I could not hope to touch the sky

I could not hope 

to touch the sky 

with my two arms

-Sappho

We sat in the port under the arm of Mytilene’s Statue of Liberty, two men from Iran, a woman from London, a wayward American and a clumsy little black puppy. The ukulele traded hands and the language of the music changed as often as tiny waves reached the shore near our feet. The puppy toddled between us, alternating her mini naps on each lap as Arash and Hani introduced me to Farsi music. The sun sank below the hills as a baritone voice blended and bent with the sound of the sea. 

Arash’s father was shot and killed in Iran almost twenty years ago. Since then, 32 year old Arash has stood up for the rights of others, such as bricklayers and trafficked sex workers. He has taken part in protests in Iran and he paid a heavy cost for his activism. Convicted of such brilliantly vague crimes as “Insulting the Supreme Leader of Iran,” and “Propaganda against the regime of Iran,” Arash has had his cameras and equipment confiscated, has survived countless beatings and has served multiple jail sentences, the final one lasting nearly three years. 

Photo by Arash Hampay

Arash fled Iran last year with his younger brother Amir, hiding in the forests of Turkey and crossing the sea to get to Greece. “Only forty minutes,” he said of the crossing. He assured me that that was the easy part. Since then he has struggled with the passing of time and the lack of purpose. “I cannot work,” he says as he tells me that his dream is to go to school for photography. Arash carries his camera (and puppy, Googol) everywhere he goes, capturing people’s smiles, triumphs and disappointments in his view finder. His photography tells the story of Lesvos today.

Upon arrival, a refugee applies for asylum and then waits... and waits... and waits some more.  The entire process is a study in inefficiency, inconstancy, and lack of accountability. As fate would have it, while Arash was approved for asylum, his brother Amir, was not. Once rejected, Amir appealed (which is still pending) and was imprisoned at Moria. Amir has now been imprisoned for months while Arash advocates for him from the outside. No one knows why Amir’s application was denied since he and Arash share blood and common danger and a deportation back to Iran could be absolutely disastrous. But there is no way to question the system. As anger mounted and in a bid for much needed attention, a hunger strike has begun at Moria, tasting it’s fifth day. In solidarity, Arash began his hunger strike one day later. (I won’t take it personally that I had just made a giant pot of soup for him..) Taking his devotion up to the next level, Arash is living out his hunger strike, very publicly, in centrally located Sappho Square with temperatures soaring to ten year highs.  He has also been arrested and released once for each day of his hunger strike. Arash is one determined man. But will he be heard?  Will he be safe? And will he ever have a chance to just be? 

Stand by me and be my ally

Stand by me and be my ally

-Sappho

“We hid in the forest for two weeks, no food.” Stepping into a boat at the edge of the sea is not the beginning of a journey, but only one concise stage in a journey of indignities and wild injustices spanning half the world.  Upon reaching the boats furtively dotting Turkey’s coast, a refugee has depleted all stores of strength and is left just with prayers. There is only survival. 

There are three camps on Lesvos; the infamous Moria, the dusty family containers of Kara Tepe and the summer camp feel of Pikpa. All new arrivals to the island are taken first to Moria, a jail disguised as a refugee camp and an overwhelming mass of humanity. Exhausted refugees line up for hours and days waiting to be registered and to file claims for asylum. Countless languages mingle and confusion remains king. In the midst of this last, unusually harsh winter, several refugees died, the possible causes being frostbite, hypothermia and asphyxiation. However, as autopsy reports have never been released, those who succumbed may never have justice. The police are rumored to maintain order by brute force, this rumor bruising the bodies and breaking the will of many. There are also explosive issues between refugees, due to ethnic and religious tensions, which compound in the overcrowded conditions.  However, there are those who work in this camp with integrity and compassion, implementing order and offering dignity. These people, as well as those they serve, are beautiful.

Music lessons in Moria ran on Tuesdays and Fridays. From 9-11am in the family section of Moria, we herded our exhuberent charges into a large circle to learn beats, dynamics and solfeggio. We sang songs and learned simple chords on the ukuleles. And if one child (or four) felt the need to throw herself on the floor, wailing and kicking, no one would flinch.  From 11-1pm we sat outside on wooden pallets in the women’s section and we listened as the women, mostly of African origin, poured their hearts into songs to God. Their pain momentarily dissipated as they lifted their eyes to the sky, their voices wrapping around my heart. From 1-230pm, we sang bad Bollywood songs and had rhythm drill competitions with the boys in the unaccompanied minors section, loud teasing and laughter mingled with earnest smiles and shy concentration. I was not a teacher in Moria, I was taught. 

Generally, once registered, families will go to the singed seaside Kara Tepe. Though there is more space, there is a definite absence of trees and shade which causes each family container to cook in the scorching summer heat.  There are rows upon rows of containers doubling as homes, some painted cheerily and decorated, some purposefully spartan. There are a plethora of NGOs offering services and activities for the Kara Tepe residents, however, oftentimes the NGOs work independent of each other instead of supplementing each other. For example, there are three groups providing music alone, though only one working efficiently would suffice. My particular organization worked with no set schedule or curriculum, despite the fact that multiple studies show the desperate need for routine and continuity in the lives of trauma survivors. Group lessons would commence in the random afternoon and evening hours of random days in a steamy hot container with an unnecessarily closed and locked door. Upon gaining the freedom to teach alone, I left the door wide open during lessons to allow a stingy breeze in, and the students and I went outside to sing and play songs for others. We had lesson plans for each day I taught and worksheets to reinforce our lessons. I was frustrated to discover that while waiting for an appeal for asylum to go through, a child and family will live in Kara Tepe between eight months to well over a year and despite this wealth of time and the incredible untapped potential of the kids, students were stagnating due to lack of structure. 

Once registered in Moria, those who are seen as more vulnerable are sent to the much smaller Pikpa camp; children with special needs, mothers who have just given birth, those who could be seen as targets. Pikpa, with a capacity of just 120, is run independent of the other camps by Lesvos Solidarity and though the camp has its own issues, the kindergarten of Pikpa is colorful and inviting and rather than containers, residents live in little wooden summer cottages. In my three days at Pipka, I was educated in the pop music of Iraq and Syria by little girls, I had my nails painted, my hair braided, I had a swimming lesson from one child (I am not such a good swimmer..) I shared in snacks under a tree and I would like to think that I also taught at least a little! 

There is so much ugliness on this island, in these camps with power trips, cruelty, broken pasts and hidden agendas, but there is also so much beauty and potential...Like when you sing a song and a woman stops you. She begins to quietly sing the same song in a different language. Eventually her hesitation gives way and her voice grows while her shoulders straighten. She sways with her own tempo and in her words, you begin to understand the true meaning of the song. Or, when a four year old with untamable ringlets stares at you with eyes as deep and as wise as the universe. She does not look away as you sing, this child who is studying you and if you wink, her dimpled smile gives away the meaning of life.