In 2001, I relocated to Lesbos. This was nearly 80 years after my grandmother had arrived from Ayvalik on this same island as a nine-year-old refugee. Before moving to Piraeus, she spent two years there. In the 1920s, nearly 1.5 million Greeks were forced to flee Asia Minor.
By 2001, the history of Lesbos as a place of refuge had been almost forgotten by the public, and yet the island continued to serve as a temporary stop for people crossing the Eastern Mediterranean, seeking protection in Europe.
Lesbos once more found itself at the center of a significant refugee story in 2015. Millions of people fought across the sea as a result of wars and instability. Almost half of those trying to reach Greek territory arrived on the island.
Residents of Lesbos found themselves at the center of a global humanitarian effort. Even as the nation was in a crisis of its own, the world began to discuss the hostility shown by Greeks toward refugees and migrants.
When I think of the solidarity that flourished during those days, I see outstretched hands along the shores of Lesbos. Locals volunteered whatever they could, bringing food, clothing, and blankets from their homes to feed and dress the newcomers, according to countless moving tales.
Not a day passed without the locals giving a lift to a pregnant woman, a child, or a disabled person we encountered on the way to work as newly arrived people walked through the island’s streets and toward registration points. The looks of gratitude, the smiles, the tears, and the endless thank-yous were unforgettable. The media was flooded with triumphant tales of humanity and hope as a badge of honor.
The island underwent a transformation, with both locals and newcomers mingling and conversing on the island’s streets and squares.
One day, a refugee family knocked on my door asking to wash their hands and have a little water. They had spent days waiting for a boat to take them on their way, sleeping in the park, and then crossing the road. Eight small children, a newborn, and a paraplegic girl were among the 16 people who entered my door when I opened my door. My small living room filled up, they sat on chairs, the sofa, even on the floor. The adults closed their eyes, their bodies giving in to the weight of their fatigue, while the children had already slept before I could give them water.
I quietly left the room so they could rest. The next morning, they said their goodbyes and boarded the ferry. A hand-drawn flower and 16 names were left behind a “Thank you” note.
People in the rain, people in the cold, people celebrating, and people mourning their deceased come to mind. That summer, we attended burial after burial for those who hadn’t survived the dangerous sea journey.
There’s nothing worse than dying in a foreign land and being buried without your loved ones, once said a Palestinian volunteer. We were present when their loved ones were away. The strangers were not strangers to us, they became our people.
A wooden boat carrying more than 300 people sank off Lesbos’ western coast in October 2015. Humanitarian deeds were visible as the tragedy progressed. Locals and volunteers alike, fishermen included, rushed to help, pulling people from the sea and offering whatever comfort they could. In the days that followed, the morgue became full, and corpses came ashore.
A local woman held a dead child’s body in her arms. It was a little girl whose body had been found on the beach in front of her house. She held her like any other child would hold her, wrapped her in a sheet, and held her.
The shifting tides of European border policies were already beginning to change the reality for those who arrived, even as the island’s shores began to become a symbol of solidarity.
A few months later, Europe’s border policies changed, trapping asylum seekers on the island. As a result of the EU-Turkiye agreement, asylum seekers were required to remain on the island where they detained while Turkiye, which is regarded as a “safe third country,” was ruled out.
The agreement demonstrated that the European Union was prepared to deviate from the fundamental principles of international law and that the safe-third-country concept and border controls were harmful to refugees and migrants’ lives. It represented a frontal attack on international refugee and human rights protections, further instrumentalising people’s suffering.
Unfortunately, these practices have grown since, and eventually became institutionalized at the state level, particularly with the changes to the Common European Asylum System (CEAS) that were approved in May 2024. The reform led to an abrupt change in the EU rulebook, which institutionalized discriminatory treatment of refugees, derogatory regimes, the revocation of fundamental rights and legal protections, and the enforcing of extended and mass detention.
Back on Lesbos, I watched the smiles of people fade, along with their hopes, crushed inside and around the Moria camp, which had emerged in 2013 as a significantly smaller facility, never intended to accommodate the thousands who later stayed there. Refugee and immigrant populations’ mental health suffered significantly as suicide attempts fell.
The abominable conditions, shortages, overcrowding, and extreme uncertainty that increased in the number of people led to a desperate daily reality that produced frustration, anger, and occasionally violence. It was then that the authorities and media began to change the narrative. Refugitive and immigrant refugees no longer appear to be desperate people who immigrate to their homes and endure camps. They are now seen as a threat to the nation.
Solidarity became part of the problem. It turned into a mockery and a public insult. Despite being asked to provide food and services and fill in the never-ending humanitarian gaps, authorities also charged NGOs and volunteers with corruption and criminal activity. Common sense, humanity, and solidarity – the fabric of social cohesion – became targets. The society became disenfranchised.
The memory of this island where humanity once flourished was threatened by xenophobic policies that caused xenophobic headlines, rescuers were persecuted, and more vocal racist voices predominated in public discourse.
The events of 2015 were portrayed as a massive disaster that should never happen again. The solidarity miracle, which brought attention, resources, and solutions to a severe humanitarian crisis, received unfair treatment. The only options were offered: deterrence, pushbacks, refugee camps converted to prisons, and the criminalization of civil society and solidarity. The polarisation deepened, escalating violence against asylum seekers, refugees, and solidarity workers.
The Moria camp turned out to be a ticking time bomb for the island’s residents, making it unconstitutional to call it a graveyard for human rights. Without access to basic necessities like toilets, hygiene, or potable water, it turned into a sizable settlement of tents and shacks at its height.
One afternoon in October 2016, I found myself in Moria, waiting for our interpreter so we could inform a family about their asylum interview date. Dark clouds gathered as time went on. People gathered around me to carry their belongings, and young men threw cardboard and plastic to protect themselves from the upcoming rain. Children played in the dirt there as well.
Standing there in the midst of it all, I watched a struggle for survival in conditions none of us would accept to endure for even an hour. Someone would occasionally approach me and offer to put me on a piece of cardboard to stand on, such as water, tea, or tea. Despite everything, the refugees’ smiles made me feel so secure and cared for, and their humanity remained unwavering.
As the clouds thickened, I moved to help a woman secure her tent with stones. I noticed that the tent was full of young children when I bent down to add a few more. How did a tiny tent accommodate so many children? I admired her courage and determination to protect them. She offered me a meal while I grinned at her and then stood in the middle of nowhere, facing a tent that the rain could easily wash away.
How did such extremes fit into a single moment? The squalor, the inhumanity of the conditions, and yet, the hospitality, the need for one another, and the strength they gave even in the harshest of circumstances. How could one moment capture the stones they used to erect their tents and our shared humanity, as well as need and dignity, desperation and generosity?
I went to the supermarket in the middle of town, where the voices against refugees and migrants were becoming louder. As I was standing in line, the woman in front of me turned to me and complained, “We’re overrun with foreigners. They can be found everywhere. What will happen to them?” She gestured towards a young African woman at the checkout counter.
The other customers grimaced and nodded. As I watched the young refugee woman stack her few items, I considered how to react. She then realised she didn’t have enough money and started to put back the few apples in her basket.
As the scene unfolded, I observed the woman in front of me. I held my breath as she began to shout. Instead, with a decisive motion, she picked up the apples. The young woman looked at her confusedly as she said, “I’ll pay for these, my girl.” Take them, but don’t leave.
The young woman thanked her, hugged her, and left. And I overheard the older woman asking herself, “What can they do?” Who is aware of what they have experienced? But what can we do, too”?
The UN Human Rights, Refugee Support Aegean (RSA), the Greek Council for Refugees (GRC), and PICUM (Platform for International Cooperation on Undocumented Migrants) are the authors of the op-ed, which aims to create a counter-narrative to the criminalization of solidarity.
