Piraeus

Early arrival. I go off in search of the cleared-out refugee camp—“along the wall at the port,” as I’ve read. There are still tents here, of course. It hasn’t been cleared out, even if the press reported that it was. Seven in the morning. All’s quiet. But I do see a few people. A large port facility parking lot with painted markings on the ground and concrete barriers. These attempt to determine a structure. I walk around. The tents. About 100, I think. Beside them an asphalted area with two goal cages made of wood and orange netting. Well done. Football. Quiet still prevails.

A couple of campers are parked here. For the assistance efforts. There’s a paper sign that reads “Doctor” taped to one of them. Things generally seem organized, but the available resources are modest. Alongside the large building there are portable toilets, around 20 of them. And now I see the building’s entrance. It opens onto a whole warehouse full of tents, chock-full of tents. A couple of voices can be heard—but they can’t overcome the morning’s quiet. There’s a strong smell in the air. A bulletin board is covered with sheets of information on how to continue. Where to go—or not to go. In Arabic, in Farsi, and in English. The sun’s coming up. From now on, the outdoor tents will be at the mercy of the day’s heat.

Then I speak with a refugee and ask him how long he’s been at this camp. Two months—too long. He wants to continue on to Italy, where his family is. He knows the route. But he’s still sitting around here. I talk with a volunteer helper, a young man from Romania. “We help with food, chai and love. That’s what we can do.” He gets back to work.

This is one of two refugee camps here in Piraeus. It houses around 1,000 refugees, while the other holds more than 5,000. It provides help, but it wasn’t set up by the state.