Precarity Reborn from its Own Ashes: On the Opening of a New Reception and Identification Centre in Lesbos, Greece

This article centers on the implications of Moria’s destruction and its repercussions for migrants who used to inhabit its overcrowded tents. Firstly, it discusses the implications of its existence within the nexus between border regimes and humanitarianism. Successively, a set of ethnographic photographs taken during fieldwork conducted in Lesbos in 2019 provides an idea of what everyday life meant for migrants who were stranded in Moria. In conjunction with this visual data, direct testimonies of NGO workers, volunteers and activists who operated in the island contrast with the new plans proposed respectively by the EU and Mitsotakis’ government, as a ‘solution’ for those who lost their shelters to the massive fires.During fieldwork that I conducted between November and December 2019, Moria was the biggest and most overcrowded RIC in Europe, hosting more than 18,000 asylum-seekers despite being designed for a maximum capacity of 3,000. 13,000 people were living there when it turned to ashes. Migrants in Moria lacked adequate housing, sufficient toilets and showers, nourishment, health attention, legal aid, access to education and psychological support. While the World Health Organisation (WHO) had made the recommendation to wash hands as frequently as possible to avoid the spread of coronavirus, in Moria only one shower was available for every 500 people. Even before the pandemic, numerous NGOs and activists had been operating in and out of Moria camp to help attenuate the suffering and precarity of its population. Remarkably, these aid workers engaged in tasks that are within the competence of both the Greek State and the EU, who rather chose to invest millions to build their own security apparatus. Aid workers provide medical attention to migrants who lack health rights in Greece, as well as supplementary food to compensate for the scarce nutrition afforded by the camp. Numerous activists complained about the illegitimacy of institutional repression and the criminalisation of their work, while expressing feelings of powerlessness that arose from the impossibility of providing durable solutions to the humanitarian crisis endured by migrants.

The European mechanism to control human mobility can be understood as a multilayered regime that is composed by multiple countries, institutions, practices and discourses. The securitisation of borders sees the EU interrupting migrants’ journeys in third countries by means of multilateral agreements. Simultaneously, dominant discourses are being politically used to enshrine the benefits of the humanitarian system that ‘welcomes’ those who manage to reach the Aegean Islands after the highly criticised 2016 EU-Turkey deal. Since then, the confinement of migrants on Lesbos has continuously been presented as demonstrating the ostensible benevolence of the EU security apparatus. By doing so, attention is drawn towards the supposed neutrality and apolitical character of humanitarianism and its role within a wider project of border control that amalgamates compassion and repression (Walters 2010, 155; Fassin 2005, 376). While such a strategy has been instrumental for the protection of European interests, the approach used in Lesbos has entailed serious consequences for those who were confined in the island during indeterminate timeframes.

As shown in the following images, even when these migrants are provided with scarce basic means to survive, their circumstances in the island are markedly colonised by a lack of security and stability. Furthermore, the precarity of their living conditions compounds with feelings of coercion that arise from the impossibility of leaving the island and, in the case of women and children, the avoidance of leaving the family’s tent in order to minimise exposure to the camp’s threats. This kind of physical immobility also restricts personal freedom of time. Consequently, their life rhythms as asylum seekers are being dictated by standardised institutional practices and infrastructures that materialise in endless queues to get rations, access the limited number of toilets and showers, receive medical attention and get legal aid. On a deeper level, the same temporality on the island is uncertain, as migrants are never aware of the moment in which their waiting will come to an end. When the final resolution is issued, these people will only have a few hours available to pack their belongings before being either sent to the Greek mainland or deported to Turkey. In the case of rejection, as a standard procedure, asylum seekers are allowed to look for legal advice to appeal the decision, although the system permits insufficient time to find it, considering that seven days are not enough to obtain assistance from the few local lawyers who assist migrants on an honorary basis. Such institutional establishments find theoretical reference in Bishop (2011, 163): “(…) the process of claiming asylum itself means that life, to a certain extent, is put on hold. This is the time of stasis, of inertia, where life becomes endlessly deferred into some indeterminate point in the future and which means that long-term, concrete plans become extremely difficult to make”.

It should not be forgotten that the time the migrants spend in the island has a determinative impact on their present. By finding themselves confined into a system in which their rights are relatively suspended, those who fled traumatising realities in search of peace may experience a deterioration in their capacity for endurance and resilience. An understanding of the disruptive power implied within the asylum process could benefit from Mountz’s observations (2011: 387): “Displacement and liminality are written onto the bodies of asylum-seekers by states of origin and destination, transit states in between, and intermediary institutions that broker detention and regulate movement”. In this sense, Moria’s dwellers are stuck in an indeterminate limbo of precarity that impacts on their wellbeing by intersecting with previous traumas. Evidently, whilst humanitarianism is founded on the mission of improving people’s living conditions, the case of Moria demonstrates its degenerative effects and the role it plays within the EU border regime. As lucidly proposed by Pallister-Wilkins (2018, 372): “[i]n so doing, it uncovers humanitarianism’s uncomfortable relationship with mobility, dominant rationalities of intervention and the ethics of care. (…) As such, humanitarianism has a particular rationality built around processes of efficiency and restoring the status quo as opposed to proposing and advocating an alternative politics”. The following pictures offer a visual idea of migrants’ living conditions in Moria camp, showing an example of the paradox existing within the EU’s rhetorics of humanitarian assistance in a context marked by destitution and human suffering.

Content warning: the following testimonies contains content related to sexual assault, abuse, self-harm and suicide, death, homophobia and imprisonment

Figure 2 – November 12th, 2019.

“People can’t plan their time, their life. I mean this is not a game for them, they’re just waiting… waiting in a line for food, for showers, for electricity, for clothes… and waiting to know what is going to happen. Also waiting to know about their asylum, waiting for a deportation, waiting, waiting…  for them time is… there’s no time for them, no schedule (…) Hopelessness is the main feeling migrants constantly experience. In Moria, you don’t know anything, and I think the lack of information can really create nerves. (…) Waiting, wasting time, feeling useless, passing time without any aim, postponing everything is… you know, they’re kind of stuck… you know that time and being fast is very important in Western societies. Well, here it’s the contrary. They’re just dominating people’s time and that makes them feel useless… waiting becomes like a feeling (…) Anxiety and fear become normality, they become migrants’ second self. Those emotions are always up in the list, blocking everything else. You pass your day in a pointless way. You don’t find an aim in your life and you have to deal with all of that without knowing when this situation will end.” (Zacharoula Vezyri, NGO worker at a women and children’s space).

Figure 3 – November 30th, 2019.

“There’s an area out of the street where boats arrive, it’s a bit hidden. Therefore, authorities might not find them for several hours, and that’s why we routinely conduct nightshifts to provide first aid, because otherwise we might have people dying from hypothermia on the shore. Nights can get very cold here, especially in winter, and 30 minutes wet can really be enough to endanger a child’s life. (…) We just try to keep them warm and calm, telling them that they’re alive, providing dry clothes, wool blankets, water. We also try to do a first medical check-up in case of emergency and give psychological support, which sounds like a very big thing, but most of the time it’s just keywords or sentences that could reduce the trauma they are exposed to and hopefully avoid PTSD (…) these small things help to bring them out of that situation, because mentally they’re still on the boat, they don’t realize it’s over straight away. (…) People’s living conditions are a disaster in Moria. Europe is often responsible for the reasons why people have to leave their homes, and they are not even taking the responsibility to keep them alive. I mean, people are dying in Moria due to the camp’s terrible conditions. Last winter people died and next winter people will die again, because they might burn accidentally or inhale gas when using rudimental heaters to fight the cold. But there’s no other way to keep warm in their tent, either they risk, or they freeze to death” (Yatta, activist at Campfire).

Figure 4 – November 19th, 2019.

“A lot of migrants, especially women, take antidepressants because they’re nervous, anxious… and with the passing of time these feelings become pathologies. Women cannot sleep in Moria, and even if they can, how can their body and mind be relaxed? They will just keep alert all night in their tent and use diapers because they’re afraid of going outside, and even inside preoccupations remain. People can come to steal, or rape them, or maybe… anything can happen. (…) So, it’s very difficult for women and mothers, as their responsibilities are erased on a side, and enhanced on the other, since you have to deal with the asylum process, going to the doctor, cleaning, cooking, taking care of kids, etc. (…) For young girls it’s also hard because they’re neither children, nor adults. Still, in the camp they become like young women, and their responsibilities increase. You would also hear about cases of forced early marriages in the camp… and there’s trafficking and sex work as well, to which women, girls and children are much more exposed (…) for men it’s also hard because they have many responsibilities and experience a coercion of their gender role, but there’s a lack of services for men, and this is a big issue. I mean, my day center is for women and children, most of the services on the island are for them, but… what about men? If we want to reduce sexual and gender-based violence, the problem should be addressed also with men, it’s not just about women” (Zacharoula Vezyri, NGO worker at a women and children’s space).

Figure 5 – November 30th, 2019.

“Even kids are affected by living conditions in Moria, as many of those who come to our clinics show a loss of childhood… they don’t live their childhood anymore. They don’t eat, they don’t sleep, they don’t play, they don’t relate to other children, and they can begin to develop a tendency to self-harm. There were even cases of children aged 10-13 attempting suicide. The situation is extremely serious and worrying, also because it is getting worse in terms of numbers and conditions (…) for parents the biggest fear is their uncertainty for the future… not knowing when they’ll be able to leave this nightmare. Together with fear, they experience a deep sense of guilt for having brought their kids to Europe, where they believed they could provide them with an education, medical attention, a future… and here all their dreams fall to pieces when they realize they brought their kids to hell. (…) to see the conditions in which their kids are living… I think that’s the biggest sorrow for a father or a mother” (Marco Sandrone, Project Coordinator at Doctors Without Borders).

Figure 6 – December 12th, 2019.

“People are starving, you can now see signs of malnutrition, and this is something you wouldn’t see before. I mean, food has never been good quality, sometimes it was rotten, it was never enough, but people were usually not hungry, they were just complaining and saying “this is not food”, but at least they had something to put in their stomachs. Now we reached a point where they just say, “I’m hungry”. They can queue for hours and when they finally arrive, food will be already finished. What are they gonna’ give to their kids? (…) It has always been hell here, but now it got much worse, it’s a total disaster. It’s awful and people go more and more mental because they’re stuck here for ages and… how can you have a life? How can you live if you’re cold, you’re wet, you’re hungry… and this happens every day, you see children who are hungry every single day. (…) People’s vulnerability is enhanced here, but there is also a great resilience. People manage to go on, create networks, fight against poverty. But it’s not easy to deal with the camp’s living conditions, with authorities, with fascists… so it’s like a slow way towards destruction (…) What makes it harder is that people arrive with a certain image of Europe, not as a welcoming five-star hotel of course, but just with the idea of democracy, human rights, stability, etcetera… and after a week here, they realize that’s just a mask, a broken imaginary.” (Yatta, activist at Campfire).

Figure 7 – December 6th, 2019.

“For LGBTQI+ people, the worst is not being welcome in their own community. They’re often seen as the bad face of the community by people of their same nationalities and migrants in general. (…) Their biggest fear is being deported to the countries from where they fled persecution, but also getting beaten, robbed, or having their things stolen from their tents in Moria… or even worse, things like sexual abuse or homicide. (…) Another problem is that, during asylum interviews, they must prove their homosexuality by answering ridiculous questions that are shaped on a Eurocentric view of what being gay means, and officers have no idea of the cultural backgrounds of those they interview. Also, translators are normally white heterosexual men, and it’s very difficult for migrants to talk about these issues in front of other males, while being treated with suspicion makes things much more difficult for them. Another problem is that questions are very intrusive and pry into people’s intimacy. (…) Moria is tough for everyone, but for these people discrimination does not only come by institutions, it is also widespread within the camp’s community” (Anonymous activist at an NGO that supports LGBTQI+ migrants).

Figure 8 – December 12th, 2019.

“These people have a voice; the problem is that many cannot or do not want to hear them… People still have their agency, life trajectories, struggles and hopes. (…) What they want is just to be safe and far away from the reasons they migrated. Safety can be a very simple thing for us, but for many around the world it’s not. And safety depends from person to person: being away from war, from violence, from persecution, from discrimination, from a confluence of them altogether. (…) What they want is just a normal life, whatever that means… a job, an education, a small place they can call home… is that really too much to ask from life? (…) Amid precariousness, they also show happiness as any other human being… just with any nice thing happening, sometimes very simple things: a smile, a word, a place where they feel welcomed (…) we can’t consider them only as refugees living in Moria, they have other identities; women want to paint their nails, men want to play football, kids want to run everywhere… They are not just refugees, they are women, men, children, teenagers, elders, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters… people with passions, with hopes… this is just a moment of their lives, a moment that inshallah will pass,” (Anonymous activist at an NGO that supports LGBTIQI+ migrants).

Conclusions

Four Afghani adults and two unaccompanied minors have been prosecuted for allegedly having set Moria ablaze. Nevertheless, different groups accuse different suspects. For example, there are extreme right-wing anti-immigrant groups who wish to see their island be free from the “migrant burden”, leftists who premeditated drastic action to end institutional abuses and human rights violations within the camp as well as a group of migrants who refused to accept  the inhuman living conditions at what many considered to be an open prison.

The days following the ignition, international news was inundated with images of nameless bodies saving themselves from the blazes that consumed their abodes at Moria. On one side, the media portrayed Greek authorities throwing tear-gas upon people. On the other, European Commission’s President Ursula von der Leyen referred to Moria as a “stark reminder” that underlines the need to create sustainable solutions for Europe’s migration crisis. Regrettably, at the local level, a new camp has been quickly erected to host those people whose momentary abode was the road connecting Moria camp to Lesbos’ capital city of Mytilene. Nevertheless, according to current press releases and personal communication with activists in the island, the recently inaugurated Lesvos RIC camp has already provoked numerous controversies. The new location is exposed to the inclemency of the sea and severe weather conditions, creating doubts about the suitability of the site’s poor infrastructure to face the challenges of wintertime. Moreover, showers and latrines are not sufficient, while food is still served only once daily. Activists have been banned from distributing food to people in need, as the criminalisation of solidarity is on the rise. RIC Lesvos has been presented as a temporary solution for migrants on the island, although such claims are unsubstantiated considering that the same promise was made during Moria’s creation in 2015. Furthermore, local media exposed a five-year lease that has been signed by the Greek government to see the new camp built on a former firing range where the soil is infused with lead. Finally, the Greek government is proposing to convert the new camp into an open-air prison. Such an approach was thought to be implemented in all Aegean islands where a RIC was already operating, although the social pressure that has emerged at the international level put this plan on standby.

Meanwhile, most international reactions to the humanitarian emergency that flourished from Moria’s disintegration reiterated the lack of EU’s commitment in providing palpable solutions to ameliorate migrants’ living conditions and protect their civil rights and human dignity. While widespread political discourses are commiserating with the circumstances in Lesbos, the only practical responses to the problem consisted in sending emergency supplies such as tents and blankets, while some few hundred migrants were accepted for relocation in some European countries. However, as people continue to leave their countries to escape unendurable existences, such an approach could be conceived as an attempt to use a teaspoon to remove water from a sinking boat. No political action has been taken at an institutional level that does not reproduce an evidently unsustainable and violent humanitarian system of confinement. Two weeks after Moria’s disappearance, the New Pact on Migration and Asylum (European Commission, 2020) was promulgated by EU member States, anticipating a renovated phase of the contemporary border regime that contrasts with the romanticised idea of a benevolent and welcoming Europe. While echoing a rhetoric permeated by solidarity, the abovementioned political strategy will strengthen the sea and land security apparatus, implement fast-track screenings to deport migrants even before they can apply for asylum, delegate deportation tasks to countries that are notoriously hostile towards migrants, and also further expand EU’s frontiers through multilateral agreements. Upgrading the border control regime is an increased attempt at keeping migrants away from Europe, in spite of the social consequences of such politics in terms of migrants’ precarity, confinement and even exposure to death. Rather than being a stark reminder of the past, the end of Moria represents a dark future.