Outside in the mud, a young man and asks for admittance. Gülara, which means as much as: looking for a Rose. Gülara, 25, is on the search for quite a while already, only he has found so far, not much.
He wants in to Europe, but no one makes him.
Just a Moment, a cold, cold day again, the sun is already gone behind the hills, it starts to rain, Gülaras bare feet stuck in flip-flops, and the Wind creeps into his Parka. He disappears into the garment, he moves the hood as far over his face as he can, it is just all wrong.
“What am I doing here?” Gülara asks. “Why am I here?”
He should have come, maybe, never, Yes, probably, it started with anxiety and a vague hope that the lies of the tractor came, he heard you. “Afghanistan is better,” says Gülara now, he has no more desire to be something other than the truth.
After two or three days, he could to Athens
Two, three days, said the tractors in Turkey, as long as it’ll last only on Lesvos, then he could continue on to Athens, he, Gülara, and his family and all the others on the boat. And then, inshallah, God willing, had more to Europe, right Europe, you always dreamed of. Germany. Yes, said the tractor, it should be possible, only a small step, only a matter of time.
Gülara pulls the nose up, he has a cold, he looks into the distance, to the sea, he can see the Turkish coast, he looks down, in the mud, and he has zero expression on his face.
He wrestles with the shame. That this is now his home, this collection of camping tents on a hill full of olive trees, they call it the jungle. He suspects that what you see in him now A refugee, one of Thousands, of millions, not a single person, but one of a mass, a number.
A temporary Camp next to the containments village of Moria
He repressed, and the need he has seen too much on the trip from Afghanistan to here, couldn’t stand here otherwise.
He’s in mourning. As they set out on their quest, since his father was still alive, even as they climbed onto the boat, since the father was still with.
Many, many articles have been written about people like him, Gülara. For years, refugees are on the road on inflatable boats on the Mediterranean sea, at times more, and German politicians speak of an “avalanche”, and other times it is less, then all are happy. A Text about refugees now, at the beginning of 2019?
In Moria screams the truth in the face
A few hours before we meet Gülara, we Park our car in this, the largest camp of the Aegean sea, the “Hotspot Moria”.
Also if you were in the camps as a Reporter in the many refugee in Northern Iraq, in Turkey, in the Syrian desert, far away from any supply, so if you know what to expect, it is a but again.
The Afghans in the funeral meal to prepare.
©Nikos Pilos star
It is concrete. It is not seen a thousand times and read of it happening in this Moment. On this cold day of our Search, and even today, when this Text appears.
a thousand-fold, dehumanization, perhaps it is. Thousands on a stain, to which it is no longer a question of their Dignity, but to Survive. A tear noticeably. Others are wound up according to, many have this view that asks: What am I doing here? And why?
In Moria screams the truth in the face, everyone knows it: The refugees should live in the mud and freeze in the Winter, you should suffer, it is intentional, it serves the purpose of: deterrence.
So that the refugees about WhatsApp home, do not write: Come on, the tractor’s lying, and Europe is terrible.
do not pay to climb the Refugee.
Gülaras story of the madness of the trip
A young Cameroonian froze to death, his friends found him the following morning, the two motionless in his tent. And not long before that is no longer heard in another tent, not a hundred meters away, to cough, an old Afghan.
on the Road for the star: Reporter Raphael Geiger (l) and photographer Nikos Pilos
On this evening, you are cooking the funeral feast for him, Gülara, and his brother. Gülara pulls the tarpaulin to the side that you clamped to a corner, a wind is caused to a protected courtyard in front of the tent. The brother has already made a fire, it is time for Kabuli pilaf.
basmati rice with lamb meat, carrots, almonds, and raisins, flavored with cardamom. So much of it that it is enough for a solid company. You have a huge pan distended and wood of the olive trees. With the money you have left, 75 Euro, they bought a lamb, and slaughtered. Now you stand here, two brothers from Kunduz, stirring in the pan, lay the wood, and Gülara throws a couple of sentences in the smoky air.
“father was old, he was 70.” “Father has always coughed, the whole trip long.” “Father has heart problems, but nobody wanted to treat him.” “Father didn’t make it.” He was now on the Muslim cemetery by the municipality of Lesvos for refugees has set up.
the hut in Moria
©Nikos Pilos star
His death came seven months after the family came across the sea, almost a year after they broken in Kunduz, the German army wanted a city in the North of Afghanistan, the once pacify.
While the Kabuli pilaf is cooking, “for at least three hours, this is important,” says Gülara from the madness of the trip. Of the horrors that he displaces otherwise, there is no mention.
“father was a policeman,” he says, ” one of my brothers.” The German army withdrew from Kunduz, the Germans were glad to be out of this war out of it, you never wanted to. “The Germans had hardly way,” says Gülara, “since the Taliban came.” Break. “My brother, the policeman, and have you killed.”
Three generations on the run
Gülaras father was in danger, they rushed in, three generations: the grandparents, Gülara with his wife and two children, his brother with wife and three children. Of Kunduz to the West, first with the Bus, in the direction of Iran, by foot across the border, striking through the country, always to the West. The route to Turkey led through remote, lawless area, you had to pay, if you wanted to past the corrupt soldiers or Criminals, and sometimes they came to a corpse. Someone who couldn’t pay up, shot, and left.
if You listen to Gülara, and understands at once, what is the means of escape. To be as a person, a product, free as a bird and completely meaningsgslos: Just another Afghan on the run, whose death no one would be interested in.
the False passport.
Parouana, 9, and Fatima, 10, life only Recently in Moria
Gülaras father the cold to set in, the walks through the mountains, his heart raced, the cough was worse. He held, also the Crossing on the boat, also the first months in Moria.
they settled in the Afghan part of the jungle, built a tent out of Planning for the Refugee Agency of the United Nations, they kept it clean, placed their shoes outside, swept the inside of the dust. Gülara realized that they would stay longer than a few days. Their neighbors had created small vegetable gardens in front of their tents, others had built out of pallets, a table and two benches, and others designed the floor so tightly with Tarpaulins and cardboard, the man was able to walk between the tents barefoot.
The nights were colder
they made the Wait bearable. The a had applied in Greece for asylum, so they took a Chance on Northern Europe, but they had at least one appointment at the office, a date, even if it was usually over a year away.
The other was a hope that they would find some way.
The nights were colder, it was autumn, it was Winter. Then an ambulance came and brought Gülaras father in the hospital, from which he never returned. Now, while the brothers are on the pan, pray a few men in the tent for the deceased, 3691 kilometres to the West of Kunduz.
In Europe, but not in Europe.
The real Moria is a fenced in storage of containers
©Nikos Pilos you have gone as a people. And in Moria to refugees.
The real Moria is a fenced in storage from containers, and the jungle, in the Gülara lives. Is thought Moria for 3000 people, last year it was up to 13,000.
Outside Greek police officers, burning indoors sometimes in the air, when Sunnis and Shiites to go at each other, it is men who fought in the Syrian war on different sides. The Greek police, keep out of it.
in the Evening, a lot of her food to prepare. Down the slope a couple of men from Africa are just a fire, they come from Cameroon, Liberia, Nigeria, fry French fries, a Syrian stands next to you and warms. A few metres further on is a Somali cowering in his tent and eat beans, and not far away has gathered a family from Iraq at the tea.
There are those who are simply looking for a better life, but most of them have other reasons. The Somali was as illegal workers in Turkey, the crash of the Turkish Lira in the summer has him expelled. One of the Cameroonians fled from the military service, because he did not want to serve the despotic President. In Gülara it was the withdrawal of the Bundeswehr from Kunduz.
From left: Nouroul, 26, Fatima, 20, and Mohamed, 3, live for about ten months in Moria
are you as people have gone to in Moria refugees. They form the number, track the European governments exactly, the number should not rise, otherwise it is of no use to the populists. You are the mass that many feel in Europe as a threat, but at least as a Problem.
Last Winter, froze to death nine people in this refugee camp on European soil.
shortly after seven Gülaras brother asks a few boys to help you organize plastic plate. Together, the layers of the Kabuli pilaf on the plate, it steams, smells, and Gülara make sure that on each plate was a piece of lamb meat.
you serve it to the men who have prayed to the end, and the women next door, then you sit down. An Afghan corpse grinding on a Greek island, they never before had heard, 1797 kilometers South of Berlin.
the next Morning, the sun rises, says Gülara, it was a beautiful evening.