Spontaneous Dance Sessions: Meet Sinead Bolger

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.