Category Archives: Travel

même pas peur

17 Tuesday Nov 2015

Posted by in Economics, Politics, Refugees, Religion, Travel

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It seemed like no one on my bus to Belgrade spoke English, but I picked up that the word refugee is not used much by the Serbians, ‘they’ are all ‘immigrants’,*said in an angry voice*, showing the power of language in labeling someone as undeserving. And it’s clear that as in Australia, many Europeans don’t believe refugees have a right to be here.

IMG_2355I am an immigrant. I left my wealthy, stable, safe country to live and work in another because I wanted to experience something different. I had no well-founded fear of persecution, I could have found a better paid and more secure job in Australia than I found here. But no one in Europe has ever questioned my right to be here. No one has ever accused me of taking someone else’s job. And as far as I know, no one has ever worried that I might be a threat to national security.

Every single refugee I spoke to loved their home. Every single one of them spoke of the beauty of their country and said they would go back if they had a future there. We are wired to want to return to where we are from. Every Christmas I go home, because it gets to November and I’m itching to be where I’m from again. For these people, going home is not an option.

I was sitting in my hotel in Belgrade when news of the terrorist attacks in Paris came through, and like everyone who calls that city home I felt sick to my stomach, and wracked with nerves until one by one everyone there who I loved turned out to be ok. There’s really nothing more terrifying than the thought of not feeling safe where you live, and the French have had a taste of that in the last few days. The difference is that for the majority of refugees, they do not have a government who will act to protect them, who will do whatever it takes to ensure their future safety. For some of them, it is the government targeting them. They are not running from an attack on a stadium, or a nightclub, or a restaurant, or a bar. Their villages, cities, and in some cases their countries, are on fire.

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We all empathise with the images coming out of France that show people terrified and fleeing. We can all understand that when you hear gun shots and comprehend the threat, you grab the people you love and you run. You run away from the danger, and you keep running until you find protection and feel secure. Refugees don’t get to just run out of the restaurant; they have to run further and faster and for longer until they feel safe. Why is it that we don’t look at the images of people running from war and make that correlation? There was not one story of someone slamming their door in the face of Parisians who ran on Friday. Why can we not now?

While I’ll acknowledge that I met some who weren’t running from obvious persecution, the idea that these people are to be feared is something that I understand less now than I did two weeks ago. That the man or woman who comes from a different background is someone you are justified in being afraid of because they are different to you makes no sense. We make these people the other because it allows us to feel safe in our bigotry and more comfortable in our ignorance. Obviously I didn’t talk to every refugee, but these people don’t want to blow up your homes and change your way of life. They don’t want to convert Europe or threaten your children. They don’t want to impose some deranged form of Sharia law. What they want is the same things you do. They want to send their kids to school, finish their own education, get a job, and be able to feed their families. They want to be free and to live without fear.

IMG_2356Almost immediately following the attacks in Paris, Poland announced that it would no longer be adhering to its commitment to accept a mediocre number of Syrian refugees under a previously negotiated EU deal. Hungary is likely to follow. Calls in the US and Australia to halt any intake were loud. As if the two issues were automatically linked. Despite the fact that the vast majority of these perpetrators were European citizens, born and bred here, in our schools, our suburbs and our communities.

What I’m afraid of now is what’s to come. How we will react as a community. If Paris will permanently feel like a city under military protection. If France will feel like a country at war. I’m afraid that people will become more racist. I’m afraid that Marine Le Pen will win the next election. I’m afraid Muslims will no longer feel safe on the streets. I’m afraid that hate speech will become something we accept, stand by and allow to happen.

But when it comes to the refugees, I am not afraid of them. I’ve helped these people out of leaky boats. I’ve comforted them while they’ve howled violently. I’ve walked to border crossings with them in the pitch black. I’ve sat in the dirt and talked with them in their camps. I’ve travelled across a country with them. I’ve shaken their hands and heard their stories and shared their food. I’ve been alone with them in the dark.

And if I’m not afraid of them after that than you don’t get to be either.

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I could not stay just sitting any longer

13 Friday Nov 2015

Posted by in Economics, Politics, Refugees, Travel

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IMG_2304I ignored the policeman’s advice about buses for normal people and tried to find a car full of refugees who spoke perfect English. When that failed I settled on one where between two of the four we could manage a pretty decent conversation. When refugees cross into Macedonia they are given the option of a taxi or a train to the Serbian border, for the same price per person. Problems arise because children under seven ride for free so no taxi driver wants to take more than one kid per car. A very large Afghan family will have to wait until the next train which is 10 hours away. In my car are four guys in their twenties who insist that I sit in the front despite the fact that I’m smaller than any of them. They are curious about what I’m doing, but find it less strange than most of the non-refugees I’ve spoken to. We each pay 25 euro, no one asks me to put in more. Before we leave I ask the driver if I have time to buy some water, and three of the four thrust unopened bottles at me.

Mahmoud, 27 and his brother Annas, 25 are from Palestine, Nasa, 29 and Nabin, 20 are from Morocco. For the next two hours we skirt across Macedonia to Tabanovtse. Nasa speaks French perfectly and English well enough so between the two we get by. I point out to him that Morocco is not at war, and he openly agrees and says he had no fear there, but no life. He left three years ago and has been floating around the Middle East ever since. Finally he decided to try his luck and wants to get to Norway because he likes the cold. ‘I could not stay just sitting any longer, I want to change my life. No war, but no future.’ A qualified mechanic, he could not get a job anywhere and wants to start a family. For a year and a half he’s had a Russian girlfriend he met in Egypt, ‘I was not like this when we met’ he assures me, ‘I was clean and had fresh dressing and nice face’. His girlfriend, who he has just left in Dubai, wants to live in Russia. He tells me they’ve just had an argument, ‘I love her, but she drive me so crazy- I had to delete what’s ap.’ The idea from what I can gather is that once he’s established himself as a millionaire mechanic in Oslo the girlfriend will forget about St Petersburg and follow. She paid for his flight to Istanbul and this is a source of great shame for him. He averts my eyes as he says it, and you can tell this man is crippled by how powerless he feels to control his own future. ‘I don’t have anything, sometimes this country, sometimes that country.  All I do is food, sleep, smoke.’  He is also very upset by having to accept charity in general. He had two large packs but they were stolen in Turkey and his belongings have been reduced to a plastic bag. ‘For 9 days now I have no shower, no wash. These clothes, they are not mine. I had to take them’

His friend Nabin is sporting an injury he sustained days ago on the boat journey to Greece. But they have not stopped to see a doctor. The 20 year old is incredibly pale and I tell them that once we get to the camp they should speak to a medic. But they are determined not to waste time and want to keep moving. ‘We cannot sleep, we need to move, we don’t like sitting’. The taxi driver later tells me that 10 000 people crossed over yesterday and in reality they will have to sit for a while on the Serbian side to be processed.

Mahmoud is 27 but easily looks ten years older than me. He speaks Hebrew, Swedish, Arabic and some English. He shows me the scars on his head and arms from where the Israeli soldiers shot at him in Hebron. He intervened to help a relative they were trying to take after an argument, and they turned on him. He tells me the situation has become so bad you cannot leave your home without being harassed. ‘We go to sleep, and the next morning there are new houses on our land.’ He feels that there is no hope for him in Palestine and things are getting worse, he acts out how soldiers in Gaza point guns at children. Mahmoud left the occupied West Bank a month ago and travelled to Turkey before crossing the Med. He made the decision to leave his wife and child behind and bring them over later rather than risk putting them on a boat. He shows me photos of his little girl who is 2 and has a huge bow on her head. The next photo is of him clutching someone else’s baby on a boat, less than 6 months old. He tells me the Turkish smugglers were even rough with the children. ‘The babies were very scared on the trip, we all had to help.’

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I ask them if they would ever go back to their countries. Nasa says maybe in ten years, to show his children. Mahmoud shakes his head, thinks about it, and then says ‘maybe in twenty’. He then shows me photos of the Al-Aqsa mosque and starts raving about its beauty. When I tell him I’ve been there he grows very excited. I tell Nasa I have also been to Casablanca and travelled in Morocco. Mahmoud’s face clouds over and he says, ‘international travel, that is so nice for you’ and I wish I had kept my mouth shut. While Moroccans can visit 56 countries visa free, it’s harder for Palestinians, and Mahmoud snuck out on a false passport. None of them have any papers, the Palestinians to start with and the Moroccans since Turkey where the smugglers put a gun to their head and took their documentation, claiming they would be turned back otherwise. They are all amazed by how nice people in Europe are, and I am too much of a coward to tell them this will not always be the case.

I mention ISIS. The Palestinians don’t know much about it, but rage visibly flashes through Nasa. ‘These people have no religion’ he tells me, ‘they are not Muslim, they are not human’. He goes on to explain how what they do is harem, and Islam forbids it. As a way of making me understand, he talks about how to be a Muslim it is very important to be clean, inside and out, and no one from ISIS can be clean. When I ask why he thinks people are going to fight with them, his explanation is surprisingly economic. ‘C’est fou, but they think it’s the only way to get a house and money… People like me, who want a better life, but they are crazy.’ He is not worried about any of them coming to Europe this way and laughs when I ask, ‘they take the planes… It is the people running from them who take the boats’.

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They ask me about my plans once we get to the camp, and I explain I can’t cross with them but will return to visit that night with a contact in Skopje. Mahmoud immediately grows concerned and tells me this is not a good idea and I need to be careful. ‘I am afraid for you’. After a couple of hours in the car this man is sincerely concerned for my well being and starts quizzing me on how I know this person. His almost brotherly worry is so genuine I’m taken aback.

When we get to the crossing I’m suddenly overcome with I don’t know what. I’ve heard many people describe the situation here as a form of apartheid, and every time I’ve dismissed such a label as excessive and exaggerated. But now that I’m here and I’m living it, now that I go one way and they go another, that’s exactly what it feels like. While I will walk across a border and flash my passport, these kind, generous, funny and smart men who I’ve spent the last two hours talking and joking with, who have shared with me, have to spend hours in a dirty camp being pushed from here to there not knowing what’s going on. These are my friends now and it just doesn’t seem fair. Before I even realise what’s happening I’m blubbering, and the poor, hungry refugees who haven’t slept in days and have been walking for hours try to comfort the privileged, well fed Australian girl who will sleep in a hotel room tonight and can’t keep her shit together. It would have been hilarious in its ludicrousness, but I am so ashamed by my own good fortune that I can’t see the humour in it at all.

That kill that and that kill that and they kill me

13 Friday Nov 2015

Posted by in All, Politics, Refugees, Travel

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IMG_2291Last night under the cloak of my Medecine du Monde contingent I visited the Idomeni camp on the Greek-FYROM border. It’s purely a transit camp, and on any given day 10 000 people pass through. The camp is confronting in its sadness and its normalcy. The doctors tent has a waiting room that short of a few copies of Women’s Weekly could be the same as any other medical centre. People sit in line to see the medic, parents try to calm their crying kids and control the naughty ones, and everyone looks bored and restless. Outside there is a group of teenage boys seeing who can clear a railing the most easily by leap frogging. One doesn’t make it and is teased mercilessly. People are trying to connect to the wifi and find somewhere to charge their phones. Other than the overarching sense of waiting and expectation, other than the dirt and the tents and the smell, this could be anywhere. Every now and then a volunteer yells out ‘Farsi and English!’ or ‘Urdu!’ and without fail someone puts up their hand and comes forward to translate.

IMG_2294The only thing that really makes this scene different is the sense of anxiety and nervousness about when it will be their turn to cross. Groups arrive in large buses and are given a ticket, and when their number is called they are allowed to walk into FYROM. The timing depends on the authorities at the other side letting them through. Every 5 mins someone asks me what number they are up to, people are frantic they will miss their turn and be stuck. The really bizarre thing is that there’s no check or control on the numbers, and yet nobody pushes in. Everyone is waiting their turn. The refugees are anxious and frustrated, but incredibly polite; every time I tell them that I don’t know and they just have to wait they thank me profusely.

IMG_2301UNHCR is trying desperately to make sure groups stick together. A problem has been families becoming separated and it is easy to see why. The camp is dark and there are hundreds of people everywhere. People are curled up in corners and fall asleep in the dirt. I chat to a logistics officer from MSF, Antonis, who is very proud with how much his English has improved in the past month since he started working at the camp. Like all of Greece he has family in Melbourne and is excited that I’m Australian. He tells me how his grandparents were refugees and we have to help these people. The kindness in his voice when he responds to the same questions over and over again shows much more patience then I could muster. I think of the video footage of Australian staff at detention centres that was leaked and I cringe. Maybe part of our problem is that we’ve always just had it so good people really believe hardship is not being able to afford a second car. Australians can say things like send them back and ‘stop the boats’ while Antonis can say ‘we know what they have seen’.

Fatima and Ahmoud are a young Kurdish couple who left Syria a month ago. When I ask if they were afraid of the government or ISIS or the rebels Ahmoud waves his hand dismissively and says ‘that kill that and that kill that and they kill me’. So many threats exist that discussing who is responsible has become irrelevant. They have a two month old baby, and for this reason Ahmoud paid 2300 pp to travel to Greece in a new boat. He responds to many of my questions with ‘because I have a baby’, and tells me he saved money for two years and sold his house and all their jewellery to afford the ticket. They spent 20 days in Turkey where they were harassed by the police and the army. Ahmoud tells me that he didn’t sleep for almost three weeks because he had to stay awake and guard their family to make sure his wife and daughter were safe. Eventually a smuggler picked them up from Istanbul and they drove for 9 hours in the dark to Izmir. Crying, terrified, they were put on the boat for Greece. They are heading to Sweden where Ahmoud’s older brother is. His hopes for the future are simple, he wants his daughter to be able to go to school, and he wants to have a life.

I ask them about their wedding and Ahmoud tells me that they couldn’t have a real party because of the war. He seems incredibly protective of Fatima and doesn’t let go of her the whole time we talk. He grows bashful as he explains he wanted to marry her when they first met, but it took him two years to work up the courage. Fatima doesn’t speak any English, but seems to understand this as she looks at me and rolls her eyes. Ahmoud was a chef in a French restaurant in Syria, but he is nervous about finding a job in Europe because he cannot work with pork and is worried this will stop someone from hiring him. I ask if they want to have more kids and he says yes, but only one, he is firm that two is enough. I ask if they would ever go back to Syria and his face contorts into a pained expression. He says that he wants his daughter to see his home, ‘but right now it is too empty’.

Being white the refugees think I am working there and assume that I know what is going on. One man comes up and asks for my help connecting to the wifi. He is trying to reach his family in Afghanistan to tell them that he has arrived safely with his son. This is like the blind leading the blind and all I manage to do is run his battery down while trying to find the setting on his phone. A little girl has no socks or shoes and here I am slightly more helpful in finding something for her feet. People are consistently asking for blankets and tonight for some reason there aren’t any, but they are offered extra warm clothing before they cross over. One woman from Nigeria asks me for a carton, she has three babies with her and doesn’t want to put them on the cold floor.

The scene is incredibly multicultural. I meet people from Pakistan, Bangladesh, Eritrea. My new friend Antonis tells me that yesterday they had a group from the Dominican Republic pass through. I walk with one group to the border and it is the strangest feeling. I’ve crossed many borders on foot, but this crossing, in the dark and with authorities herding everyone through like cattle, feels like something out of an apocalypse film.

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Crossing on the FYROM side of the border

Despite suggestions that I disguise myself as a refugee and sneak across the border illegally I choose not to do that, although an interesting idea I’m not quite keen on spending a night in a Macedonian jail. So this morning I went to the official crossing and then travelled back to the unofficial one on the FYROM side. My Greek taxi driver and the hotel owner were quite concerned that I did not have a visa. I assured them that I am Australian and this is no problem. They asked me if I checked and I lie and tell them of course I have, only a stupid idiot who has never travelled before wouldn’t check if they needed a visa to go into a new country. Luckily I turned out to be right, but for a few seconds I had a slight fear of being turned back to where I came from. It’s not a nice feeling even if in my situation it only would have been a minor inconvenience.

The border between Greece and the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia

The border between Greece and the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia

At the train station in Gevgelja there are buses and taxis everywhere. The refugees cross and those without lots of children take a taxi while large families wait for a train. Drivers don’t charge for young children, but this means they are reluctant to take more than one in a car load. And the police will fine them if they are caught with too many people. I manage to walk past the first line of security without being noticed and cross the tracks trying to look as not-blonde and fair as possible, but have to turn around. My choice to do things officially turned out to be a wise one because almost immediately I was racially profiled by the police and had my passport checked. Macedonia has been doing everything to stop people accessing the camps and they are not impressed with my presence. Without official accreditation, which I don’t have, or official permission from the police, which I couldn’t get, you are not supposed to be there. I explain that I am just trying to get a taxi and want to go to Serbia and they calm down once they see my passport is stamped. But my place is clear, ‘these buses are not for you, here is Syrian people, normal peoples bus is over there’.

It’s all Greek to Me

22 Wednesday Aug 2012

Posted by in All, Economics, Politics, Travel

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IMG_0565Stepping off the plane onto the tarmac at Thira Airport on the idyllic landscape of Santorini, one would be forgiven for doubting the seriousness of Greece’s current economic situation. Indeed, here the people smile, the streets are full of tourists with well lined pockets, hotels are bustling, and the price of a sandwich is exuberant even by European standards. However, the tropical paradise remains one of the few places still boasting robust commerce in this economically flailing nation. The fact that you are more likely to hear English in a variety of accents over the native tongue, is sign enough that the islands are not an accurate indication of what is going on in the country at large.

A few hours ferry ride to Athens paints an entirely different picture altogether. In a city that boasts the birth of democracy and a plethora of archaeological testaments to mankind’s wisdom, it is clear that the Greek capital is struggling to keep its head above water. Shops and businesses all over Athens have closed as a result of the crisis. Buildings remain derelict and empty, if not filled with squatters who live amongst a stench that can only be described as putrid. Unemployment is at an all time high, and Greek youth have little hope of employment within their borders after graduating from University.

So far the crisis in Greece has managed to destroy the economy and annihilate a government, as well as threaten the future of the Euro and potentially the European Union. But alongside these economic outcomes, Greece has seen an increase in youth unemployment (now at approximately 50%), crime and suicide rates. While much has been written and published about the Greek economy and the failure of politicians to find a solution, the human side of this crisis too often seems to be forgotten. When a country’s economy has failed, there are inevitably people behind it suffering grossly. This is a quick look at the plight of the Greek individual behind the statistics.

Greek youth are generally well informed, educated and worldly. More than twenty percent of the population in Greece is under 35 and financial difficulties are presenting huge problems for young people. An average of more than 1000 people have lost their jobs every week since 2009. Greeks are known for a willingness to converse with anyone and help people out wherever they can, but increases in suicides, attempted suicides, the use of anti-depressant medication and the need for psychiatric care are causing great concern in a country not used to such issues. For a country that had one of the lowest suicide rates in the world, experts estimate that Greece’s suicide rates have doubled in the past two years.

In the wake of the ongoing financial crisis, public fears over vandalism and violent crime appear to have risen dramatically, often in conjunction with increased concerns over illegal immigration and drug abuse. One government report estimated that drug use in Athens jumped from 7,400 in 2008 to 12,000 in 2009, coinciding with the first wave of the global financial crisis. Murders in Greece have more than doubled since 2006, with the annual figure rising from 83 to 175 in 2010.

On an average 40C day in summer, the streets of Athens are filled with homeless youth. One young man who looks like he hasn’t eaten in weeks lies on a doorstep, his head tilted back and mouth wide open while flies buzz around him in the scorching heat. The scene is more reminiscent of a malnourished beggar in an Ethiopian town than a busy street in this once thriving metropolis. Awakened from his drug induced comatose state, the young man looks at an offered bottle of water as though it is a foreign substance, mutters incoherently and collapses again. Not long after, a slightly healthier looking man grabs the water left at the beggar’s side and strolls away. This is what it has come to, one unfortunate man stealing from an even less fortunate soul; because in the struggle to survive there is no room for a code of ethics.

When the author attempted to find help, two local business people smiled sadly, shrugged and lamented that it was now a common occurrence in Athens. People die on the street because they are hungry, because they have nowhere else to go, and no one to help them. A girl working in a nearby cafe promises to keep an eye on him and call for help if he gets worse, but worse is hard to contemplate. The authorities it seems have larger problems to deal with then a young man at death’s door on a sidewalk.

There must be more to this Provincial life!

14 Tuesday Aug 2012

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Provence is the superlative of all your Southern French dreams. The sky really is that blue, the food is as fresh and tasty as can be, and the people are as welcoming and hospitable as the everlasting sunlight that warms your skin. Easily accessible by TGV from Paris, Provence is only three hours away from the capital. Alternatively, one can hire a car and make the most of the French country side on route. Either way, no excursion to the south of France is complete without stopping in this idyllic region and getting lost in any one or other of the picturesque towns while exploring the unspoiled landscapes.

If Provence is a highlight of the country, than the city of Aix is the area’s treasure. Through this quaint town you can meander for hours; get lost in a free standing market, idle down a cobbled laneway ignorant of where it leads, or be lured by one of the amazing Provencal restaurants; surrounded by air so thick with enticing smells you just cannot help yourself- and wouldn’t if you could. This city is known for both a lively student atmosphere, and an overwhelming style and sophistication. Compact and easy to navigate by foot, you’ll find Aix with its 17th century architecture and open paved plazas a delight to visit. Indeed, the history and ambiance will leave you wanting to return.

Every summer Aix hosts its annual arts festival in July. Since 1948 spectators have been offered opera, theatre and concerts over a diverse variety of genres. With a now established international reputation for excellence, the festival is one of the most renowned in France. The 2012 Festival, running from July 5th-27th, heavily focuses on the power of Opera. Director Bernard Fouccroulle hopes that the experience will profoundly affect every spectator’s humanity, and no one observer will leave unchanged. Visitors can take advantage of several ticket packages in order to experience this musical/theatrical extravaganza.

If one needs a break from city culture, there are a dozen or so beautiful vineyards surrounding the city. There is no better circumstance under which to unwind after touring, then to indulge in some delectable wine tasting. And you will not find a more striking example of this than the Chateau de Vauclaire. Situated only 15km from Aix, the estate of Vauclaire consists of 120 hectares, 30 of which hold an expansive vineyard, right in the heart of Provence. The Sallier wine makers of Domaine de Vauclaire have taken advantage of the land’s natural assets to produce some of the best rich and subtle blends of red, white and rose across the country. Their award winning produce leaves no visitor dissatisfied and is sure to please the palate of the most fastidious critique. Having been passed down through the family for generations, you can be assured that the wine here is made with the greatest care and attention to detail possible.

The difference between the Salliers and other wine makers in France is evident in their story. Enlightened art collectors, they devoted themselves to winemaking with this same taste for refinement and excellence. From generation to generation, the family has improved their know-how and expanded their knowledge, encouraged by the growing potential of the wine market in Provence. The diversity of grape varieties within the vineyard reflects a long history of Mediterranean wine. It allows the Sallier family the freedom to compose with rich and subtle blends. Having spent a summer at Vauclaire, the author can attest to the domain’s spiritual atmosphere and healing surroundings. It is impossible to find fault with the vineyard’s location, ambiance or hosts. Ideal for a summer escape or winter sojourn; Vauclaire is perfect all year long.

So if you are pondering a European jaunt anytime soon, whether you are after sunshine, sightseeing, culture or culinary delights; look no further than the south of France. A few days in Provence will leave you refreshed, relaxed and planning your return trip. With dozens of villages worth a visit and exploration, the thumping beat of the streets of Marseille, France’s second largest city, and the overwhelming calm and sophistication of Aix; there is something in the Provincial region for everyone.