Name: Sinead Bolger
 |
| random dance moment |
Country
of Origin: Ireland
Spoken
Languages: English
Profession/Background: Theatremaker
Jack of all trades and master of none
Less than a
week in. I am standing in the open window of a very small porta-cabin serving
two lines of people; one men, the other women and children. They organise
themselves and though it takes me a while to understand the system, thanks to
the unhappy grumblings of one man ‘one woman, one man, one woman, one man’, I
finally get it and begin to serve in a somewhat fair fashion. They bring me
their ID papers, their house keys, their limited to fluent English, their
smiles and their tired faces, their boxes and buckets and shrugs - I check the
letter of their house in a Greek alphabet they understand so much better than
me, like everything here and we begin to pack their dinner, their families’
dinner, their neighbours’, the dinner they are fetching for the elderly or
disabled. I step away from the hatch to ask the supervisor a question and
suddenly feel very ill.
Another
volunteer steps up the plate, I collect my bag and begin the ten minute walk to
the metro station. I begin vomiting and change my mind. I just need to get to
the main road and hail a taxi to get me home. It’s getting worse. Maybe the
taxi can take me to a doctor somewhere. I am half-way down a shortcut, an
alley, deserted at this time of the evening. Eventually I cannot walk anymore
and lie in the dust, still getting sick and looking from one side to the other.
I can see the light from the main road and the road that leads back to the camp
- both are too far to reach. I can only feel the palms of my hands and the
soles of my feet now - all else is numb. The lights won’t focus anymore. And
just like that help arrives.
A man and a
teenage boy, seeing me at the last minute on their walk in the direction of the
camp, try to understand what is happening. I cannot tell them. After attempting
to walk and then carry me in the right direction the man sends the boy for the
police at the camp to help. The boy runs and he props me against a wall. He
finds my bottle of water and feeds me sips of it slowly. He puts my soft jumper
behind my head. He pours water over my spare t-shirt and uses it to clean my
face and cool me down. I feel him pull up the sleeve of my t-shirt which has
slipped down my arm over my shoulder, protecting my modesty. He reassures me
constantly that the police are coming and he begins asking me questions in a
cheerful voice; what’s my name, were am I from, what’s it like in Ireland? I
want to tell him that I know what he’s doing - I studied first aid too - but he
makes it much more conversational than I ever could.
The police
arrive and begin questioning me - “Drugs?” No. “Alcohol?” No. “Definitely
alcohol.” NO. I realise this is of course what I look like - a drunk/druggie
collapsed down an alley. But this had no effect whatsoever on Raid from Syria
and his young friend. Twelve hours later after kindly police, volunteer
coordinators, doctors and nurses, it is over. I feel right as rain. Two weeks
later I have yet to find Raid and his friend. I don’t know if I will at this
point.
One of the
questions put to us for this bio is “How is it to be a volunteer at Eleonas Camp?”.
I have yet to feel as though I’m volunteering. I am receiving far too much in
return to feel that way - the kindness of strangers, the constant offers of
tea, the hugs and cuddles from children of all ages, the spontaneous dance
sessions which no excuse will get you out of, the smiles and greetings wherever
you go in camp, the emphatic “Yes” I received from one woman with little English
when I smiled at her in passing, the stories people have shared, the chess I’ve
been taught to play, the patience with and commitment to my attempts at speaking
Farsi - it is all too much.
I try to
work harder, do more hours, take on more shifts, something to even up the
score, to feel as though I am contributing, “helping” with something but it
seems as though the score will not be evened in this regard. To volunteer with
Camp Eleonas is, in my experience, to receive far
more than I can possibly give.
