It’s been over two years since I left Lesvos. Two short weeks is taking 2 years to unpack.
Every few months I’ll pull this torn piece of leftover watercolor paper from the stack of stories I brought back with me from a little Island in Greece. I’ll take a look at the scribbles on the page, I’ll scan over the stack of doodles that various children in the camp gave me. I’ll read over the sporadic Arabic translations scattered about bits of newsprint. These notes and drawings are a reminder of those who are continuing to run for freedom and safety.
Piecing together these scattered bits has allowed me to find healing, clarity, and hope during an extremely messy and tragic global trauma that is only escalating day by day. My soul aches.
They are a way for me to physically hold what was, their drawings remind me of what likely still is for far too many. Once I make my way through a few complicated and messy levels of anger, grief, joy, and confusion, I’m left with my watercolors and the memories that I’m still piecing together. This is another attempt out of many, to connect the scattered and horrifying dots that are still floating around in my mind, and weighing on my heart.
News reporters are successful in bringing a small portion of the suffering into the open. They can shed light on a tiny glimpse of the hell that mothers, fathers, young adults, teens, and children like you and me are living in every day. Most photographs in camps are still illegal. Any depiction that comes close to what life in Moria is like is usually quickly removed from the internet.
Since I walked through this tiny and overpopulated camp for only a mere 45 minutes, I know that this mediocre sketch does not even come close to what life on Lesvos looks like for those seeking Asylum. Conditions are ever-changing. Unfavorable at best. In recent days-horrific. While I walked between tarp tents and ISO Boxes, I tried to take it all in. Soaking up the joys and sorrows like a sponge. Bombarded on every side by hundreds of dialects and cultures crammed into a Walmart sized parking lot. This place had been transformed into a tiny village, constructed of flimsy cardboard boxes, tarp tents, and trash can cradles. My brain took snapshots that I will never forget. Some are extremely foggy, and others far too vivid.
I’m furious, and I don’t know what else I can do but share the stories that deserve to be told. Share the laughter and the beauty that I can remember. Beneath all that garbage, underneath all the waterlogged and mud-caked tents, behind the rage of an infuriated Kurdish man who has been told there are no more shoes for him, there lingers the presence of God Himself. He walks among the camp riots. He sits with the pregnant woman who has nowhere to sleep but the olive grove on a cold night.
If He stood amid the fire in the furnace at Babylon, then He must stand sovereign over all the garbage can fires in camps. If he called the children to come to Him, then he is with the child who is playing with the syringe he found in the dirt. Even if that seems absurd. Even if it seems like God is hiding from the hurt that is being broadcasted on every news station, and every nonprofit Instagram story. I have to believe that He too is sledding down hills on trashcan lids with toddlers. I have to believe that He is drinking chai with the family that just arrived from Lebanon last week. I have to believe that He walks among us, regardless of where we’ve come from, where we are going, or what we have seen because trying to make sense of this on my own simply will not happen.
The colors, images, and script have all been a way for me to mourn with the hurting community that now occupies a significant chunk of my heart. Hurting people want someone to cry with them. They want to be seen and heard. Humanity cannot be determined by borders and language barriers. When we struggle to understand, empathy and understanding can and must stand in the gaps.
Illustrated Arabic Phrases:
ماما – Mama - Mama
بابا – “Baba” – Papa
شمس- “Shams”- Sun
أمل-“amal”- Hope
فرح-“farih” – Joy
دفء – “dif’” Warmth
خسارة – Kasara-Loss