The crisis just gets deeper

A fellow volunteer posted this on Facebook about the impact of storms
THE TERRORIST WITHIN

It was like a war-zone at Mytilene Harbor. Interminable lines to get one item of clothes, only to be told that we ran out of them.  A child walks into the puddles of filthy water with only his socks on, begging for shoes.  Sorry, we ran out of them.  A woman asks for diapers, please, I have two babies, please. An elderly man begs for a warm jacket. His pants are soaked to the knees. We speak to them sternly. One line only! We ran out! Come back later! Don’t push! Min fadlek, please.

Zeus, the Greek God of Thunder, is angry at humanity and is letting it known, by pouring the skies empty. Hundreds of refugees are seeking shelter while waiting for the ferry to Athens. Judging by how many of them are laying on the floor, they must be living here and the ferry will never arrive. The stench of urine and sight of garbage trickle down my spine like raindrops, one at the time, until it is too late to realize that I have been invaded, possessed. Drop, drop, drop.

We are inside a huge, decrepit, dangerous building, the perfect backdrop for a movie about psychopaths torturing their victims. Exposed electric cables dangle everywhere from the ceiling, but there must be no electricity, or we would all be dead already.  A baby's shoe, a dirty diaper, a half-eaten soup, a banana peel scream to be noticed. It rains inside even when it slows outside. The ceilings are crying, the tears end up in the food that some volunteers brought to the refugees, then they become urine and soak the floors.  On that river, people too tired to care lay their cardboards and blankets.  Many in groups, as in a big camp-out, some in the immense solitude of their loss.  Because the common theme for all this humanity is loss.  The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the heaviness of apprehension.

I learn and forget and re-learn how to say “calm down,” “don't push,” “we ran out” in Arabic. I make myself look, really look into the eyes of the people in front of me.  I seek out the tragedy that they witnessed as if I could then extirpate it. I know that by making eye-contact I am giving them a false sense that I can do something about their particular need, materialize a pair of shoes, make an exception for their transgression of breaking the line.

I make my rounds with a tray of tiny containers with warm beans.  I imagine being a flight attendant, would you like some peanuts with that? I remember to smile while I go round and round, each time more grateful for the privilege of serving instead of the horror of being among the served.  I walk miles and approach a few women sitting on the floor with their head down.  Enti Mareeda? Are you sick, I ask. I don’t have a plan for what to do if they say that they are. But, I have learned to trust this multitude, because they are the survivors and the lucky ones, and they know it. They are one gentle soul shattered by a ruthless enemy.  They are the child that puts his hand on his heart and says no to a second ration of beans because he does not want to deprive anybody else.

They are not the Enemy. They are not the Terrorist. The Terrorist Within is our inaction.  The Enemy is our fear of opening our heart to help them.