The School of Moria
By Dionysis Pavlou
I am unscrewing the last screw to take down the whiteboard from the “school” of Wing B (which used to house unaccompanied minors) in the burnt Moria Reception and Identification Center. Around me, a postmodern apocalypse: hundreds of burnt containers gaping, with their black sheets standing in the area like ugly sculptures, the smell of burnt polyurethane piercing the nostrils. I can hear metallic sounds: people from the Roma community scavenging for whatever material can be recycled after the disaster. Only this “school” was spared. All the rooms of the unaccompanied minors wing, all the other containers, and all the tents that made up the “Jungle” were completely burnt.
So here I am, unscrewing this whiteboard, which I had screwed on this position four years ago. I want to put it at another school, where everybody can participate on an equal basis and without discrimination. Is it accidental that this space, the space of learning and entertainment, was the only one that stayed intact in the disaster?
Why Education?
The “school” was an educational attempt that started in Moria in November 2016. I had been then appointed by the Greek Ministry of Education as refugee education coordinator with the aim of preparing the children and the young adults of Moria for entry into the normal education system of the country through reception classes. Alas, for the thousands of children in Moria, there was never any formal structure for learning and education until the total destruction of the place, four years later. There were only isolated and separate informal educational activities run by NGOs and self-organized attempts by the asylum-seeker communities themselves, when they realized with disappointment that there was no prospect of inclusion in the formal education system. Moria was the only migrant camp, the only structure of refugee “hospitality,” that stayed out of the formal education system, an educational “black hole.” It was also the only one that was destroyed completely by fire, which raged for four days.
One afternoon in November 2016, a few days after I had started working, I heard loud noises and the sound of stones hitting the walls of the containers. It was yet another revolt by the unaccompanied teenagers, who would throw the gravel that was used to pave their courtyard against the walls of containers, shouting at the same time, “azadi!” (freedom). They were not allowed out of this ward for their own protection. Wing B only housed boys who were formally under the protection of the local public prosecutor. Only with their permission and with guards to accompany them were the boys allowed out for specific occasions. Their wing was fenced off all around, and the fence was topped with razor wire, while the entrance was guarded day and night.
As I saw the governor of the camp, exasperated, trying to calm them down, I came to the idea of an integrated educational program inside the minors’ wards, since I felt that the Ministry of Education had no intention, or would not dare, to create structures for the inclusion of these youths into the system. I was hoping that this could provide an outlet for their anger and create educational tools to deal with meaningless violence that, at the end of the day, was self-destructing.
How Education?
Following my proposal, the authorities of the camp appointed a person to collaborate with me in devising the program. There was much fluidity, however, as the number of people in this specific wing fluctuated from seventy to one hundred, and sometimes down to ten. Every time the minors revolted, they were moved to other accommodations outside the camp, and this ward remained completely empty, waiting for new arrivals. There was no overall educational framework, however. The classes and activities were fragmented and were carried out, individually or in groups, by three different NGOs, each with their own personnel, curriculum, and agenda. This chaotic situation was idealized as it had assumed the label of “unconventional,” informal education, free from the restrictions of the formal system. There was a climate of competition and much overlap, both in terms of pupils and in terms of content.
When we started, I asked the authorities to work with teachers who were posted in Moria through various programs for the unemployed. As we started from zero, this experience forced me to reflect on the fundamental principles of any educational action, things that we take for granted in normal circumstances. We defined three key parameters: the space for the classes, the stable team of teachers and pupils, and the timetable. We used the space reserved for rest and entertainment, an empty room with only one table and two iron benches attached to the floor. Small furniture, desks, chairs, and bookshelves were missing because they could have been used as weapons during the riots. The room stayed open all the time, and if you were to leave something one day, you did not know if you were going to find it again the next day. I made sure that the room could be locked, and I brought first the whiteboard that I was now unscrewing. I brought school desks and chairs and a small bookshelf. Gradually, a projector and a few computers were added. A hole in the wall from a recent riot was covered with a map. The walls were decorated with pupils’ drawings and artwork, and the space was transformed into a creative environment. Through regular meetings with teachers, suspicion was overcome, there was an attempt to converge the agendas of each NGO, and we agreed on a shared curriculum and program of activities, coordinated by myself. In our meetings, the psychologists who were working with the minors were also participating, and their contribution was invaluable.
The meetings proved difficult but necessary. Disagreements and tensions emerged, but different educational perceptions were eventually combined. My two conditions were that the makeup of the class should be stable and that the weekly timetable should be finalized on the Friday before the following week and announced to pupils and teachers. Though each NGO maintained its autonomy and there was no collaboration among its staff, as I had hoped, we had achieved the establishment of a shared educational framework, and we had found a way to resolve differences, which in the climate of fluidity and constant tension of Moria was the best we could offer to pupils and to ourselves. I still collaborate with many of the staff I worked with then.
These gatherings also proved a crucial way of managing the frequent crises. The most extreme case was when four teenagers who, months earlier, had been accused of raping another teenager in what appeared to be an ambiguous and complicated story, returned to the ward. After their temporary detention, the police had to release them, but the public prosecutor could not find an appropriate facility for them, so they were returned to the ward, where they allegedly committed a serious crime. The reactions from everybody were strong at first, and the staff in the ward did not want to provide them with food and clothing. The teachers who had them as pupils were particularly disturbed. I contacted the state children’s advocate in Athens, who arrived in Moria, and during a series of meetings, first with the teachers and then with the rest of the staff, many anxieties and phobias came to the surface, especially from women. It was decided that no one should be required to work with those teenagers. It was also decided that no contempt should be expressed toward the teenagers, as it was not upon us to act as judges. The NGOs refused to work with the specific teenagers, so a separate class was formed for them, run by myself and teachers who were working in the program for the unemployed. The change of attitude, through daily interaction, was impressive, and in two weeks this special class merged with the normal one in the ward. In the following months, when these teenagers came of age, we organized a loving farewell to them, as with all pupils who were reaching adulthood and leaving.
What Education?
We started the design of the program by building a basic skeleton of Greek, English, and math lessons. We also included geography lessons, starting with the places where the pupils were coming from and with their journey toward Europe, a Europe that seemed far away, since Lesvos was not part of it (We used to say to them, “When you go to Europe. . .”). We also designed small creative projects lasting two or three weeks, since the average stay for them in this ward was a month. This combination provided them with a much-needed sense of stability and progress, while at the same time a space for communication and creativity for both teachers and pupils was opened. This logic was depicted graphically in the two posters announcing the program to the newcomers, which were designed by the painter/cartoonist working with us. They were posted on the school’s door, and it was also the material for our first meeting.
The first showed, among other things, children forming an open circle, ready to accept newcomers, whereas the second portrayed the attempt to organize their daily routines.
We enjoyed many film nights, and a filmmaking workshop was set up, Moria Cinema Lab, which resulted in two short films, shown in Mytilene.[1] Another workshop focused on producing graphic novels, relying on pupils’ narratives, and was organized with the collaboration of a psychologist. We cooked together and shared many meals, produced crafts, and even set up an impromptu recording studio, which resulted in the collection Moria Blues, yet to be released. The recording process was very moving, as it attracted many youths who would comment or join in. Songs included both traditional ones and songs with political content, or others dealing with migration and the conditions in Moria. The school had started breathing, and it became a sharing space, which many staff members from other sectors wanted to visit. It also became a relaxation space, and a small library with books in many languages and board games had been built up.
As the spring of 2016 was coming, our most characteristic actions became the excursions, such as visiting museums, archaeological sites, and beaches. It had become the most fun and highly anticipated event of the week for the youth and staff alike, and it created a sense of community. In one such excursion, we designed the kite project, in collaboration with all the camps in Northern Aegean. At the end of the carnival season, we created paper kites, and the youth wrote on them their dreams and wishes, or the nightmares they wished to leave behind, and filled the Aegean skies with these multicolored messages. It was another moving moment that brought us into contact with the youth’s painful and harsh experiences, whereas the writing of such messages on the kites provided a redemption of sorts.
The moment we released the kites into the sky and as the multicolored kites rose up, we all had a sense of fulfilment. When we returned to the camp, the youth learned that they were given permission to move out of the camp into specially provided hostels. They had flown, indeed.
What’s Left?
Looking out at the burnt metal sheets, all this destruction and chaos, a sense of futility overtakes me. What’s left, at the end of the day?
What’s left is this school, which remained unburnt because it housed so many dreams and prospects, and helped heal many wounds. What’s left is this whiteboard that I am smuggling out of here so that other dreams can be drawn on it elsewhere. What’s left is also the educational experiences and relationships that allow very different people to get closer.
But what’s left is also a big dilemma: What’s the point of institutionalized relationships, surrounded by fences and razor wire? Can there be educational structures inside the camps? Can education justify, offer an alibi to, or humanize detention? The answer is a resounding and absolute, No! Education can unfold and find its purpose and dynamism only in free and open communities, in a society that does not brutalize and imprison foreigners but one that offers them hospitality, allows them to hold a mirror so that it can examine itself, and includes them in a shared purpose and a shared dream for its future.
Dionysis Pavlou is a teacher living in Lesvos, with many years of experience in refugee education as Refugee Education Coordinator of the Greek Ministry of Education. This text was written originally in Greek and was translated by Yannis Hamilakis. Email: dpavlou@sch.gr.
Note
[1] The films can be found on Moria Cinema Lab’s YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCRKXSibeDMT10cRIEYT_aPQ.