Mundane moments are no longer simple once your eyes have seen too much or your heart has felt too much. Even when the human body survives another trying day, its brain holds on to the memory. And like a movie set on a loop, it replays over and over.
As the steam rose from Alexia’s cup in the crisp Molyvos air, she could see the days behind her and wondered what the day ahead would bring. She contemplated whether or not her fleece would be warm enough for today’s slapping wind. It doesn’t really matter, she thought. She knew that once the boats arrived and she was knee-deep in the frigid sea pulling refugees to safety, no piece of fabric would keep her warm. The stings of the bitter temperature and situation would slay her body—and her spirit.
She thought of the Greek and Turkish coast guards who had grown more vigilant even as the weather had cooled. Fewer boats had been making the journey across the riskier winter waters, but they were still coming by the thousands. She knew she had to be prepared—both physically and emotionally.
Alexia sipped her cappuccino, allowing the warmth to fill her body. The foam was not too thick or too thin, just the way she liked it. She pressed her long fingers around the cup, keeping her hands warm, trying to focus on the cup and not the faces in her mind. But the more she focused on not seeing them, the more they would appear.
This time it was the little boy in the Spider-Man sweatshirt. His mother and father carrying him off the boat. Happy but exhausted—they had made it. Their clothes still dripped from the salty seawater. The mother, hair pulled back in a bun, smiled before kissing her husband on the cheek and then leaned down to kiss the sleeping son, who couldn’t have been more than four. She went to embrace her son again, but her smile quickly faded. The memory of the piercing shrieks of terror made Alexia flinch still. The medical team ran over to help. The mother fell from her husband’s arms. The little boy was dead, frozen on the journey to freedom. Alexia swore she could see the hope and joy drain from his parents’ eyes. An irrecoverable loss.
“Here you is.” The waitress dropped some sugar in front of Alexia, bringing her back.
“Efcharistó,” she thanked her.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Alexia took a look at her cheap black Casio and jumped. Her shift started in fifteen minutes. She quickly stirred in the sugar and chugged her coffee, feeling it burn her throat.
She snapped on her helmet and rode off on her rented red scooter.
Nothing felt more European to her than riding her scooter. She zipped through the swerving roads but reduced her speed when she got to the entrance of the beach.
Alexia bounced down the gravel and dirt path that led to the rocky shores. She squeezed the brake handle just enough to prevent a flip, not wanting to waste the medical team’s efforts and supplies on a careless volunteer.
As the sea came into view, she took a deep breath, calmed by the crisp sapphire water as it faded to turquoise near the shores. She admired the sun’s morning blaze, which sent sharp rays through the marshmallow clouds. Alexia loved everything she saw. She imagined diamonds cascading across the seafloor, creating the sparkles that glistened all around. One would even call it heavenly, if they didn’t know the darkness and death that lurked in its depths.
Alexia parked her scooter next to the clothing tent.
She pulled out her phone, took a snapshot of the morning landscape and texted it to her parents with a short message: Love you both, and miss you ♥.
“Hey, guys.” Alexia slid her phone into her pocket. She crunched on the pebbles, walking toward the team lounging on broken plastic chairs by the shore. Fewer boats meant more downtime. The small team of lifeguards and volunteers greeted her back. “Any pings yet?”
“There have been some,” Famke, a Dutch volunteer, said. The dirty-blond-haired social worker had been with them for a week now. Her fit body was a testament to the bicycle she rode everywhere. “But they weren’t headed in this direction. I’m sure the Greek Coast Guard will pick them up.” She pointed her hands toward the water. “We did see the Turkish Coast Guard roaming around. They’re likely sending many boats back.”
“Heartless bastards,” Dave, one of the lifeguards, scoffed.
“How about the waters?” Alexia asked.
“They’re bad,” Dave said, his hands tucked inside his sweatpants for warmth. “Just look. So choppy. It’s actually almost better if they are sent back. Or they should at least wait until later to take off. If the freakin’ smugglers have any kinda heart, they’d wait a few hours.”
Alexia studied the rough waters. To the untrained eye, it would still look tranquil and inviting, but the volunteers knew what even the slightest change in current meant to a boat stuffed like a tin can of sardines—though tin was stronger than the flimsy rubber of the dinghies.
“Geez. Let’s hope they have a heart.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m gonna go relieve Hilda.”
• • •
Alexia flipped open the tarp of the clothing tent but couldn’t spot Hilda.
“Hello?” she called out, then heard scattering.
“Yah!” Hilda shouted from the back.
Alexia walked over and found the nearly six-foot German girl lying down on the hemp mat that covered the tent floor. Her hair was in a messy ponytail as she leaned her head on a garbage bag full of donated clothes.
“Sleep well?” Alexia joked.
“Oh, shut up!” Hilda retorted. “It was a very boring night and I finished the work. Well, except this bag.” She looked at it sheepishly. “It was too comfortable.”
“Okay, okay.” Alexia grabbed her hand, struggling to help her stand. “Go home and get some real rest.”
“This pillow is better than the one I have in my hotel.” Hilda blew a kiss to the flimsy black bag. “But I leave it for you to sort, okay?”
“Yeah, I got it. Don’t worry.” Alexia contemplated taking a nap on it too. If the day was as slow as yesterday, she might. “It’ll help pass some time.”
Hilda was no longer listening, exhausted from her night of trying to stay awake. “Okay, I will see you then. Goodbye.” She scurried out of the tent.
• • •
Alexia surveyed the room of donated clothes, all divided by gender and size, an undertaking she’d initiated. She liked to think of all the people who donated each and every item.
This room was a testament to humanity. A reminder that not everyone was ignoring the plight of the refugees, or fearing them. After the recent media coverage of the crisis, more and more handouts came flooding in. There were outgrown baby onesies; jackets that had belonged to husbands, sons and fathers; and dresses that were worn by wives, mothers, daughters. Though these families couldn’t be there physically, they wanted to help.
She walked over to her favorite item and slid her fingers along the beat-up lime-green wool coat that belonged to another decade but miraculously had made its way to the here and now. The jacket still smelled of mothballs, and no amount of detergent could get rid of the odor. It was so old that even those still dripping from the frigid sea quickly scanned past it for something more modern. Or at least pretty.
But the original owner never cared about the style or color. He just loved that his wife picked the strongest jacket to keep him warm as he tilled his crops and drove around in his pickup with a broken heater. He wore it everywhere. Everyone in his small town knew he was around when they saw the jacket in the distance. They’d spot him at the drugstore. They’d spot him at church. “There’s Terry!” It’s the jacket he wore when he took his grandchildren to the park and his wife to the movies. And when he died, it was the one thing his family couldn’t throw out or give away. It was too precious to let go. Unless it was to someone deserving.
Despite its ugly appearance, Alexia knew that one day someone would grab it. They would put their arms through the sleeves and wrap their body in its warmth. And during one of the hardest days of their lives, they’d place their trembling hands into the pocket of the beaten coat to find a note that would make them feel loved, oceans away from its sender.
Alexia pulled out the ripped-up piece of notebook paper during every shift to remind herself that the world wasn’t all bad.
Hi! I know you may not speak or read English, but in the case that you do, please continue reading. I want you to know that people are rooting for you. There are people in the world fighting for your safety and equality. People are doing this because despite what you’ve been made to believe, you are an important person in this world and you are going to do great things. This jacket you are wearing belonged to my grandfather Terry Jenkins. He grew up and lived his whole life in Iowa. Now you are wearing his jacket in Greece, after going through something most people in the world can’t bear to think about. Terry would be proud to have known that someone with courage and patience such as yours is wearing his jacket. I would love to hear from you and hear your personal story because you matter to me. When you get access to a computer, please email me: sally.martin@trendmail.com
Love, Sally Martin
Alexia folded the paper and stuck it back into the pocket. She was always tempted to email and thank her. But she knew Sally didn’t want to hear from her, at least not until she knew that someone was kept warm because of her grandfather’s jacket. All Alexia could do was continue to display the jacket in front, in the hope that someone would grab it. Maybe today will be the day, she thought.
Alexia headed back to the crates packed with baby meal bags, all purchased with donated money and flown in from the UK by volunteers. Hilda had already filled and tied dozens of plastic bags full of pouches and fruit. To pass time, Alexia decided to make more.
She stuffed the bags like she was a one-person assembly line. Two fruit squeeze packets, a banana and apple juice. Squeeze packets, banana, juice. Squeeze packets, banana, juice . . .
Time to check her watch; only fourteen minutes had passed.
Alexia sighed.
Squeeze packets, banana, juice . . .
Time check. Another eleven minutes. Damn.
Phone break. Alexia opened the Snapchat app. By now, drunk pictures of her friends back home were posted. She scrolled through laughing and slightly missing a life that seemed so far away, and not just by distance.
Back to the bags.
Alexia’s daily temptation to try the strawberries-and-apple baby food pouch surfaced. She never gave in. Those are for hungry babies! she’d tell herself, promising to buy one at Target when she got back to Connecticut. It was one of her many missions lined up for when she went home, just behind a hot bowl of meatball pho from her favorite Vietnamese restaurant and devouring a Boston Kreme from Dunkin’ Donuts.
Alexia heard footsteps crunching outside, breaking the monotony of the food bagging.
As the white plastic cover lifted, two women walked through, one a brunette and the other a blonde.
“Hello! We have come to help today,” said the golden-haired one, extending a hand. “My name is Sivan, and this is Mariam.”
Alexia shook both of their hands, noticing that they were slightly older than her. “Alexia. Nice to meet you.”
“We are here for medical assistance.” Mariam examined the tent with her piercing caramel eyes. “We are medics. But while we wait for the boats, we can help here.”
“Welcome. This is the clothing tent, as you can see.” Alexia tied up a bag. “We just make sure they get out of their wet clothes and put on some dry ones after they make it to shore. We also have some food items for babies.” She lifted the bag before dropping it into the plastic crate. “You are more than welcome to join me.”
The two girls nodded. “We’d love to. It’ll help pass the time.”
“Not as much as you’d think.” Alexia smiled. “So, where are you guys from?”
“We are from Israel. I’m from Tel Aviv,” Sivan said. “And Mariam is from Nazareth. You?”
“America.” Alexia’s eyes bounced between the two girls. She knew that Israel and Syria were technically at war.
“You are wondering why Israelis have come here?” Mariam said.
“I guess I’d assumed that most Arabs and Israelis . . . don’t really get along,” Alexia said as Mariam and Sivan smirked. “Do the refugees give you a hard time when they find out where you’re from?”
“No, they are kind and grateful,” said Mariam.
“We are just here to help, like you,” Sivan said. “And if during that time people realize that there is more than meets the eye with any country, including ours, then okay.” She shrugged.
“How about the Palestinians that arrive from places like Yarmouk—how are they with you? Do you avoid telling them where you’re from?” Alexia asked.
“I am Palestinian,” Mariam said. “An Arab-Israeli. I can talk to them if there are problems. But really, we haven’t had any.”
“Yes, Mariam is right,” Sivan added. “Everyone is just so relieved when they make it, or are so scared that they don’t see politics. We receive hugs, not hate.”
“And they, of all people, know that governments don’t always represent all the people,” Mariam said. “Even when it seems to be black-and-white, you will always find those specks of gray.”
“Now”—Sivan looked at the crates in front of her—“will you tell us how to pack these bags?”
• • •
Less than a kilometer from the beach, more volunteers were on shift at the Athena Hotel, including the young man who would soon save the lives of those on Tareq’s boat just by using his eyes. It’s not always brawn and muscles that save ships and, in turn, the people on them.
The building they were staying in offered the perfect vantage point. And it was definitely more comfortable than the other lookout points on top of dirt hills, with only cars and earth to rest on.
The popular family-run resort’s sun-and-fun-seeking guests stopped coming as the refugees continued to land en masse. At the moment, their business was afloat because of the numerous volunteers. But the owners were worried, like all the villagers, that when the refugees stopped landing on their shores and the volunteers left, the tourists wouldn’t come back.
Michael, a Singaporean volunteer, was at the helm of the lookout team. He peered through state-of-the-art scopes situated on brand-new tripods.
He scanned the water and the Turkish coastline carefully.
The rest of his team was having breakfast outside the room. They ate scrambled eggs and sipped their coffee while taking in the morning view. But they couldn’t fully relax, instinctively examining the waters with each bite.
Michael had been monitoring the Turkish Coast Guard vessel. He knew that they, too, were searching the waters for boats. And the encounters between the coast guard and the refugees were not always pleasant.
Every once in a while the refugees would get past them without being noticed, or at times they were flat-out ignored. During the busiest months, the coast guards didn’t have enough boats to stop the thousands of people who were transiting through every day. And until the European Union handed out more concessions to the Turkish government, their vigilance was as unpredictable as the waves.
Every few minutes, Michael took another scan through the scope.
Between each sweep, he tried to organize the room. His military training had instilled in him a need to have everything orderly and ready.
He positioned the map of the Aegean, with both coastlines, so it was visible from the scope’s position. The map marked the most common departure and landing points with the given names of each beach. Michael had constructed it.
Back to the scope.
Then he checked to make sure the portable battery packs were charged. The last thing they needed was a volunteer with a dead phone, their preferred way to communicate. The generational gap between the volunteers was always visible when someone asked for a walkie-talkie. They didn’t have any. And teaching someone how to use WhatsApp was much cheaper than purchasing them.
Back to the scope.
This time, he spotted movement from the coast guard vessel. He panned to the right, and there it was.
A black object with orange dots.