”Here is the world of moving statues. Here is the world of ghosts”
Yes, everyone is alive, but without a soul, without a purpose,
without the energy of inspiration and desire that animates all life.
Their only wish is to cross Greece’s frontier and reach another
European country. There is no light of hope here, and we are all
fading away. Here, the day is lived waiting for the night and the
night waiting for the morning.
Here, the pregnant women end the last days of their pregnancy in
regret, in repentance. They are beset by compunction for their
children's future and dread that their new-born babies will have the
same fate as themselves. They pray that their babies will not have
the same experience and, with these thoughts and fears, they
blame themselves for carrying these babies in their wombs.
Here, babies are born in the ambulance, in prefabricated houses
or in containers. Their umbilical cord is not cut by a doctor, but by
the crude blade of a midwife. The blood is wasting for hours, and
in this traditional world, the baby who is born in the darkness of the
night is called star-crossed.
Here, children are born, grow up, and pass the most decisive
years of their life among metal containers and prefabricated
houses, where every day is the same, an endless repetition, with
no variety, no learning, no schooling. They all suffer from abject
neglect.
Here, some girls get so lonely and so desperate that they even
consider suicide. Sometimes, in their terrible loneliness, they lose
their better judgement and trust any poisonous person around
them. Yet, it all starts when the bonds of the families break down.
The parents blame their sons and daughters for their behavior and
they, in turn, blame their parents for their condition. For it was the
parents who decided to leave their country and home and become
refugees. The fact is, of course, that those poor parents could
never imagine what their life would be like, once they crossed the
borders and reached Europe. The generations do not understand
each other, each lost in its own pains.
Here, the young boys resort to alcohol, as the only way to reduce
the stress they are suffering. And when alcohol fails to alleviate
their stress, they start using drugs, which come to them from
different people's hands.
Here, people are like rings in infectious chains. It is enough that
one thing be used by one person and it will be used by many
others. It suffices that one boy smokes for others to start to smoke
too.
Independently of their age, young boys and old men alike have but
one goal: find the money, not for food, but to pay traffickers to help
them cross illegal borders.
Self organized businesses, mini markets and shops are the main
activities to keep themselves busy and earn money – money which
is the only means to try to move on to some other more hospitable
place.
Here, the family units are broken easily and the crude promises
from the authorities make this easier. For example, they say that
those who get divorced, can find safe shelter. What they do not
mention, however, is how long the shelter will be available and all
the consequences that will fall upon them again.
Here, during the night, safety for adult kin refugees is to walk in the
camp together, one the guardian of the other. Here, safety means
to have the police, even though they do not intervene even when
the conditions give way to chaos. But if there is talk about a sword,
a knife, a stack of things, the secret polices appears immediately.
Here, life for the ones who do not want to become addicted, waste
their life, or change the direction of their life, is to be fast, clever,
careful, go along with the many, but, in reality, stay alone with
his/herself.
Here, people prefer to lock themselves at home, not only because
they are afraid they may get infected by the corona virus, but also
because they are afraid of getting infected by many poisonous
people.
Here, there are women who cannot come out of their houses in the
absence of their male kin. The door is locked on them and even
when they are facing violence they should hide their pains, they
should not refer the violence even to the doctor. They should put
their hands on their mouths, in order to prevent other people from
becoming aware of their condition. The fact is that they all know
the end of this line, they know that a place called “safe house”, is
not safe for a long time. Neither is there a safe fate for their
children.
Here times are reversed for all, night is day and day is night.
Here people's lives are inverted. Here peace and quite are only
apparent. Underneath this appearance, there is chaos everywhere.
Traditions and customs are suffocating for all.
Here, the safe way of raising a voice is found in the writings of a
young girl. She is writing about the black and white world of the
inhabitants of the Ritsona refugee camp, their lives lived like
moving statues. Her sharp pen carves the blank pages of her
notebook with her words. Yet, she is hoping for something else.
She is hoping to write about her dreams, not the pains around
herself.
I am that young girl. Yes, I am trying to live, not to become a
moving statue, not to be repressed, not to be confronted by the
next generation's questions, asking why I did not act.
We are changed by authorities, those who are preventing us from
thinking, speaking up, acting in order to keep our dignity, respect
and honor.