Three stories from yesterday in Presevo…
Since I have not yet received permission to work inside the encampment at the processing center, I have spent the last couple of days cleaning the volunteer houses in preparation for the return of volunteers in the coming days. Consequently, I’ve don’t have a lot of first-hand stories to share, but I did have three conversations yesterday that had a powerful impact upon me and fueled my current inquiry into what kind of support is needed to help volunteers deal with the emotional consequences of their (our) experiences.
In the morning, as I was filling water containers next door at the medical clinic (the volunteer houses have not had water for over two weeks – cause, itself, for emotional reactions for some people), I struck up a conversation with a coordinator for MSF (Doctors Without Borders for those of us Franco-impaired). He told me that he had been working the night before on the Macedonian border crossing about 15 km from Presevo. For whatever reason, the people seeking refuge are dropped at the Macedonian border town and must walk for a few kilometers across the border, to the camp in Serbia and then on to the town of Miratovac where they either get a bus or walk the remaining eight kilometers to Presevo.
It was raining hard last night and the route to the border is not paved. It was deep mud. The mud was deep enough to make the way difficult for everyone. It was especially difficult for a handicapped man in a wheelchair. His companions took turns pushing him until they all became so exhausted that they left him. Alone. In the dark. In the pouring rain. In the empty space in between. Eventually, he was found and the MSF coordinator and some police reached him with a 4-wheel drive vehicle and took him to safety.
In the afternoon, one of the local volunteers stopped by to change clothes before his shift working in the chai tent. He had just finished his day job as a waiter at a Presevo restaurant and was ready to begin his volunteer work. He shared with me about his experience of the previous night. He was working near the train station in Presevo when he came upon a deaf/mute person who had become separated from the three young children that he was traveling with. He was distressed as they were inside the camp and he was not being allowed to enter. My volunteer friend attempted to get the responsible aid organization to assist him and was told that they would get back to him in 30 minutes. The 30 minutes became over 3 hours during which time the person became extremely upset and attempted to take his life by stepping in front of a moving train. The volunteer had to grab him and pull him to safety at which point the man continued to try and harm himself by hitting himself in the head with a large stone. Eventually, the volunteer found the aid workers inside the compound sitting around drinking coffee and tried unsuccessfully to get their help in resolving the situation. So, ;eft to his own devices, the volunteer took the man to the medical clinic which is about 500 meters away.
On the way, the man attempted to jump in front of a car and had to be prevented by the volunteer. Eventually, they got to the clinic and the medical personnel put the man to sleep and contacted some local mental health resources.
As my volunteer friend told me this story, he was still obviously upset. He continued to question whether he had done everything that he could and to feel responsible for the man’s safety. He kept repeating “What could I do? I am only 20 years old and he was 40. Is there more that I could have done?” My heart went out to this young volunteer as I remembered how often I felt the same powerlessness and helplessness as a mental health crisis worker without the necessary resources. Many nights I would wonder whether I made the right decision and whether my client would be alive the next day. But I was supposedly a trained professional and was more than 20 years old.
Later in the evening, another volunteer stopped by and we struck up a conversation about his experiences. He shared some of the same stories that I have been hearing about he difficult border crossing. It was never easy but now that winter has arrived the crossing, especially at night, is even more difficult. Now there is the added complication of new policies of only admitting asylum seekers from Syria, Iraq and Afghanistan. I questioned this volunteer about what was happening to those who were refused admission. What I learned confirmed what the MSF coordinator had told me – that those who are not permitted official entry take off on their own and find alternative routes across the border. This is mountainous country. Yesterday there was visible snow on all of the foothills around town. So, those who are refused entry are not able to walk the difficult muddy road where wheelchairs get bogged down. Instead, they must find their own way, sometimes cross-country off the roads. It was then that the volunteer told me that he had just that afternoon discovered the body of a dead refugee in the mountains nearby. He was very powerfully impacted by this experience and made to leave as quickly as possible to avoid crying in front of me, I think.
Three stories. A man abandoned in the mud. A deaf/mute man trying to kill himself. The body of a refugee presumably trying to find his way across the border in order to gain refuge and safety. The caregivers – two young volunteers and a somewhat older professional – all confronted with traumatic experiences. All deeply affected by their experiences. All back to work the next day without opportunity to adequately process and deal with the emotion. Three courageous, caring people who will be carrying the memories and the feelings of helplessness and frustration with them. Three people willingly (if not fully consciously) sacrificing their own emotional well-being and peace of mind to be of service to humanity.
All I could do was to listen, to witness, to open my heart in appreciation and awe. And I am left also wondering whether there was more that I could have done. Left feeling my own sense of powerlessness and inadequacy in the face of such raw emotional experience. And also feeling gratitude that I could be there to listen, to be there in my role as a Sacred Outsider witnessing even when there is nothing that I can “do”.
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