Finding light in the cold, dark night

We had a late start to the day due to the late finish last night, and the growing levels of physical and mental exhaustion.

Headed up to Eftalou beach to see if any help was needed there, but all was calm and quiet as the tide was low. Instead, did a token level of cleaning up, wondered how on earth the refugees manage the arduous mountain walk having just disembarked from their boats, and were moved by the paperwork and fragments of people's lives we found on the beach.

As it was getting a little late in the day for helping out at the camp, we went to see if any help was needed at Skala Skiminea, another beach that regularly rescues refugee boats. The first horrifically overcrowded boat was rescued and towed in by the coastguard, in the last of the daylight. The following six arrived in the darkness.

There are no words to describe what it feels like to stand at the water's edge, and be able to hear a boat full of people screaming and shouting for help, but be unable to see them. For over half an hour. Which feels like an eternity when you have no idea whether the people crying out for help are still in the boat, or already in the water. To finally see them, and then have to frantically wave and flash lights at them, while whistles blow, and interpreters shout in every possible language that they might understand that they are going the wrong way. That if they continue in the direction they are heading that they will crash and drown. That they must come to us so that we can help them. That they must stay calm. That they must not stand up. That they must not jump in the water. All the while knowing that even metres from the shore, it is too far for them to swim to us, and for us to get to them. And the majority of people here to attempt to safely get them to shore are just normal people, there because people needed help.

And so the boat comes to shallower water, and the mayhem begins of volunteers standing waist deep in the water trying to keep everybody calm as they panic and try to get off the vessel that against all odds actually got them across the sea. All at once people need to be taken out of the water dragging all of their worldly possessions in soaking wet bags. Children and parents, husbands and wives, brothers, sisters, friends, aunts, uncles and grandparents need to be reunited at the waters edge and kept together at all costs, because separation in these chaotic conditions would be catastrophic. Medics need to be alerted to those who require urgent attention. Life jackets and soaking wet, freezing cold clothes need to be removed and replaced by emergency blankets. These terrified and traumatised people then need to be taken to the makeshift sanctuary where they can get a cup of hot soup, a sandwich, some dry clothes (if they're lucky), some dry shoes (if they're very, very lucky), receive medical attention if it's needed, and wait outside in the freezing cold for the bus to take them to their first camp for the night.

The last "boat" failed in it's basic requirements of, you know, being a boat. The motor only worked intermittently during the crossing, so some of the men had to get out of the boat and attempt to drag it while swimming. Then it started letting in water. They couldn't empty the water as fast as it was coming in, so all of the men had to jump out of the boat to lessen the weight, and swim alongside it to give the women and children a chance. They were in the water for 4 hours. Miraculously everybody survived.

Yet despite the horrendous ordeal of their journey, the physical traumas they have withstood, the terror and horrors they have fled from, the loved ones they have had to leave behind (both dead and alive), the total unknown future that lies ahead of them, these amazing people retain grace and humour. They laugh and joke with us. They thank us for helping them. They ask us if we're warm enough. They hug and kiss. The children play.

Tomorrow we will go to try and find our new friends in the camp, fulfil some promises and help them to settle in to their next (hopefully) temporary homes.