Greek Travels of a Different Kind – Volunteering With a Refugee Charity in Patras Part 2
The presence of the smugglers was even more apparent in the little factory, an old abandoned carpet manufacturing plant that seems to have been frozen in time. Lengths of carpet still hung suspended from the looms. It had the advantage of a rigged-up power supply ideal for charging phones, and it also had some semblance of lighting. I suppose this benefited the smugglers’ communication channels. The ground floor of the small factory was full of debris – I wasn’t even sure the building was safe. People here lived on the first floor or the roof. When I say ‘lived’, I mean they had a small area, enough to spread out a blanket or sleeping bag. The lucky ones may have had a small tent.
One day, after morning distribution, another volunteer and I went up to the roof to look around. The ground was littered with broken glass, amongst which were bundles of bedding. There had been no attempt to clear the glass in the places where they slept. The striking thing about the roof was that it had clear views right into the port – the gateway to their dreams and aspirations within arms reach, and yet realistically so far away.
Every day, we’d notice the signs of people coming and going by the piles of discarded blankets, which would be taken up by others soon after. Sorrell told me that one of the common complaints the medical team dealt with was scabies, a small mite that burrows into the skin to lay its eggs – a sore and distressing condition. It was to be expected, given that people lived in such close proximity to each other, and bedding was passed from one person to another.
Both factories had a cold water supply, and although washing facilities were rudimentary, most people were able to wash their clothes from a water outlet coming from the ground. Despite the difficult situation for washing, the men always looked clean. The one thing that I did notice was their old and worn shoes and trainers. I was told by ‘S’ that it was because they were always running from the police!
Arriving at the factories for breakfast distribution would always be accompanied by stories of who had successfully made it onto a lorry to Italy during the night. We’d also hear about those who’d been caught by the police and given their punishment by the cosh. The police would always target their phones, smashing them to pieces, knowing that this was their only lifeline to their families back home and of course to the smugglers who determined their movements. Injured men would eventually make it to the doctor’s queue to get patched up before trying again.
Something struck me about those queuing to see the medical team. Sorrell had mentioned that the same people came to see them every day, sometimes, with really minor complaints like a small cut on the finger. I had also noticed the same. These were physically tough men. The journeys they’d endured were rough, and you’d need to have a strong disposition to make it this far. You couldn’t be blamed for thinking they just wanted the opportunity to chat with a pretty girl, but it wasn’t that at all. What they wanted, or rather what they needed, was just a little human interaction. Someone to show a little kindness and humanity, just to give them some one-on-one time. That realisation almost broke my heart.
It was hard to gauge how the local Patras community felt about having so many displaced people inhabiting their city. There must have been an impact of having a large transient population here. But there were some who wanted to help. One day, a farmer contacted FoodKind to offer the charity the oranges from his land. The only condition was that someone would have to come and pick them. One afternoon, a group of volunteers drove the 40km to his farm and spent the afternoon picking the fruit whilst the rest of us cooked. The fruit picking was physically challenging work, so it was best left to the younger ones! A local church group also came periodically with food, towels and toiletries. We discovered that they’d been dropping donations off for weeks, but it hadn’t got to the people who needed it the most. The coordinator advised them to drop the donations with us so that they could be distributed fairly.
On one occasion, I accompanied the coordinator and the nurse to drop foodstuffs off with the Kurdish family in the flat and to the Sudanese guys living in the makeshift tent. The Sudanese group, despite living in such basic conditions, were very keen that we stayed and shared a cup of tea with them. Out of the very few Arabic words I know from being married to an Egyptian was the question ’tishrub shay?’.
Occasionally, once our tasks were complete, we’d all head to the beach bar Mare Mare for a little R&R. These opportunities to de-brief and unwind were invaluable. If the rota permitted, Sorrell and I would catch an hour or so on the beach before meeting back at the flat for distribution. When we’d get a precious afternoon/evening off, the beach across the way was the perfect place to be. Watching the sun go down behind Missolonghi with a glass of wine in hand was a great way to destress and unpack the events of the day. It was also very special to be able to spend time with my daughter.
There were so many memorable moments from this experience. Our stay in Patras coincided with Ramadan. Eid arrived, and we were invited to join our friends (by now we considered them friends) to break the fast in the big factory. We were still obliged to prepare and serve food at the usual time at both sites, but on this particular day, it was wrapped up earlier than usual.
After the medical needs had been tended to, we joined around 100 people sitting in long rows, cross-legged on the factory floor. I was told later that they had pooled any spare money they had to buy the ingredients and had spent most of the day cooking it. Nominated servers brought us slices of lamb that had been cooked on an open fire, served with bread on paper plates. Disposable cups were filled with cola, whilst others stood over us with a torch so that we could see. This was the only means of light against the pitch black sky above. At the end of the meal, cold water was poured over our hands to clean them. This wasn’t dissimilar to what I’d experienced at a Panagiri. What could beat the simple pleasures of eating with friends, no matter how humble the circumstances? These are the moments that stay in hearts forever.
This wasn’t the only time we shared food with friends. The Family of Ten would often invite us to share a watermelon with them. The water supply in the large factory came from an underground tank, and the water was ice cold. Christian Ronaldo told me that it was so cold that when he washed himself, it would give him a headache. Anyway, the water may not be ideal for ablutions, but it was perfect for cooling a watermelon down. This was done by putting it in a plastic bag and suspending it from the tap whilst the ice-cold water flowed over it. Most modern kitchens don’t have the luxury of a built-in watermelon cooling appliance! They served it with salt, which at first I thought was peculiar, but then I wished I’d known about it sooner!
It was very difficult to be completely detached from the people we’d come to know. The volunteer handbook advised not to form attachments to people, more for their sake than ours. Despite the circumstances and the heartbreaking stories I’d been told, I thought I’d done a fairly good job. Over the years, I’d become quite adept at compartmentalising my thoughts and feelings.
One evening during food service in the big factory, I suddenly became overwhelmed with emotion. I had no idea where it came from – there had been no incident or conversation that led up to this. It just hit me like a ton of bricks. Again, following the advice from the volunteer handbook (keep emotions in check), I made my excuses to my fellow volunteer and walked out of the factory to the empty street outside. I sat on the pavement and began to sob uncontrollably. I cried as though a lifetime’s worth of pain and sorrow had been bottled up inside and was now erupting from every pore. As much as I tried to gather myself, the tears wouldn’t stop flowing.
Before I had a chance to sort myself out, two of the Family of Ten came out of the factory and knelt on the edge of the pavement. They didn’t speak, they just sat with me with a concerned look on their faces. Soon after, the rest of the family, followed by the coordinator, joined me on the floor. I was mortified. I was offered a tissue, an arm around my shoulder and genuine concern. CONCERN FOR ME! This was embarrassing. As I tried to gather myself, ‘B’, who was sitting on the floor facing me, took my hand and said, “Please don’t cry. I haven’t seen my wife and children for so long. If you cry, I will cry.”
That was a reality check. I felt even more pathetic at that point. The coordinator told me not to worry – the situation got to everyone at one point or another.
As I approached my final day with the charity, we learned that 16 people had made it onto the ferries the night before. Having read about the brutal treatment of asylum seekers in Italy, I wondered if their lives were to become even more challenging than they had been so far. That week, we knew some men had gone to Athens or other parts of Greece. Others decided to make their way back home after giving up all hope.
How do we even begin to reconcile such injustice? That something as simple as the place we’re born can define the course of our entire lives. We can’t choose where we begin in life, but I believe that we can choose to respond with compassion and refuse to look away.
Foodkind is a small charity set up by Deirdre McLeod and Luath Glendinning, who met each other whilst volunteering in Chios. You can read further here:https://www.foodkind.org/about-us
