Horst Kleinschmidt on refugee tragedy
THE painting holiday that brought us to Lesvos, Greece, was planned more than a year ago. Christine belongs to a group of Cape Town artists tutored by Anastasia Sarantinou, the founder of Blue Planet, a gallery and school in Muizenberg. Artist friends from the UK and Stockholm joined the group on the idyllic island. So did I.
The island is home to Anastasia’s extended family, who offered us their beach chalets. Tsonia is a coastal village on the eastern side of the island. In places, it is only 5km across the sea to Turkey. Peter, Anastasia’s father, explains that his parents came here as refugees from “Asia Minor”, today Turkey. In 1923, the treaty of Lausanne determined that 400 000 Greeks had to leave Asia Minor and settle on Aegean islands. This was the result of misguided Greek expansionism when, after World War I, a war against Turkey was continued. To keep foes apart, 150 000 Turks were moved from the Aegean islands and settled in places the Greeks had vacated.
Peter, now in his mid-seventies, came to South Africa as a migrant after World War II caused dislocation and poverty in Greece as elsewhere.
I share with you selected and slightly edited observations from my journal entries on our fortnight in Lesvos:
Here in the cradle of intellectual discourse they are relaxed and philosophical when they talk about the future. “We’ve got sunshine and tomatoes…” they say, wryly. When we get the bus from Athens airport to Piraeus, the day after the resounding “oxi” (no) vote, the bus driver of the X96 beckons us to get on. We want to pay the Euro 5 fare but he is not interested. The man next to us helps us, in English: There is a problem. It’s not clear whether we are in a Euro or Drachma economy; so, it’s free! Even for tourists? Yes.
On the hour-long bus journey, the retired engineer tells us: “We know we owe the money and we know equally we should not allow our government to make scandalous loans ever again, loans that led to the unprecedented economic crises Greece finds itself in.
“Don’t shoehorn us into behaving and living like the Germans want to live. Our culture and our means to produce are very different. We will pay, but not under their conditions.”
Peter Sarantinou tells us that most of his family here are disenchanted with the German attitude about the EU’s conditions for repayment of Greek loans. We agree wholeheartedly. We left home nearly 40 hours ago. The last stretch is the ferry from Piraeus to Mytelini. A taxi driver waits for us at the port, the biggest town on Lesvos. He speaks no English and despite it being 1.30 in the morning, he is helpful and tries to impart information.
We are still within the harbour precinct when he stops and points to a series of small tents and rows of people lying on a ledge.
Regarding Syria, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Eritrea, Somalia and the like, he keeps repeating, in English, “Big problem!”
Our attention is diverted to the ruins of ancient buildings – dating from Ottoman, Greek and earlier periods. All that is lit up evokes a relaxed, Mediterranean seaside place we know from postcards. There are also endless empty buildings, seemingly built less than 10 years ago. Evidence of a collapsed economy built on IMF, World Bank, Lehman and other megalomaniac loan crimes that have left a trail of destruction.
Our driver gesticulates for the next dark hour, mostly pointing to the rows of people sleeping next to the roadside, and he repeats the words, “Syria, Afghanistan”. He points to the lights across the water on our right. Turkey, it seems, can be reached by rowing boat. The Syrians have crossed Turkey at least. The Afghanis have crossed many more countries. He stops his car and punches a number on the screen of his cellphone for us to see – 500 – the number of people crossing to this island each night. “Big problem.”
For the rest of the journey we see people huddled together, wrapped in blankets, and seeking to sleep. That’s not all. We make out rows of people walking single file, heading to the island’s capital. The front and the last person hold lanterns, so passing motorists can see them. As we pass villages, there are more people sleeping in bus shelters and shop entrances.
Our driver explains: The police have told them that no passport means no bus, no taxi, even if they want to pay. (The majority appear to have passports but to be branded a refugee is an irremovable stamp.) Hence, they walk to Mytilini, a journey that can take several days. There, they will be “processed” and taken onward to Athens and then sent to whichever EU country will have them. We feel awkward and uncomfortable to come and have a holiday in a place where there is so much misery.
In two places, we see figures lying across most of the road. This suggests silent anger and wanting to be noticed. Our driver swerves to avoid them and expresses a third English word, “stupid!” The displaced need help, much more help than they get here and in what lies ahead.
Most are young men, but there are women and children, several toddlers. A few are limping; some seem injured or are crippled. The next morning, after we have reached Tsonia, Peter tells us that these refugees have caused no social problems; no theft, no demonstrations, no rape. These people have money and purchase food from local shops. They are educated, professional and seemingly middle class. A majority are Muslim. There is no communication as locals and the transiting refugee silently pass each other.
From Tsonia you see the Turkish lights at night. Over on the Turkish side are the killing fields of Gallipoli – the shore where Australian and New Zealand fought Turkish soldiers exactly 100 years ago, in what is today viewed as a futile battle. Close to half-a-million lives were involved in the battle. Now the forests there shelter 1.4 million refugees from Syria and elsewhere.
A hike to the nearby hamlet of Clio brings suffering and tragedy into focus again. On a stony town square lie 10 bodies. Eight men and two women arrived by rubber dingy during the night. They scrambled ashore, found a road, found Clio. They have no luggage. Exhausted, in neat but dirty clothes, they sleep in the town square. They ignore the local bustle and locals seem to ignore their presence.
When Anton and I take another hike along the rocky shoreline we come across scores of life vests, several wrecked inflatable boats, pairs of shoes, rucksacks with neatly packed clothes, packets of cigarettes with Turkish rather than Greek writing on them. Human tragedy is imprinted wherever we walk. We find life vests of babies and children. And shotgun casings! Could there be local vigilantes wanting to deter the refugees from landing? We don’t see the refugees but get overwhelmed at the thought we may stumble upon a lifeless body or bodies. Fortunately, we are spared such experience.
To avoid being turned away, the boats, at night, head for dark and uninhabited parts. Those who trade in this human cargo leave their charges scrambling through water and rocks. Then they abandon the life vests and hurry to the high ground. We try to imagine what went on in their minds – just hours before we are here. Besides fear and uncertainty, might some have felt victorious at finally having breached bastion Europe’s border?
Anchen and Tom in our group have a hire car. On a rough coastal road, they come across scores of people who have just made it across the sea from Turkey, in broad daylight. Anchen and Tom offer them what water they have in the car.
Then they see more people. Our friends do several trips buying bottled water and take it to the new arrivals. One man asks if they can take his children to a place – any place with some shade. When Anchen and Tom return that evening they are upset and feel this is not a time and place to have a holiday.
I have occasion to meet someone from Mytelini University. I ask: what of the students? Are they coming to help the refugees in any way? The answer is not affirmative. And the Greek Orthodox Church? No, no help or relief either.
Wherever we go during our twoweek holiday, refugees line the roads, seeking lifts. On the road to the ferry to take us back from Mytilini to Athens, more tragedy stares at us. Mytelini has its own statue of liberty, not as large as the American one but big none-the-less. Incongruously, refugees and their tents and washing and fires to make food, surround Liberty.
The purser on the ferry tells us that every night they take 1 500 refugees to Athens. “It’s not easy for them and it’s not easy for us,” he says. The back decks are packed. The ablution facilities finally offer the chance of a shower or to wash the few belongings in their backpacks. Others lie, packed in rows, sleeping. Their faces bear evidence of exposure to the exceptionally hot weather conditions. Their worn shoes are further evidence of what they have already been through.
Throughout these are courteous people and quiet, except for the crying babies and toddlers. Many young men have cellphones and take selfies, presumably to send the folks back home a message that they have made it. Well not quite. Until they are granted residence somewhere, in a mostly hostile Europe, they will wait many months yet. Getting the right to work will take even longer.
The image of beach loungers with bronzed bodies in front of passing refugees sticks in my mind. What incongruity! The unseen thousands are having a raw deal.
I don’t only observe suffering refugees. I keep asking: who and what caused this? Don’t we ever learn? Don’t George Bush, Tony Blair, the banksters of New York and the rise of religious fundamentalism of all hues have a lot to answer for?
They are not the only culprits, but they stand out as advocates of a one-dimensional ideology that has destabilised the world. Has globalisation, the export that first came from the US, not pitted a poor world against the rich one?
Syria, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Eritrea, Somalia and the like... they are all big problems