become a red camping tent set up next to a gas station. “If we go back [to Iraq], we’ll get killed,” they’d told me. They had nowhere to go, so there they were camped out at the gas station along with a couple thousand other refugees, waiting.
Several months ago, on March 9th, the border between Greece and Macedonia (called The Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia or FYROM by Greeks) was officially closed to illegal migrants. What used to be a simple border crossing along the main refugee route from the Middle East to better futures in Western Europe had suddenly became yet another nightmare along the journey. Police and military were stationed on both sides of a razor wire border fence and, just like that, thousands of migrants were stranded. It was a game changer for the refugees and a game changer in the refugee response work in Greece.
Approximately 30,000 people have been stuck in Northern Greece the past few months—just over half of all the refugees currently in Greece. This is a shift from the beginning of the year when the highest concentration of refugees was on the Greek islands just off the coast of Turkey.
Several times I’ve flown up to spend time in Idomeni and the surrounding makeshift refugee settlements where Samaritan’s Purse is working close to the border. Each time the hopelessness has been overwhelming. The longer people sit waiting, the more frustrated they become, and the more difficult it is for them to pick up the fragments of their dreams and hold on to hope. But still, it’s their reality at the moment.
“What is it like being here?” I’d asked the pregnant woman, who was roughly my age. It wasn’t a good question. All I had to do was look around and know that it wasn’t good. Kids played next to gas pumps, a row of smelly portable outhouses lined the back of the parking lot, and tents were strewn wherever there was space. Obviously it wasn’t a great reality. Conditions were rough. And anyway, in what world is it enjoyable to live in a tent set up in the parking lot of a gas station when you’re pregnant? I’ve spent nights camping in gas station parking lots and, even when you’re not pregnant, I can vouch for the fact that it’s not ideal. At Eko gas station at the time, there were more than 300 pregnant women living in those conditions.
A torrent of frustrations spilled out in the woman’s honest response to my poorly thought through question, translated to me by the husband. “I’m tired of waiting in lines all the time,” she’d said. “I wait in lines for the bathroom, wait in lines to be handed food, and we’re here waiting for the borders to open.” This is what had triggered the lawyer’s tears. She was uncomfortable, tired, and frustrated. She wanted her dignity back. She missed her family.
After gently consoling his pregnant wife, the husband looked back at me and asked, “Do you think the border will open?” I’d shrugged, not wanting to tell him that the chances of him and his wife crossing the border to Macedonia (FYROM) were slim to none.
Standing in the parking lot with the young lawyer couple, I could see the weariness on the Iraqi man’s freckled face, but he remained composed. In the middle of his wife’s sobbing, the man had lifted her chin to brush away tears, speaking softly to her in Kurdish. He had to be strong for her. After a minute of comforting his wife while I’d watched on, he’d turned to me and said quietly, “We don’t have hope anymore.”
I left Eko that day with a heavy heart. That moment, those words, have stuck with me.
In the first three months of working with the refugee crisis in Greece, I flew all over the country visiting detention centers, listening to refugee’s stories, and learning more about the crisis. The story of that young couple isn’t uncommon. Many nights I returned to hotel rooms in beautiful tourist destinations with that same heavy heart, carrying fragments of similar stories. The situation is complex. There are more questions than answers, the tears come quicker than the laughter, and the trauma the refugees have faced along with their current situation is heavy. It isn’t something that can quickly be fixed.
On the island of Lesvos a couple months ago, I sat with a group of women my age—young mothers from Syria. Though the camp where they were staying was much nicer than the conditions at Eko gas station, I still avoided asking what it was like living there. Instead, I asked about their dreams.
“What are you most excited about for life in Europe?” I asked one mother. She looked younger than me, early 20s, slender with a freckled pale face framed in a white hijab, and she had three young children in tow. “I cannot think about it,” she said. “I just have to get through this situation. I just want a better life.”
I’d nodded, but I wondered, for someone who has known the worst of life, what does a better life mean? When I asked, the women responded quickly. “A better life would be having a better future for my children. A hopeful future,” she said. “But in this situation I cannot think about that.”
Behind so many of the conversations I have had with refugees is an underlying question, “Is what I’ve given up worth it to be where I am now?” The same question, voiced in many ways: “Was it worth it, leaving home for this? We didn't want our children getting bombed, but this is not what we expected Europe to be like.”
It’s a question that sparks fear and anxiety when not affirmed positively. "Did I do the right thing?" It breeds uncertainty and self-doubt. "Could there have been a better option?" I’ve watched as coworkers look young, crying fathers in the eye and tell them, “You are not a failure!” And oh how I wish every refugee had someone to look them in the eye and believe in them—to remind them of their worth and remind them there is always reason to hope. Someone to say, “Things will get better and someday these fragmented, painful years will make sense.”
I wish so badly that I could mend all the broken lives right now, fit the puzzle pieces together, and fill them with hope again. Mostly I just find myself saying “sorry” and endlessly praying that God will pick up the fragments and make people whole again. I pray that people will be able to hope again.
And isn’t this something we all long for? Wholeness and reasons to hold on to hope? We long for someone to come alongside us and say, “Yes, all that you’ve left behind, all that you have risked, all that you are struggling forward for, it’s worth it. You’re doing the right thing.”
Especially in the face of uncertainty and pain, or having risked everything, we want affirmation that the struggle will be worth it. And I’ve realized why this refugee work in Greece has been so difficult for me: these questions the refugees ask—they resonate. “Is all I’ve given up to get to the place I am now worth it?” I want to say yes. But the fragments of our lives are still laid bare. The journeys aren’t complete. I can only say yes to that question in complete faith that the best is indeed yet to come.
I don’t have the endings to anyone’s story. Only fragments of journeys. I can’t even say what’s become of the Iraqi lawyers. The woman should have had her baby by now. I wonder if the baby is a girl or a boy. I pray it’s healthy. Was the woman able to get medical assistance? Or did her husband deliver the baby? Where is the couple living now? I don’t know the answer to any of those questions. Last week the Greek Government cleared out the unofficial refugee settlement at Idomeni and this week they're also taking people from Eko to official camps. People are again picking up their fragmented lives and moving to a place that’s not where they had intended to land. This story is common. I hope, at least, the couple is given a more dignified place to wait. And more than anything else, I pray that the fragments will one day form a whole that is far more beautiful than anything anyone can imagine now. I pray the best is yet to come.
