In the refugee camps of Lesbos and Samos
By Enri Canaj
We are thrilled that Magnum Photos has entered an editorial partnership with Summer of Solidarity to bring you amazing photo essays from its network of photographers across Europe.
Each week, we will be publishing a ‘Magnum Monday’: a vivid and in-depth exploration of people and places by legendary photographers, who will also be adding a personal text.
I started documenting refugee arrivals in Europe in 2013. I extended my research to the roots, the South, the causes, as well the perilous sea crossings from Africa to the northern shores, and the final destinations across Europe: from the dust that covers a journey to the unmapped territories of possibilities ahead.
This month of July 2020 I went to Lesbos and Samos in Greece. They are the main islands where thousands of asylum seekers have been living for many months now. Some people have lived in tents there for over a year. This was one of the hardest trips I’ve been on, compared to previous ones to these islands. Because of Covid-19 the situation in the camps has gone from bad to worse.
A national lockdown was introduced in Greece in March. Many restriction measures were put in place across the country. As time passed, Greece coped rather well with Covid-19. Confinement measures ended. But people in the refugee camps of Samos and Lesbos are still kept entirely locked down.
Refugees aren’t allowed to reach other parts of the islands. They need to ask permission even to fetch medicine for their children. Their requests are often rejected. Accessing hospitals is impossible. People locked inside the camps suffer from serious mental health problems. Pills are the only treatment they receive.
In Samos people are obliged to return to their tents by 7pm. This restriction applies only to the refugees, not to local residents.
The Moria refugee camp in Lesbos was built for 3.100 people, but it now has a population of more than 20.000 men, women and children. It has become a place of violence, deprivation, suffering and despair. In recent months there’s been no reliable access to electricity. Nor is there drinking water, or other facilities that would help maintain proper hygiene. Basic necessities to prevent the spread of the virus are lacking. Women and children choose to wear nappies so as to avoid having to leave their tents once the sun has gone down.
Against this shocking backdrop I was moved to see how the communities inside the camps support and help each other out. I met Yari, a 30 year old from Afghanistan who helps other people from his community as a translator, Farsi-Dari-English. Before Covid-19 struck, together with his wife, he’d been teaching English and German to children and families waiting to be reunited with relatives in German speaking countries.
People come together to collect plastic trash, to somehow help clean the camp and to support a local organisation that does recycling. A small group of Congolese refugees had improvised a church in the middle of nowhere, using whatever material they could find nearby. To meet with each other, share their stories, find God. Mothers spend time playing with their children by the seaside. They try to create happy childhood memories, despite the place they have to return to after sunset. In the camp the hardest thing is to wish one another sweet dreams.
It is so clear that all these people are trying to ask for is to be treated with dignity and respect.
Maybe it is in unimaginable circumstances that people reach out to one another in such powerful ways, showing sympathy and solidarity, support and compassion. Being in the same lifeboat and sharing the same dream of reaching the other side - is surely what bonds us.