A Portrait In Patras
“As I would not be a slave, so I would not be a master”, reads note scribbled on paper left on the ground in the Big.
There is the Big and the Small. Two abandoned factories. One was apparently an old paper mill. I’m not sure about the other. Neither has any remaining characteristics of a functioning business, only deep wrinkles in their concrete frames. There are no chairs or counters, just old mattress pads and worn sheet that pepper the vast concrete floor. The only decor is the more recent spray painted names in Arabic script of those who successfully crossed. There is water. It pours out from an exposed pipe mouth in the wall, then runs downs into a narrow concrete canal, where the men take drinking water and wash themselves. There is electricity, when the smugglers pay to keep it on. It services only a few scattered power outlets that the men huddle around to charge their cell phones. Facetime with loved ones takes up quite a bit of power, I suppose.
At the Small, there are both flat and angled roofs that connect the square of buildings. Atop the roofs it is much cooler in the hot summer months, so most men sleep up there at night. The view from there of the sunset tucking itself behind the mountains across the Aegean sea is stunning, but tantalizing. The large cargo ships seem to smirk as they leave the port for Italia.
At the Big, there is no inhabitable roofs. But there is more exposed ground floor, which is covered with a large tin awning without walls. So the wind passes through easily and helps cool the men when they lay there to sleep.
Both sets of buildings are very large. There high towers and broken windows can be easily spotted from main road. But from there they look quiet, no hint of the hundreds of men living inside. And no one in Patras is going in to take a deeper look.
The men here are young, most just entering their second decade of life, although there are a few boys (11, 14 years old), and a sizable group of older men (in their 40’s, 50’s). Most of them came to the factories alone, but now they belong to an ad hoc family. They have made friends, sometimes they fight over stupid things like cutting the food line, and they look out for one another as best they can, as both the police and the smugglers provide a constant threat. These men are mostly from Pakistan (in the Small) and Afghanistan (in the Big), although there are a few from other countries such as Iran and Turkey. Each has fled his home in fear of his safety. There are many different stories, different circumstances, that drove them to this port city in Greece. One man worked for the American Army in Afghanistan as an interpreter. Then, when the US pulled out he was denied asylum, leaving him to face the repercussions from the Taliban for his work, so he ran. One man fell in love with a women, but was not considered worthy and so set on fire by her brother, who aimed to kill him if he stayed. One young man lost his family in the bombings at their home in Kashmir, on the Pakistani-Indian border. His only remaining uncle lived in France; there he aimed to go. One boy at age 14 watched his father and pregnant mother murdered by the Taliban, who then forced him to join their ranks. Two years later he tried to flee the Taliban and alert the police, but they could not protect him, so at 16 he escaped, with no particular destination.
They all came to Patras, this port town in southern Greece, as a jumping point. (Very literally). They all are here as a means to get somewhere westward. And everyday there are boats leaving the port that dangle a promise of those means. But why not settle in Greece? See, despite their individual circumstances of fleeing violence and persecution, the EU Common European Asylum System (and hence Greece) rarely grants asylum or even official refugee status to those Afghanistan nor Pakistan, as the system is overwhelmed with refugees from Syria. As undocumented migrants, they are not allowed to live or work in Greece, and are not allowed to have organized refuge camps. This is why these men live in the Big and the Small, while thousands of Syrians (with their own horrible circumstances and stories) are living in refugee camps (which tend to function more as overcrowded and understaffed detention centers) sponsored by the Greek government and the EU. And this is why these men have been allowed to be treated like animals by the police and port workers. I suppose the “illegal other” label has helped liberate the authorities from their usual moral dogma. At least that’s the only way I can explain the beatings and brutality. For reasons still unclear to me, the police often choose to “catch and release”, rather than attempt to deport these men. But the men are rarely are released without being branded. Some men return with bruises from batons or steel toed boots. Others return with broken bones. Almost all return without shoe laces: a very effective way to make running and jumping more difficult. One young boy came back to the factory with a branding usually reserved for cattle- burns over both his ears from a heated wrench that was meticulously clamped down over his skin.
Despite the dangers, these men continue to “jump,” as they call it. After climbing a series of fences (some barbed wire) they try to sneak onto the cargo ships. The ships are loaded with tractor trailers, which also serve as potential hiding places. Sometimes the men attempt to cross by hiding inside freezers in the trucks or positioning themselves in the underbelly. If they succeed, the trip to Italia ranges from 28-36 hours. The men will, at most, carry one small bottle of water in their back pocket. Everyday many men jump and very few succeed without being caught by police or ship owners.
The most extraordinary thing about the Big and the Small, is that for most of us the living situation there is unconceivable, and yet those who live inside are just like us. Bits of all of us are in them, with the insurmountable divide of our lives only resulting from privilege and circumstance. They are human beings. They are kind, funny, emotional, polite, angry, sad, strong, beautiful, hopeful, and shockingly resilient. Their “otherness” is merely a fabrication that (at it’s best) helps the rest of us enjoy our privilege more guilt-free and (at it’s worst) justifies cruelty, fear, and marginalization. It is what allows the police to beat these men. It is what drives one officer to heat a wrench over a flame then clamp the metal down onto the flesh of one of these men. It is what allows the rest of us to ignore their suffering and permit such disgusting acts. The otherness excuses us from the responsibility of helping another human in need and instead to support a system that shuts them out.
“As I would not be a slave, so I would not be a master”- Abraham Lincoln, reads note scribbled on paper left on ground in the Big. Words I wish were with all of us.