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Steven Heighton - Reaching Mithymna: Among the Volunteers and Refugees on Lesvos

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Steven Heighton Reaching Mithymna: Among the Volunteers and Refugees on Lesvos
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    Reaching Mithymna: Among the Volunteers and Refugees on Lesvos
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FINALIST FOR THE 2020 HILARY WESTON WRITERS TRUST PRIZE FOR NONFICTION

  • A New York Times New & Noteworthy Book
    • A CBC Best Nonfiction Book of 2020
    • A Globe and Mail Top 100 Book for 2020

      Combining his poetic sensibilities and storytelling skills with a documentarians eye, [Heighton] has created a wrenching narrative.2020 Hilary Weston Writers Trust Prize for Nonfiction Jury

      In the fall of 2015, Steven Heighton made an overnight decision to travel to the frontlines of the Syrian refugee crisis in Greece and enlist as a volunteer. He arrived on the isle of Lesvos with a duffel bag and a dubious grasp of Greek, his mothers native tongue, and worked on the landing beaches and in OXY-a jerrybuilt, ad hoc transit camp providing simple meals, dry clothes, and a brief rest to refugees after their crossing from Turkey. In a town deserted by the tourists that had been its lifeblood, Heighton-alongside the exhausted locals and under-equipped international aid workers-found himself thrown into emergency roles for which he was woefully unqualified.

      From the brief reprieves of volunteer-refugee soccer matches to the riots of Camp Moria, Reaching Mithymna is a firsthand account of the crisis and an engaged exploration of the borders that divide us and the ties that bind.

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    Reaching Mithymna Among the Volunteers and Refugees on Lesvos STEVEN HEIGHTON A - photo 1
    Reaching Mithymna
    Among the Volunteers and Refugees on Lesvos

    STEVEN HEIGHTON

    A John Metcalf Book

    BIBLIOASIS
    Windsor, Ontario

    Contents
    By the Same Author

    FICTION

    Flight Paths of the Emperor

    On earth as it is

    The Shadow Boxer

    Afterlands

    Every Lost Country

    The Dead Are More Visible

    The Nightingale Wont Let You Sleep

    POETRY

    Stalins Carnival

    Foreign Ghosts

    The Ecstasy of Skeptics

    The Address Book

    Patient Frame

    The Waking Comes Late

    NONFICTION

    The Admen Move on Lhasa

    Workbook: memos & dispatches on writing

    The Virtues of Disillusionment

    FOR YOUNG READERS

    The Stray & the Strangers

    ANTHOLOGIES

    A Discord of Flags: Canadian Poets Write about the Persian Gulf War
    (1991: with Peter Ormshaw & Michael Redhill)

    Musings: An Anthology of Greek-Canadian Literature (2004: with main editor Tess Fragoulis, & Helen Tsiriotakis)

    CHAPBOOKS/LETTERPRESS

    Paper Lanterns: 25 Postcards from Asia (with Mary Huggard)

    The Stages of J. Gordon Whitehead

    Every heart, every heart
    To love will come
    But like a refugee.

    Leonard Cohen

    The Greek word for refugees prosfyges breaks down etymologically into - photo 2

    The Greek word for refugees, prosfyges, breaks down etymologically into something like toward-fleers, or those fleeing forwardpeople not so much in flight from former homes as urgently seeking new ones. So the Greek noun erases the prosfyges temporal and geographical past, as if to emphasize there is no returning, while at the same time it leaves the future indefinite, shoreless, an aspirational but as yet uncertain thing. To be a is to exist on an ever-vanishing cusp or border, the forward-moving edge of the raft-in-time.

    This moment-by-moment limbo is everyones dilemma (the past is dead, the future unborn, unguaranteed) but only the homeless fully inhabit it.

    For Tracey, Omar, and Clara
    who were there and still are

    A note on naming

    The names of the volunteers and the refugees that readers will encounter in these pages have been changed to reflect the fact that each character is my approximation or re-creation of an actual person. Similarly, I refer to the town that has been the epicentre of the trans-Aegean refugee influx as Mithymna rather than Molyvos. (Mithymna, the towns ancient name, was revived in 1919 as its official modern name, but Molyvosthe Byzantine and Ottoman-era termremains the one in general use.) Finally, I transliterate the name of the island on which the book is set as Lesvos, simply because modern Greek pronounces the letter beta () as a v.

    S.H.

    1. Initiation

    October 30, 2015: Authorities on the island of Lesvos, Greece, have announced that in the wake of Wednesdays sinking of a boat packed with over 300 migrants, the death toll has risen to 29. Many of the drowned were children and babies. The Hellenic Coast Guard reported that so far 274 people have been rescued from the sea off the islands northern coast. Local fishing boats participated in the rescue, ferrying survivors and the dying from a sinking boat to the harbour town of Molyvos (Mithymna), where paramedics and volunteers offered assistance and triaged ambulance transport. Many victims, suffering from shock or hypothermia, received first aid in a chapel on the pier.

    Lesvos continues to bear the brunt of the Syrian and Middle Eastern refugee influx. More than half a million people have reached the island so far in 2015, as many as 7,500 in a single day.

    Border straits

    The only other person aboard the bus, the driver, shakes me awake. I see myself in duplicate in his aviator shades. Mithymna? I ask. He nods. His dangling crucifix bears a crudely rendered Christ, the body skeletal, the face large, plump and calmly self-satisfied.

    Mumbling thanks, I pick up my bags and step down onto the hot road. No traffic passing, not a living thing in sight. Is it already the siesta hour? Youd never know this part of the island was thronged with war refugees and that hundreds, thousands more were arriving daily.

    The bus stays put, idling, the driver slumped behind the wheel as if already napping behind his sunglasses. Nothing wants to be awake right now. Ive barely slept in fifty hoursan overnight flight, a second night on a ferryand as I close and rub my eyes, a montage of pre-sleep psychedelia starts looping.

    Across the road, a town of whitewashed houses with terracotta roofs climbs the face of a high crag topped by a Crusader castle. On this side of the road, olive groves fall away downhill to a long rank of cypresses, the sea glistening beyond.

    I turn onto a dirt lane and let the slope carry me down through the olive groves past a few shuttered houses, gaping work sheds, a weedy lot where the hulks of cars sit rotting. I pass between two cypresses and here is the seafront, a paved road running north-south along a narrow beach of white sand and pebbles. The shallows look tropically turquoise. Orange buoys bob offshore. The sea smells of kelp and something I cant place at first... associations of fear, distress... its iodine, the intensely stinging stuff my mother painted onto cuts when I was small.

    On the low seawall, beside a pack of Greek cigarettes and a half-empty water bottle, theres a coil of rope, some barbed steel hooks, and a cookie tin full of chicken feet the raw grey-pink of earthworms. Beyond them sits a white plastic pail. I look inside: a glutinous, translucent mass of octopods, motionless, though they give a faint impression of trembling.

    No sign of the fisherman, who might be napping in some nearby shade.

    I follow the paved road south along the beach. There are supposed to be hotels and rooms for rent down here. Off-season now they might be cheap, especially for someone who means to stay for a month. But the small places on either side of this T-junction are boarded up. The buildings to my lefttwo-storey hotels, cafs, clubsare all shuttered. Would they normally be closed at this time of year or has the refugee influx damaged tourism even more than Ive heard?

    Something odd appears up ahead at the waterline. The sun in my eyes, I squint to focus. It looks like an immense sea animal, beached and decomposing, an elephant seal, a small whale.

    I drop my bags and walk diagonally down the beacha matter of a few stepsand continue along the water. As I approach the carcass I step over an orange life vest half-buried in wet sand and realize those buoys offshore must be life vests too. Of course. Now my eyes make sense of the wreckage ahead: a half-deflated dinghy, its black rubber snout aground on the beach, stern wallowing in the shallows.

    I find the dinghys aft section full of oily water. A red parka floats there, arms outstretched, amid empty water bottles, a plastic diaper and a few banknotes, maybe Syrian.

    This vessel is no roomier than a large kiddie pool but will have ferried at least sixty people, reportedly the minimum the human smugglers will squeeze aboard.

    I walk farther. Another dinghy is half-submerged some distance out and drifting shoreward. On the tideline and in the shallows, more life jackets, water bottles, disposable diapers, a saturated hoodie, an infant soother, cigarette butts.

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