I remember her scars and her sad eyes. Too young to understand why she was always silent. I guess there were no words left for us. She did not tell us stories. Once I heard her sing in another language and even though I did not understand I felt pain. She never stopped mourning, I think, the lives lost, the lands lost. Dreams lost.

I will fight for the people to stand equal to me, to be my neighbor in my society.
I don’t want the cleanest and best functioning camp in the world. A camp is not a home.
The world is on fire and we will surpass ourselves to keep it from going up in flames.

Xristina Mosxovidou :: Dentist and Activist :: Greece

Her infant son died in the flames. Her sister died after pushing her out of the burning building. She was burnt and shot. She took to the mountains before she crossed land and sea and when she almost reached Greek soil she fell into the water. She traveled to the north, where the refugees were. There was a man who had lost his family too. Together they built a new life.

I remember her scars and her sad eyes. Too young to understand why she was always silent. I guess there were no words left for us. She did not tell us stories. Once I heard her sing in another language and even though I did not understand I felt pain. She never stopped mourning, I think, the lives lost, the lands lost. Dreams lost.

I live because she fled. I live because she endured walking and hunger and suffering I cannot even imagine. I live because she dared to. She was my great grandmother. Never forget where you come from, we are all refugees.

A year ago I answered a local calling and I found myself traveling not far from home to fields in no man’s land. A year ago Eidomeni was still unknown to the public. A year ago we struggled to get even the basics. I being a dentist had some small knowledge of general medicine. The few of us that went on field gave food, water and clothes. We stood by the road on the bridge, in the fields; on train tracks. I carried boxes of medicine, to aid the wounded feet, to dress the sores, to relieve people of their pain. Understand that last summer the refugees were walking miles under the scorching sun; they were not allowed on public transportation. I held more feet in my hands than I can count, and they always looked embarrassed and ashamed when I showed them to put their foot on my knee, like they were scared of me getting dirty. The thank yous I heard kneeling on the hard ground of Eidomeni that was my pharmacy/ER will last me for this lifetime and all the ones to come.

Looking back at what we lived it seems unbelievable. Yet it is the truth. That a handful of ordinary people without vests stood in the midst of thousands and held ground as army and police on the other side of the border threatened with guns and violence. It is difficult to understand how we for a whole night stood up and made groups and a queue system together with the refugees. From that night I have friends for life. It was the first time we saw the sunrise in Eidomeni. It was not the last.

After some of the big NGO’s came to Eidomeni we said ok good, our work is done, but they only worked office hours. And the refugees that came after that were left alone to the mercy of God, so we continued to go in the evenings and later in the nights.

How can you tell someone that you spent months sleeping on train tracks and in your car rather than in your bed? It is as everything else in life a choice, to choose not to stand on the sidelines when history is written. It was not a difficult one but it did come at a cost.

We lost. I lost. Sleep and health. Family and friends that couldn’t understand, who did not see what I saw. I did not go to my friend’s wedding; I shamelessly sent him a text saying I’m sorry my body will not move away from Eidomeni.

But then on the other hand we won because on the weekend of that marriage I met this beautiful woman alone in the hospital, I did not do anything important. I held her hand and she held mine as I walked her passed the masses and to the front of the border to pass. The phone call from her husband saying thank you when she reached her destination weeks later made me cry. Thank you, he said, my wife is home with our children, and our family is whole.

I hold forever near my heart the moments like that one. The people I met and “worked” with… the ones I don’t have to speak to because they know just by looking at me… They know…
The woman whose name I never got but that fainted in my arms and that I held unconscious for what seemed to be an eternity until the ambulance came. She kissed me and whispered in my ear, words I did not know, but this I know: a mothers blessing is the greatest of them all.

I carry the letter a 20 year old boy sent me, saying he drew strength from our kindness to endure the beatings in Hungary.

And the boys, my beautiful boys, the ones that stay in Mazaraki camp now. They are in my thoughts always. I am a better me because of them. All of them.
All this makes it worth, the shifts you pull trying to juggle your old reality with your new one. Even though the body breaks down, and you scream and you cry from the pain that you feel, it is all worth it. You push through the pain, that is the only way I know how to. One person at a time, we will save what is left of our humanity. If we don’t try we are lost. I lived the closing of the border 3 times. Evacuations. Teargas. I saw a man die in Eidomeni, I saw the rest of the men carry him around and up to the fenced and closed borders and then I knew: we are all responsible. We are all somehow accountable for that man’s death.

I will fight for the people to stand equal to me, to be my neighbor in my society.
I don’t want the cleanest and best functioning camp in the world. A camp is not a home.
The world is on fire and we will surpass ourselves to keep it from going up in flames.