Amid the hills full of olive trees and the beautiful coastline of Lesvos, lies an often forgotten reality:  Mavrovouni refugee camp. During my stay, between 5,000 and 6,000 people were staying here in barely bearable conditions. People in the camp are mostly waiting to be able to leave, to be transferred to the mainland. But it is uncertain when this will happen. Every day is dominated by the question of when their asylum procedure will continue and the uncertainty of how their fate will turn out. Sleeplessness, twists of thought, comparisons with other people who can move on, searching for reasons and explanations. Hardly anyone establishes a daily routine,  because the camp is a place of transition between moving on and returning. It is impossible to say exactly how long people have to wait on average: roughly between a month and several years.

Between 11am and 3pm, people stand in noisy, crowded lines to collect their daily portion of food. Every time, there are loud discussions and sometimes conflicts as people have to wait in line for hours to get something to eat. Many can hardly bear the long hours of standing and waiting because they have injuries or other physical complaints, or because they have to leave their children in their tents. Some are so traumatised that they cannot bear the noise level and confined space in the line. What awaits them is hardly a compensation for their time in the line: the food is not nutritious or filling. I tasted the food: a small box of overcooked pasta or rice, maybe five or six peas, served with a sticky flatbread. Sometimes a banana or an orange. I am not surprised that people here get sick so often.

‘I think I am crazy’, ‘I am sick’ – these thoughts haunt almost everyone who visits our clinic. Nightmares, sleep problems, tension, irritability, headaches, memories of the past, fear of the future. Shame plays a big role in this. We often explain that these symptoms are a normal reaction to a situation that is anything but normal. That they are not crazy and, above all, that they are not alone. It is as if a heavy burden falls off their shoulders when they hear that their reactions are understandable and human.

We also provide psycho-education on stress and exercises to deal with it. One Friday, I sat in front of fourteen men from Eritrea. They follow our instructions with big eyes and then burst into laughter. We laugh together. They have no idea what they have gotten themselves into. And we understand – we, with our European techniques. After we explain why we do this and how absurd it might seem, they want to try it. At the end of the session, they are grateful. Maybe for the relaxation techniques over tea and biscuits or just for this safe space where there is peace and community.

During consultations and group sessions, it is not about discussing the various traumas and, of course, we never ask about them out of curiosity. However, it is not uncommon for people to talk about it. I speak with a woman from Sudan who was abducted at the age of 13 and survived genital mutilation. I see the Afghan family whose father was murdered and whose lifeless body was dumped in front of their house. In front of me sits the Eritrean woman who was held for eight months when she fled to Turkey and endured gang rape almost daily. Some of the other traumas experienced by my patients are beyond imagination. I have deleted them from this text: they describe a cruelty that sounds almost unreal.

Sometimes it gets to me: how do people in the camp still manage to be polite, smile at me and crack a joke? Their strength is impressive. None of them wants to leave their country because it is nicer somewhere else. People leave their country because they have to. Every time I am filled with enormous respect and humility when I speak to them: one day they packed their most important belongings and started walking – away from where they lived. Leaving family and loved ones behind. With a backpack and their baby, not knowing what awaits them. Fear and traumatic experiences do not stay at home, but are constant companions along the way: violence at the border, violence along the way, thirst, hunger, insecurity, illness, loss. 

My time on Lesvos is coming to an end and I am starting to think about how I want to spend my three free weeks before going back to work. The possibilities suddenly seem endless: Another volunteer assignment on a rescue boat? Travel by bus and train back through the Balkans? Maybe do a language course? Or just spend time with family and friends? Wow, I have a choice! I am free to go wherever I want. The freedom feels overwhelming, but at the same time the contrast paralyses me. The people in the camp have no choice. No choice to stay in their country. No choice to just move on. They cannot pursue their own desires. 

We offer them a safe space. A space where they are seen as people. A space where someone takes the time, thinks of you, listens to you. Someone who makes an effort, is there, offers relief and tries to initiate very small changes. Even if it sometimes seems like a drop in the ocean.

For many people, meetings during consultations are a counterbalance to the camp atmosphere and their experiences before and during their flight. Answering their ‘thank you’ at the end with ‘you’re welcome’ feels wrong. ‘Thank you for the trust, for telling your story’, seems more appropriate after all that people have been through.

Kathrin’s experience describes why it is so important to treat people as human beings and really see each other. The care we provide is essential and vital. Support helping people on the move, because only together we make a difference. Would you like to contribute to our work? Donate here! Do you want to become a volunteer too? Click here for our vacancies!