Today I Met Some Refugees

Now that I’m heading for the Balkans, one of my goals is to introduce my readers to the fun, lighthearted side of this region that all too often gets overshadowed by weighty issues. And that’s coming soon. But sometimes, reality intervenes.

Today is a sunny, lazy Saturday in the Croatian capital of Zagreb. It’s one of those late-summer days that feels like a bonus. Everyone’s out promenading, the café tables are packed, and three separate outdoor festivals are humming within a block of the main square.

Cameron Zagreb Train Station RefugeesOn a day like today, I do my guidebook-updating chores at about half-speed…not just ticking items off my list, but actually enjoying myself. Zigzagging through town, from hotel to restaurant to museum, I found myself at the main train station. On the big timetable overhead, international departures flashed the word otkazan — “cancelled.” A few days ago, they stopped running trains to Hungary or Slovenia, to keep the flow of refugees from crossing more borders.

I was walking the length of the main platform to be sure the Konzum grocery store is still where I say it is in the book. And that’s when I saw them.

Refugees. About eight or nine people, including two young children. At this particular moment, they weren’t howling in despair, running through wheat fields, or stuffing themselves into the windows of train cars, like on TV. They were just standing there. Waiting. Bored. They were dressed in nice clothes, wearing fanny packs, and looking at their smartphones. The little boy was entertaining himself by tossing his stuffed animal into the air. They reminded me of someone who just learned that the last flight out was grounded — and now they have to figure out another way to get where they want to go. Maybe after all they’ve been through, just hanging out at a train station on a sunny Saturday is a relief.

In the middle of the group was a pair of young Croatians. One was a very smiley, mild-mannered guy who projected an air of peace and normalcy. The other was a sparkplug of an activist with a blonde ponytail. She was simultaneously talking with the ringleader of the group and making calls on her phone. Clearly, she was making things happen.

Passersby, and the many police officers on duty, were keeping their distance — shooting glances of sympathy and suspicion at the group from across the platform. Occasionally someone would come up and offer them food or water. But they already had overflowing shopping bags, as much as they could carry. One woman tried to hand them a shrink-wrapped flat of eight water bottles. “Thank you,” the young man said politely. “We only need two.”

I approached the smiley guy and asked what I could do to help. Did they need groceries? Water? Money? Cigarettes? Anything? Like the others who’d offered, I was told it wasn’t necessary. “We’re just trying to organize a ride to Slovenia for them,” he explained. “The taxi drivers keep trying to rip them off.”

Just yesterday, I toured a wrenching museum in Sarajevo about the 1993 massacre at Srebrenica. I was haunted by the final words of the exhibit, a quote from Edmund Burke: “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”

I can’t express how helpless I felt today, standing just feet away from these people who had been through so much. I like to think I’m a good man. But there I was, doing nothing. These people don’t need my food, or even my money. They need papers and permissions that I can’t get for them. All I could do was to offer, and to stand by, in case they thought of something I could do for them. They never did.

It’s easy to be jaded about the refugee crisis. As recently as a few days ago, I couldn’t be bothered with it myself. I had a trip to pack for — and I was just hoping the crowded borders wouldn’t derail my itinerary. But when I met that “refugee crisis” face to face, I was furious that I couldn’t do more for the people behind it. Their only crime is fleeing a gruesome war, and their sentence is to be human hot potatoes. It seems to me that the EU leaders are excellent at dithering and finger-pointing — but when it comes to showing basic human decency to people in desperate need, not so much.

After a few minutes, the refugees’ new Croatian friends led them over to the taxi stand, to embark on the next leg of their journey. I watched them slowly pile into a car and drive off. I imagine they’re sleeping tonight in a park in some dreary border town. I’ll probably zip past those same people when my US passport lets me cross, in air-conditioned comfort, into Slovenia in two days. Then, as now, they’ll just be waiting. Waiting for the people who can actually help them to step up.

And it’s about time that they did.

 

UPDATE: For the rest of the story, find out how I wound up following the trail of the refugees just a couple of days later.

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