Harbour Duty 12 November

I gave a little talk over Skype to RTL, on Dutch TV. Not sure if I said the right things or looked into the camera. I tried to emphasize the positives, especially the tireless, incredible work being done by the Greek fishermen.

Decided to enjoy the sunshine and had a little walk. On the road I met Starfish volunteer B, a former teacher, coming back from shopping. He and his wife had been for a cruise in the summer and their ship had encountered a refugee boat in trouble and turned back to provide assistance. B had been appalled by some of the comments made by fellow passengers, many of whom were annoyed by the unanticipated delay. Some said, “Oh, they’re probably terrorists, why don’t we just leave them there!” But the people who made B really lose his temper were those who were delighted with the opportunity to take photos, especially when more refugee boats started appearing around them. “Now we can show that we saw them!” they enthused. After returning home, B had felt restless and decided he simply couldn’t stand to watch the images on TV any more. He had to help, and fortunately his wife encouraged him to come. Many of the people who work here have similar stories. They suddenly realized it was not necessary for them to stay at home, read and watch. They could come and help. They contacted Starfish, paid for their own transport and accommodation if they could afford to, got sponsoring if they couldn’t, and joined the relief effort. Almost all the help provided to the thousands of refugees who arrive here relies on volunteers who have made that decision. It’s nice that the UNHCR gave us a big tent for Oxy, and lots of blankets. Pity they can’t give us any people.

Then I met three Americans who said they were running the operation at Skala Sikamineas, further along the coast from Eftalou, where they have their own camp, similar to Oxy. I look forward to going there to see how they do things.

We were assigned to harbor duty and sandwiches. On the way to the harbor we encountered a Dutch media man arranging his broadcast with someone on the phone. I walked two paces behind him, hoping to find out what outfit he was with, but my hovering started looking like stalking and I had to give up.

G made hundreds of sandwiches, and I sat at the harbor on call in case a boat was brought in by the coastguard. If so, it was our task to register the refugees (since these people would be technically “under arrest”) and take them to the football field, from which a bus would take them straight to Mytilene instead of to Oxy.

I sat with the witty, earnest American doctor P and an incoherent though sporadically razor-sharp Irishman who drank and smoked non-stop all day. Our absurd chatter spiraled into mad ranting and I was again reminded of my hippie days at Milky Way in the 1970s. I did not drink, though, mindful of the fact that I was on duty.

At 8 pm we got a call that two boats were on their way. I put my rucksack upstairs in the office at Captains Table, and got ready to do my first registration. Then I realized I had left my head lamp upstairs and went to get it, since I would be sitting on the jetty with my registration forms in the pitch dark.

When the coastguard finally arrived, there were only eight men. This would be an easy initiation into registration, I thought. First, find someone who speaks a little English. Luckily, someone did. Then register for each man his first and last name, father’s name, mother’s name, nationality, sex, and date of birth. First man: all plain sailing, until we got to date of birth. Birth? “When you were born … when your life began … you were a baby…. Beginning of life …. Birthday…”

“Twenty-seven” said the interpreter, pointing to the man I was trying to register. Finally the other volunteer with me, K, pointed out that these men, who were all Afghan, use a different calendar and had no idea of their birth year in our calendar. Stupid of me not to have thought of that. After that we managed to get months, days and age, and calculated the year on that basis.

All the men were terribly hungry and exhausted, having waited in the woods in Turkey, like so many, for the moment they could board a boat. They had not slept for three days. O and K gave them dry clothes, a little food, and then started arranging for one man who needed a dentist. Meanwhile, I took the registration form to the port police, where three officers sat at their desks. I handed over the form with the eight names.

“Take them to Oxy,” said the officer.

“But they were brought in by the coastguard,” I said, puzzled.

“Oxy, Oxy,” said the officer. “I will tell Melinda”. And he phoned Melinda at Captains Table, two doors away.

I went back to Captains Table and said to Melinda, “they say the men have to go to Oxy.”

“I know,” she said, “it’s not right, but ….”

We eventually found a volunteer who had a car big enough to take all eight men, and they were taken to Oxy for their first night’s sleep in Europe.