From the outside, it’s hard to tell how many people are living in Athens’s old Hellenikon airport. Laundry hangs from the balcony of the former departure terminal and children play by the limousine stop. But nothing prepares you for what is inside. This is the “warehouse of souls” that Greek Prime Minister Alexis Tsipras warned his country would become.
A sea of grey UN blankets stretches across the terminal. Everywhere you step there is someone sleeping, or texting, or sharing a meal of kebabs and chips, picnic-style inside a tent. The air is thick with the smell of the hundreds who cannot afford the luxury of a daily shower. Children play by the departure gates. A long queue snakes towards public bathrooms. Signs for legal help in claiming asylum and rules on keeping the toilets clean adorn the walls.
Greek authorities have hastily converted the airport and the former Olympic park around it into a refugee camp. An estimated 3,000 people live here, and the number grows daily.
Using our drone camera, we filmed the tent city standing on the former Olympic baseball diamond. At the old hockey stadium, mostly Afghan refugees while away the hours playing football. Food is delivered twice a day by volunteers.
Whether from Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistan or Morocco, every refugee or migrant I spoke to was headed to one place: Germany. One man, a “Moroccan from Western Sahara”, asked if the border would open tomorrow. “No,” I told him. “Not today. Not tomorrow. It may never open.”
“I used to dream of Europe,” he said. “In my country there is corruption and the leaders don’t care about the people. But it is the same in Europe. Now, I see this.” Mustafa Saidi arrived from Afghanistan with his wife and two young daughters, smuggled across the desert in a packed car and then loaded onto a rubber dinghy to cross the Aegean. I asked what he would do if he could not go to Germany. He shrugged and smiled: “We pray to God.”
Each morning, at Athens’s Piraeus Port, scores more refugees arrive. There are no government officials to help them so they drift around in groups, wondering whether to try public transport up to the border or simply camp in the port and wait.
Those electing to camp receive colourful tents and sleeping bags from charities. The people helping them are local volunteers. One, Sotiris Alexopoulos, was sorting donations from Athens residents: nappies, toys, coats, shoes and socks. “We provide food, clothing, medical care. We used to then see them off on buses to the border. We were here about three hours and then that was it. We go home. But when the borders closed, we suddenly became a 24-hour operation. This is their home now,” he said.
While filming at the port, an Afghan teenager came running up to me asking me to show him our stories. I played one on my phone. His eyes went wide. “CNN Amerikiya?” “Yes. All over the world,” I said.
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He broke into a big smile. “Thank you. Thank you.” Then he asked me that same question: “The border will open now?”
What could I say? No matter how many stories anyone produces, the border remains closed. “No,” I said, again, “The border will not open. Not today. Not tomorrow. I don’t think it will open at all.”
“Okay, maybe another day,” he smiled. “Goodbye CNN,” and he waved at me before returning for another night in his tent.
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