Mare Nostrum

The refugee and migrant crisis is an issue hitting the news’ headlines almost daily in Greece, and at least weekly in Europe. So much has been said and written, things constantly change since the start of this ‘crisis’ and yet the essence remains the same.

A few days ago, the Greek government announced its plans to build a sea barrier off the coast of Lesvos, in order to prevent the influx of migrants. While the Moria refugee camp is described as a hell, the ministry’s for migration and asylum response is not to invest on providing infrastructure for the ill and dying migrants, but on building a wall on the sea border. But I don’t plan to make a political analysis of the situation; I only wonder about its spatial consequences and I ask myself, can the sea become solid?

In spring 2016, I visited the island of Chios. The refugee crisis back then was at its first peak. I managed to take some photographs of the temporary refugee camp of the island, also known as the ‘Souda hot spot’ (permanently closed in autumn 2017). The camp was set up close to the centre of the port city, inside the trench surrounding the byzantine castle (from where the photos were taken) and close to the fishing harbour. The refugees were given an enclosed strip of land, so that they would not occupy public space around the port and piazzas, as in the first days of the big influx. The camp had view and access to the sea and, in the horizon, one could see the shores of Turkey.

The photographs show refugees along the beach, while some of their children are diving in the water by jumping from a sea mark at the end of the dock. Watching those children play, I could not help but think that all children in the world would enjoy the sea in the same way. As if those young refugees were able to forget for a while that they were far from home, in an inhospitable country; as if they made peace with the same sea they crossed through hardship and distress.