Every Friday bus number nine takes me to a refugee camp called Softex in Northern Greece.
”Syria? Syria camp?” The bus driver asked me suspiciously when I told him where I was going. I was the only passenger left in a noisy old bus when we got to my stop Periferiaki odos 1 in the middle of an old industrial area, 30 minutes from the center of Thessaloniki.
Stray dogs were running and barking, huge trucks were passing me with speed and there was litter everywhere. For a Finnish girl this Greek ghetto was an experience itself after the hip cafe’s of Thessaloniki.
The first day didn’t go as planned. The coodinator in my organisation InterVolve told me that unfortunately I can’t enter the camp – someone didn’t put my name to the list. Next Friday I went back and got in. I was welcomed by the scary looking military boss, who looked at me from head to toe.
I worked in a container, where I counted diapers and handed out razors. I learned what the basic bag meant: toilet paper, washing jelly, shampoo and a sponge. A week later I worked in a clothing boutique, where I helped families to find clothes for the winter. It was a hassle when a mom came with four children and everyone needed everything from socks to jackets.
The work in the refugee camp is actually hard work. You are often in a hurry, feel cold and don’t have time to eat properly. And is it even work? There’s no pay checks or vacations.
But despite all this volunteering in Softex has been one of the most rewarding things I’ve done. The smile on the mom’s face is priceless when I finally find all the clothes for her and her children.
The best thing in the camp are the people – both refugees and volunteers. One time me and two other volunteers were invited inside to one family’s tent to have some tea. The man was kurdish and the woman was arabic. They had two small children and the third one was on it’s way.
My colleague wasn’t sure if he can shake the woman’s hand, because some find that inappropriate. The man answered to him and also to me: ”Of course you can, you are my brother. And you, you are my sister.” He shaked my hand and continued that he wishes that everyone could be like that – be one, without dividing.
One of my friend said to me one time that I’m brave for working in a refugee camp. No, I’m not brave. We are all just people. The difference is I can take the bus number nine back home. They can’t.
You are my brother, you are my sister – my experience in a refugee camp