At first, I found myself wishing Thodoris would just be quiet. I so desperately needed to get ahold of myself and think clearly and figure out a plan! I spoke no Greek, was living on borrowed money, and didn’t even know what fucking time zone I was in. Yet I would have to find—and likely confront—an anarchist collective somewhere in a remote corner of a Greek island. The irony of this was not lost on me. I’d spent my youth, of course, stomping around in a clawed ANARCHY IN THE U.K. T-shirt, performing a cover version of the Sex Pistols’ most famous hit in grunge bars in southeast Michigan. Toxic Shock Syndrome had even attempted to compose our own version, “Khaos in Amerika”—okay, originality was not exactly our strong suit—and half the time it ended with our guitar strings breaking and a bunch of disgruntled drunks pulling the plug on our amp because the song was so bad—but that was true anarchy, we’d insisted. Now, clearly, all the punk-rock pretentions of my youth had come back to bite me in the ass.
What the hell was I going to do: Just look around for a bunch of people with safety-pinned nostrils and pink hair? Pretend to be “down” with a bunch of twenty-year-old Greek rebels in riot gear? (Was that even what they wore? Where was I getting my ideas from now? I hadn’t a clue. A YouTube video somewhere…?)
Through all of the noise in my head, Thodoris’s voice actually became like a salve. It was the equivalent of setting me on top of a washing machine. I noticed he kept checking on me in his rearview mirror.
Maybe I can trust him, I thought. I need somebody who can help me in this alien place.
The taxi screeched violently. A bus careened around the corner. Thodoris leaned on his horn, swerved off the road. The bus was so crammed full of passengers, they were smushed up against the glass like laundry in a dryer; I could see the blur of their eyes as they barreled past. In a spray of mud and exhaust, the bus vanished around a curve just as quickly as it had appeared.
“Are you okay? I am sorry. These crazy drivers,” Thodoris panted. “They are maniacs.”
Slowly, he pulled the taxi onto the road again. “The problem we have here,” he said, frowning, “is with all the refugees coming.”
My heart snagged. Never mind. Ashley was right: Don’t trust the locals.
“First the government says that any Greeks who help the refugees travel on boats or buses or taxis will be charged as ‘human traffickers,’” Thodoris said. “They think that if Greeks do not help the refugees, they will stop coming.” I watched his face in the rearview mirror; he shook his head again. “But that is crazy in the head, yes? Because the refugees, they are coming from war. They are running for their lives. They will not say, ‘Oh, there is no bus service on Lesvos. So I will stay home.’ In one month, fifteen thousand people arrive here on the beach.”
“Here?” I said, my voice betraying my incredulity. Lesvos didn’t seem to be much more developed than I imagined the Middle East to be.
“We are just five kilometers across water from Turkey. We are just gateway. The refugees, if they get here alive, they maybe go on to better places in EU, get citizenship, have a new chance. But first,” he said, “they must go to one office here to register. In Moria, fifty kilometers away. And because we Greeks are not allowed to drive refugees, everyone, they must walk to Moria. Little children. Old people. Some are sick. But they have to walk. No shade. No toilets. No water.”
“Could they set up porta-potties?” As soon as I said this, though, I sensed the folly of it.
He made a hairpin turn. “My family, we do not live far from this road. My ya-ya, she picks figs from her garden. Hands them to refugees. Some families from Syria, they are lawyers, businessmen, teachers. They have life savings sewn in their jackets. They take out one hundred euro bills and wave them at my taxi. ‘Please drive my wife; she is pregnant.’”
He shook his head bitterly. “I do not take a hundred euros. Who does that to a family who has lost everything? But I cannot drive them all the way, either. I tell them, I am sorry, I drop you outside. I have a baby at home. What if I lose my taxi?
“Now, finally, the government sees the refugees are still coming. So they have changed the law again. Now, it is legal to drive refugees. Buses take refugees to Moria. But they compete for business with taxis. So they drive like race-car drivers.”
He frowned, shifted gears again. He glanced back at me. He suddenly looked older than I’d first thought, his eyes sad and wet.
Slowly, I exhaled. I looked at him, hard. “Thodoris,” I said carefully. “Do you know if there is a refugee camp in the place we’re going to?”
“In Skala Sikamineas?” He executed another sharp turn. “There is a small camp by the water. But it is ‘unofficial.’ We are not supposed to know about it. So of course, everybody knows about it. It is a camp for refugees when they first arrive. For maybe a few nights. Too many people, though, I hear; not enough room. You will see. People, they sleep everywhere. No beds, no blankets. Not enough food, not enough water.”
Was this where my daughter was—sleeping on the ground somewhere? Was she starving? Maybe I had gotten something wrong. “This camp. Do you know if it is maybe run by a bunch of—” I searched my brain for a euphemism, but I couldn’t find one. “A bunch of anarchists?”
As I said this, I watched for a reaction. But he just shrugged. “If it is run by anarchists, they are very well organized.”
“The anarchists here, are they dangerous?”
Glancing back at me, he gave a laugh. “Ha. In Greece, everybody is anarchist. We don’t want to pay taxes; we always go on strike. Nobody trusts the government. Even our government, they quit the government. Our prime minister—you see on the news? He resigned. Then, a few months later, he gets reelected because he resigns! We think, Oh, he is one of us. He has no faith in government either.”
Ha. Sounded like Zack. “Thodoris, listen,” I said abruptly. “I need to find this group, and this camp. My daughter is in it, and I need to get her out.”
His eyes widened. “Your daughter is refugee?”
“No, no. Just an idealist. And an idiot.” I exhaled wearily. “You know. A teenager.”
We were high in the mountains now. Undulant green peaks lifted us up, up, until I started to catch glimpses of a cobalt-blue sea far below.
The taxi zigzagged down a steep hill. I found my heart beating faster and faster—with anticipation that I would finally reach Ashley, but also with a backbeat of panic. Because once I found her, how would I help her? I had no idea what awaited me, what kind of shape she would be in, what the hell to do next. The situation on the island was clearly so much worse than I’d thought—though, to be fair, I hadn’t thought much about it at all.
Yet Skala Sikamineas, it turned out, was only a tiny fishing village. The steep main street had a few terra-cotta-roofed houses on either side of it. At the bottom was a small two-story hotel, a one-room mini-market, and a tavern. That was it.
The road ended abruptly at the seafront. We lurched onto a small flagstone cul-de-sac in what passed for a town square—though it was barely enough space to turn the car around in. A few scrawny trees shaded it; two benches sat pressed against a small yard on our left. People were sleeping on the benches, I noticed, under what appeared to be airplane blankets, and others were camped in the yard itself, barricaded around their piles of belongings.
I had made a terrible mistake. This hamlet was far too small—too quaint and picturesque—for anything other than fishing. When Ashley had said she was at a camp, perhaps she had meant one farther inland—on our way down the mountainside, we’d passed a clearing full of tents. Or, could she have in fact meant someplace else entirely—perhaps that place Thodoris had mentioned, Moria or wherever? Good God: It was literally all Greek to me. How the hell was I going to find my kid?
Thodoris maneuvered the taxi around in the little public square, then pulled up beside the little white stucco hotel.
“Are you staying here? Or over in Pension Nikki?” He pointed directly across the street. Flustered, I lo
oked from one to the other, then back again. I realized with shock—and a sliver of horror—that he was actually expecting me to disembark. This was it. Our lovely, comforting taxi ride was over. In another minute, I’d be wholly on my own again.
The pension had a blue doorway with a friendly, hand-painted sign. The other had small balconies facing the sea and actually said HOTEL. But where was the refugee camp?
Thodoris turned around to face me, concerned. “You do have a reservation here, yes?”
The tone in his voice had shifted.
“Of course, of course,” I lied. “Either place is fine. I’ll just—” I dug through my purse for my wallet. “Whichever hotel, it doesn’t matter really. I’m not planning to stay long at all—I’ll just—”
He sighed. “If you do not have room reservation already, that is a big problem,” he said, not unkindly. “With all the journalists and volunteers and refugees coming, everything is full. Whole island, not just Sikamineas. And if there is room, they charge you hundreds of euros. Look, you see?” He motioned to the postage stamp of a park by the waterfront. “People are sleeping outside on the benches.”
I blinked at him. If I had him leave me here as planned, I could wind up stranded with my stuff, effectively homeless yet again. Whatever remained of Arjul’s loan would likely dissipate even faster, too. Suddenly, though, I was so tired, my thoughts simply evaporated. All I could think to do now was just run up and down the street screaming, “Ashley, Ashley,” like some madwoman from Detroit. Watch me. I’d wind up back in a jail. And my daughter. My daughter.
“I’m sorry. I have no idea what to do next.” My voice broke. I pointed to the building with the HOTEL sign on it. Perhaps they would take pity on me. “Just leave me here, I guess.”
Thodoris switched off the ignition. I started to take out my wallet, but he held up his hand to silence me, then picked up his phone and dialed someone quickly. He spoke rapidly in Greek. When the call was finished, he tossed his phone aside, twisted around, and looked at me. “Okay. I cancel next pickup. You are a parent. Your child, she is lost. So. We will find her.”
Before I could protest, he pointed down a narrow road along the water’s edge, leading away from Skala Sikamineas. A stone wall ran along one side of it; the tide scraped up to it on the other. Scores of people were shuffling along. “This road, she is too difficult to drive on. But the camp, I think it is maybe five hundred meters. While you go, I stay here. I keep your bags locked safe in trunk.” He picked up his phone again. He nodded toward the café by the water. “I will wait over there. I will have coffee. It will not be too terrible. When you come back, if your daughter is not here, we go look in another camp. In meantime, I will call my brother, Yannis. We will find place for you to stay.”
I looked at Thodoris, then at the narrow path with waves lapping against it, then the car key in his fist. Did I dare trust him? I supposed I would have to. He seemed a far better bet than lugging my suitcase and guitar by myself into the heart of an anarchist camp. Besides, I’d seen for myself: He couldn’t even abandon a cheese pie.
How the hell did you say “thank you” in Greek? I had absolutely no idea, of course. Instead, I found myself bursting into tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I heard myself sniffle. Thankyouthankyouthankyou.
Thodoris waved his hands sheepishly. “No, no, no,” he said. “It is no problem for me at all. When Stavroula’s uncle move to America, all his new neighbors in Michigan, they help him. So now, we help you.” He made a shifting motion back and forth with his hands. “So we balance.”
How was it that the people you knew and loved most deeply in this world could hurt and betray you so profoundly, yet strangers could show you so much offhanded compassion, it made your heart break? As I stumbled down the road, wiping my eyes on the back of my wrist, I blinked out at the sea. The sun scattered nets of diamonds across the water. In another time, the road leading out of Skala Sikamineas would have been enchanting.
But now, I saw people were sleeping on the rugged shore, hunkered down beneath pieces of cardboard and tarps and even yoga mats. (Yoga mats?) I saw families in blankets along the roadside, huddling with their belongings, smoking cigarettes, standing by the sea talking on cell phones in languages I could not recognize.
About a quarter of a mile down, I came to an iron gate across from the beach. Hand-painted signs were posted in what appeared to be both Arabic and Greek, as well as—to my relief again—English: WELCOME and NO PHOTOS PLEASE. Down a wooded pathway, large tents were set up among tall trees, identified with various signs and arrows pounded into the muddy ground: Food, Clothing, Women, Toilets, Medical. With the sun glinting through the greenery, it almost felt idyllic—like a tree house or a children’s summer camp—except that there were lines and crowds everywhere, and the noise was as loud as any airport or open-air sporting event—and occasionally great waves of stench came over the breeze: urine and sour milk and cigarettes and wet wool and rotting fruit.
For a split second—just a split second—I felt myself cower, physically recoil. But my daughter—with any luck—was actually somewhere in this mess.
I threaded my way past women in headscarves jiggling babies, young barefoot men shivering on the ground wrapped in metallic thermal blankets, families with vacant eyes standing stonily, dutifully, waiting in a line for porridge (Good God, I knew what that was like now). A young man with a chemical burn running from his calf to his thigh rocked in quiet agony by the medical tent.
After a night in jail, after a night in a homeless shelter—and as a daughter of Detroit itself—I thought I’d at least be somewhat prepared for crowds, for squalor. But this was of another magnitude. I was instantly overwhelmed by the sights and noises and crowds and palpable desperation and the struggle for dignity. I was surprised at how claustrophobic I felt, even outdoors, with the impossibly blue Greek sky arcing above us.
Was anyone in charge? A few people with nametags circulated around. Most were young men and women in their twenties, most of them fair-skinned, with an impressive assortment of tattoos and piercings and—what seemed to be a particularly twenty-first-century anarchist predilection—blond dreadlocks. But others looked like fitness instructors. Still a few others were much older, in drawstring cotton pants and gauzy scarves and wild gray hair, looking like the aged hippies they probably were. They tried to corral people into lines and hand out bottles of water and escort the injured. Several had teenagers by their side, interpreting.
Pushing my way toward the medical tent, I saw a freckled woman with a whistle hanging from a fluorescent green cord around her neck. She was trying to manage all the patients jockeying for attention while answering questions from a woman in a flowered hijab holding a crying toddler.
“People, please, please, everyone quiet down,” the freckled woman shouted in English. “We only have one doctor this morning. One doctor.” She held up one finger for emphasis. “We will try to get to all of you.” She had a British accent, and something about its musicality seemed to calm people for a moment. (Or, well, it calmed me.) But glancing over, she gave me a drowning look. “Are you Anna? Did Gunter send you over?”
I shook my head. I felt terrible. “I’m so sorry. I’m looking for my daughter, one of the volunteers? A nineteen-year-old American named Ashley Koczynski? Five foot four with long, light brown hair, green eyes, very thin?” Yet the woman shook her head, her attention diverted by a small girl pointing to a bloodied knee. “I’m sorry. I just arrived yesterday. Try the main tent.”
I pushed my way into another clearing, my boots sinking into the mud. These were the same cool leather boots I’d worn to meet Zack at Fontanel, that I’d been arrested in, that had been on my feet at the homeless shelter in Memphis. Good God, had I really purchased them only a week ago—on sale at a Macy’s off the New Jersey Turnpike? It now felt like an entirely different universe. And just a week before that, I’d been in Vegas, smiling insipidly on a stage with Colleen Lundstedt beneath a battery of colored l
ights. It was absurd. How the hell had all of this happened to me so quickly? To my family? My insides grew hot; I felt a swell of vertigo.
The main tent was not nearly large enough to accommodate all the arrivals. I was stunned. So many women and children. Frantically, I stepped over clusters of people sitting on the ground drinking tea. Excuse me, excuse me. I found a young, clean-cut college student in a red polo shirt. “Oh, yes. Please, hello?” I said. Only when he gave me a helpless smile did I realize with embarrassment that he was refugee, too.
Finally, someone pointed me to a shaggy-haired, bearded man with a clipboard.
“Oh, wait. Yeah. The American girl.” He pointed in the direction of a crude path leading farther into the woods. “Check in the quarantine tent, down past the latrines.”
My heart beat faster and faster as I made my way through the shrubbery, almost bumping into a group of dark-haired children running back and forth between the trees giggling. Would Ashley be there? Please, let her be there. But would she be delirious? Still vomiting? What disease did she even have? All my years of hypochondriacal googling (“Do I have Ebola?”; “Avian Bird Flu: The First Seven Symptoms”; “How to tell if you may have been infected by Mad Cow Disease”) came back to haunt me. Such folly, such indulgence. The Jew in me, too, wondered if my worry hadn’t been a lightning rod drawing the evil spirits down—and these, being Jewish evil spirits, would be ironic—sparing me, but infecting my child. And yet where the fuck was WebMD now that I was really going to need it? I shouldn’t have left my first-aid supplies back in my suitcase with Thodoris. Dammit, I wasn’t thinking.
The tent was an older army-surplus type suspended from jute ropes like my father used to set up for Toby and me when we’d gone camping as kids. Its thick canvas had the same damp throw-pillow smell, too. For a moment, I was back in Michigan, 1975. Pulling back the heavy flap, I stepped into darkness.
The tarp underfoot was bunched and muddy; in the dim light, I slowly made out several wooden shipping pallets with bedrolls unfurled on them, some with ratty cushions or inflatable pillows. A cluster of backpacks sat piled in one corner, chained together with a bicycle lock. I nearly tripped over two young, heavily tattooed people sitting on a bedroll on the floor. They both had shaved heads and were dressed in identical sweatshirts with the sleeves and collars torn off and combat pants with Velcro pockets bulging on the hips; one (a girl, I saw, from the small breasts pressing through the fabric) was lying with her head in the other’s lap, scrolling through something on her phone.
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