This wonderful text by Jonas Hackethal about our pilgrimage to Greece/Piräus and a refugee camp has been written seven years afterwards. Don’t miss it! After nine years we have met again two days ago. I have invited him for a meal in Poppelsdorf on the occasion of his excellently completed study of geography. Now we are friends and will give at least one public reading in fall. I also plan a public talk about Auschwitz and a mixed one with all who have made a pilgrimage together with me: To Lampedusa, Sicily, Bosnia, Piräus, and Auschwitz. There have also been one-day pilgrimages.

Whoever likes to join our small vivid group is heartily invited to do so.

 

Piräus

At the beginning of summer 2016, I moved to Bonn with my mum – I had just finished my A-levels and didn’t yet know what to do with myself. Accordingly, the days flowed into each other one after the other, I had no work, no obligations and spent my time at home on the PC or travelling with my friends, many of whom were also in the same weightlessness. I don’t remember exactly how I ended up in Greece. At some point, my mum told me about a friend of hers who was planning to meet up with a group of Buddhists in Greece to help in a refugee camp in the port of Athens or something like that. The friend’s name was Monika and she was looking for someone to go with her. I decided to answer ‚yes‘ to the question of whether I would come along. It gave me the feeling that I was doing something worthwhile. Of course, I had also heard about the „refugee crisis“ that was taking place at the time; there were constant reports in the media about people travelling from the region around Syria towards Europe to escape the war. I had relatively little idea about the political situation, which hasn’t changed to this day. I don’t like to base my reality on information from the media. This makes me dependent on what I am knowingly or unknowingly told or not told. I can’t and don’t want to form an opinion from this incomplete mosaic, why should I? The fact was that people left their homeland behind because they could no longer live there in safety and were prepared to take great risks in the hope of a better life. Europe, and Germany in particular, was often the destination for refugees, as the hope of safety and good living conditions was a lure.

I deliberately had no expectations of what was to come and just let myself enjoy the experience. I remember arriving at Athens airport late in the evening. We were tired and looked for the right bus in the dark to get to our hotel where we would spend the first night. The bus journey was like a dream, everything seemed strange, unreal and empty in the orange-lit night. Our room was strange, it was located next to a large ventilation shaft that ran through the centre of the building and could be seen through the only window in the room. After a warm night, we set off to our accommodation for the rest of our stay the next days. This was in Piraeus, the harbour region of Athens. Petra, the organiser of the whole thing, had rented a small flat to accommodate the volunteers in our group. As Monika didn’t have much experience with technology and (to this day) is quickly overwhelmed by it, I took over the navigation to the flat. I didn’t have a degree in geography at the time, so maybe that’s why I initially steered us in the wrong direction. In any case, it was damn hot and the diversions were exhausting as we had to carry our luggage around with us. At this point I should perhaps mention that Monika was already around 60 years old, but whinged like a child. Instead of an ice cream, she wanted a taxi. I took one of her rucksacks from her and we eventually made it to the flat on foot. Here we also met the other people in the group who call themselves the Peacemakers.

Petra had been there for weeks or months. There was also an American woman with whom I got on well and on whom I enthusiastically tested my English skills. Over the course of the ten days we were there, other people joined us and the American left after a few days. As a newcomer, I quickly realised how exhausted they were. They seemed tired and worn out, which I could understand more and more over the next few days. The next morning, we all walked together to the camp in the harbour, which was about three quarters of an hour’s walk away. The part of Athens where our flat was located, which is dusty and dry in summer, wasn’t particularly nice, but there was still a lot going on in the immediate vicinity of the harbour, as cruise ships and ferries left from here. The last quarter of an hour of the walk was right through the harbour, alongside the big ships and the water. It was particularly hot here, as there were no buildings to provide shade and the sun was beating down on the large, dark tarmac surfaces. I don’t remember how I had imagined the camp beforehand, but it was certainly nothing like what I found there in the harbour between the concrete and the water in the open air. The camp was situated between a huge ship, which lay in the water on the left, and on the right an elevated motorway, which was busy day and night. Over the next week, a large, emptylooking brown harbour building painted with graffiti in the shape of a large octopus would serve as a stopping point at the end of the road.

After bumping into a group of policemen who checked our IDs, we were already in the camp. This consisted of a kind of mediumsized warehouse, behind which a few porta-potties could be found. To the left and in front of the warehouse was an open area where children were playing. To the right were lots of tents lining the building towards the street. There was a large junction where there were many green and grey tents, but others were spread out in smaller groups. But all the tents had one thing in common: they stood directly on the tarmac, padded with thin blankets. There was hardly any shade, except under the motorway and directly in the warehouse. I don’t remember exactly how many people were in the camp, but there were probably around 200-300 people. Some people were walking around wearing yellow safety waistcoats, showing that they belonged to various aid organisations.

The two women, who had been already there for a while, briefly explained to us, what was where, then set off into the crowd of the tent. Monika also decided to just set off and direct herself into the hustle and bustle. I didn’t know what to do, so I went to the warehouse first and decided to make myself useful there. The building was divided into two halls, with people living in one area and sanitary facilities in a miserable state. In the other area, various things were stored and a hot meal was cooked every day; I think the money for the food came from donations. The entrance to the camp and the makeshift kitchen was narrowed by a corrugated iron sheet, was guarded and was always besieged by children. Most of the volunteers went in and out here, but a few refugees also helped out every day and were let in. As someone told me later, the entrance was guarded because there were thefts from time to time. The kitchen consisted of a few tables set up next to each other, on which helpers like me cut vegetables and other items, which were then processed. The whole thing was coordinated by two cooks, young men in their thirties, who directed numerous people from different countries and of different ages in the room, who helped prepare the food every day. I don’t know who organised the whole thing, where the food came from and the equipment, but somehow it worked.

Towards mid-morning, while we chatted, we began to cut vast quantities of onions, tomatoes, courgettes, cucumbers and more with blunt little kitchen knives in the dim light of the relatively cool warehouse. Some of the helpers had been there for some time, which was evident from the fact that they knew others by name, both other helpers and refugees. There was always a good, bustling atmosphere, like a bee’s nest. Everyone did what they had to do, lent a hand where it was needed and to the food on the table by lunchtime. After 3-4 hours, the food was then filled into plastic containers, similar to getting chips to-go. The food was then distributed from the back of a car. This was the first time I came into contact with the reality of the refugees. After the good atmosphere in the kitchen, I was surprised by the crowds and the loud shouts of people waiting for the food. Some helpers and refugees tried to organise the hungry masses into a queue to keep order. This was only possible thanks to the presence of some strong young men who were able to assert themselves physically. I can’t remember what I did for the rest of the day. I stuck to the other helpers because I didn’t know what to do. I helped in the kitchen for a few hours at lunchtime, then I observed, chatted to other helpers and refugees who could speak English and made myself useful wherever I could. Monika kept coming round surrounded by children or with women and had found her own task: To make contact with people and lend them an ear. I myself was too insecure to actively make contact on my own. I didn’t know how approach the refugees, to help them, I was afraid of asking the wrong questions or broaching topics that were too sensitive. That’s why I stayed in the kitchen for the time being, where I knew how I could help and was proud in a way to be doing something that I felt was very important: helping to a hot meal on the table. In the afternoons, I met up with Monika and the other two from our Peacemaker group in the open space in front of the warehouse and we walked home together. Sometimes with the whole group, but sometimes just the two or three of us.

The first few days passed like this until I gradually made contact with some families through my travelling companions. Monika and I had particularly good contact with a Syrian family who had built a small ring of 3-4 tents. I don’t remember everyone, but the father, the mother, their two children Nour and Ali and another man have stayed in my memory. The mother was always a bit reserved, but I think Monika had a good relationship with her. The father always had a somewhat snivelling look, but did his best as a host by offering us tea and shisha, entertaining us with his broken German and English, or playing cards with us. Daughter Nour was a bright young girl who really should go to the school she kept dreaming about. Likewise the son Ali, who quickly chose me as his carer and spent a lot of time at my side, although apart from a few words, we could only communicate with our hands and feet. The other man, whose name I can no longer remember, had a physical disability that made him look much younger than he actually was. I remember how he showed me his ID to prove that he already was thirty years old. Before that, I didn’t want to believe that he was older than sixteen. The relationship gradually got closer, which is why I was in the kitchen less often and spent more of the day with the family. The reason for this was also the following situation: after serving dinner, the family had lunch, but the father didn’t want anything and preferred to lie down. When I asked him in astonishment why he didn’t want to eat, he replied that the food wasn’t good for him and didn’t taste good. It was only then that I realised that we weren’t cooking a great meal in the camp kitchen that the refugees were looking forward to. Almost every day there was some kind of bread or flatbread with salad and some fried vegetables, sometimes rice or falafel. I was a little ashamed to have been proud to prepare this simple meal before. Of course, the refugees were happy to get something to eat. But they were also very frustrated with the situation and with having to eat a slightly different version of the same meal every day, which was often too small. Above all, however, they had no choice.
I initially found it difficult to engage with the family, as I was constantly plagued by insecurities and couldn’t get the image of myself as a helper and them as refugees out of my head. I remember how Petra, who had introduced Monika and me to the family, simply spent several hours with the family every day. Petra just sat there and talked to the people, laughed and was honest in her dealings with them. This made me realise what was actually important here, and that was not to prepare food for the people, but to be there for them, to listen and to show them that they are not alone. The only thing that mattered here was the interpersonal relationships. We stayed longer in the camp in the evenings, played cards, talked and told each other about the countries we came from, talked about the situation in the camp and I learnt a lot about their past, hopes and fears.

Just as the density of people and thin tent walls meant that there was a lack of physical barriers and therefore privacy for the people in the camp, the personal barriers between the people I went to camp with, day after day, and those, I met there, were also broken down for me. The dialogue between us became more honest and cordial, even though we hardly knew each other. At the same time, like the refugees, I felt surrounded by external barriers that prevented me from being anywhere else mentally than in the refugee camp and with the people I had met there. This took up all my mental capacity, nothing else existed. The difference was that for me the barriers were only in my head, I knew that in a few days I would be back on the plane on my way home, and back in my everyday life, the barriers would gradually crumble until they ceased to exist.

The people in the camp were not allowed to do that.

Every evening we would fall onto our sleeping mats next to each other in the cramped flat, sleep badly from the heat and our thoughts spinning, and yet get up the next morning and drag ourselves back to the camp, still ready from the day before. At the same time, all the refugees couldn’t leave the camp, were tied up and hid from the sun in their tents during the day, only to sleep at night between cruise ships and the motorway, separated from the asphalt only by a thin blanket.

Nevertheless, we got together again, played cards again, listened to each other again, drank tea again, had a good time together again.

This also created a certain normality for us within this strange place, which only shattered into a thousand pieces in the evening when we left the camp and often walked home in silence. I remember how Monika once stumbled on the way home and banged her knee. She just sat there and cried. Not because of the physical pain, but because she simply had no strength left. We were mentally and physically exhausted, reminded every day anew of how abstruse the situation was in which we and the refugees found ourselves. I sat down with her, we hugged and she told me about things in her life that were bothering her. We talked a lot about the time we spent together in Athens, our experiences and impressions, both good and bad. But we also exchanged a lot of personal information, as interpersonal relationships became increasingly important here too.

One evening, towards the end of our time in Athens, we were still playing cards and chatting with Nour and Ali’s family when one of them suggested that Petra and I could spend the night with them. I was a little unsure, but in the end Petra and I decided to accept the invitation, which in retrospect I’m glad we did. It gave me experiences that I won’t forget for the rest of my life. When it got dark, some boys and men started playing football in the open space in front of the warehouse, so me and Ali joined in. Flanked by a giant ship and drenched in sweat, we played on the tarmac in the twilight until it got too dark. We constantly had to be careful that the ball didn’t roll into the harbour water, because we wouldn’t have been able to get it out again. There were children and adults around us, watching the whole thing, chatting and laughing. There was the kind of atmosphere I remember from beautiful summer evenings, when you meet up with friends and wait for the night to come so you can finally feel a cool breeze on your face. I didn’t realise it at the time, as I was simply taking part in life at the camp, but in retrospect I realised that the feeling I associate with this situation could have happened anywhere. That is why it is of particular importance to me, it showed me that a bond can be created anywhere, regardless of the conditions. It doesn’t take much, in this case it was just an old football that brought us together in our humanity despite all our differences in origin, language and culture and allowed spectators and fellow players to forget their worries and hardships for a moment.

I spent the night in a tent with Ali, who didn’t leave my side the whole evening. Before we went to bed, I had to pee and Ali took me to the warehouse where the toilets were located. I remember groping tiredly through the hall, where mainly families with young children were sleeping. In the toilets, which were lit by bright neon lights, the floor was covered in a thin layer of water and the state everything was in made me feel uncomfortable. I hurried off and we went back to the tent. The next morning, I would have liked to tell the others that I had slept well. But the ground was hard, I only slept separated from the tarmac by two thin blankets, and loud shouts, snoring or other noises were constantly coming from some corner of the camp. I didn’t have to fool anyone, everyone knew that I had slept badly and I also knew now that no one here slept well. Unlike me, the people around me didn’t just have the noises, heat and uncomfortable sleeping places to keep them awake. They carried memories and traumas from the war and the escape, had worries about their relatives and their own future and had no way of influencing their situation. I probably can’t imagine how badly they slept every night. Nevertheless, their supplies of tea and food were shared with us again the next morning, the playing cards were taken out and a new day began.

My time in Athens was seven years ago now, but I keep thinking back to situations from those long and yet quite short ten days, especially the ones I have described here. For a few more years, I took part in meetings between refugees and students that took place weekly in a café.
I got to know many nice people and had the opportunity to support and accompany some of them on their way to a new life. I also heard many other stories about difficult escapes and tough experiences. Over time, however, new things came up for me, such as my studies and a semester abroad, which meant that these encounters slowly diminished and eventually fizzled . The duality of beautiful moments and harsh reality that one encounters in contact with refugees has not let go of me on the one hand, but has also burdened me on the other. The mental and temporal distance from my experiences with refugees is good for me in a way, as the contact often went hand in hand with a sense of obligation to help the people, even if I actually had less and less strength to do so. This also lifted a burden from my shoulders that I didn’t even realise was there. My experiences have shaped me and I am glad to have had them, even if it often took some effort to do them. Since Athens, there have been moments from time to time, triggered by the media attention on new refugee movements, among other things, when I have considered embarking on a similar journey again. So far, I haven’t acted on these thoughts, but I think the time will come when I’m ready to do it again.

I learnt from Monika that the family we met in Piraeus has made it to Germany. Nour is probably in the process of completing her A-levels and Ali is working a lot to earn money. I hope they are doing well.