Greece III: A Refugee in a Holiday Paradise

Votsala Hotel in Lesbos

Whenever Zaki must leave his refuge, he prepares for the worst: being jostled. Having people demonstratively hold their noses as they walk past him. Having them shout, „go back to where you came from! We don’t want you here.” He says he’s experienced this often enough since arriving on the Greek island of Lesbos as a refugee in 2017. Mytilene, the island’s lively capital, has always been tricky territory for him. But Zaki, who out of caution only gives his first name, has devised a ruse: “If someone asks me where I’m from, I answer: China, sometimes Korea,” he says. “Then everyone is very friendly and says: ‘Welcome!’”

A tourist who comes to Lesbos is a welcome guest. A refugee who ends up on Lesbos is an unadulterated burden to many. The inhumanity and absurdity of this division into two worlds on a small island is easily exposed when one simply changes identity, as Zaki does. He is from Afghanistan, born in Kabul in 1991, and he can quite convincingly claim to be Chinese or Korean because he belongs to the Hazara ethnic group. The Hazaras trace their ancestry back to Genghis Khan, the 13th-century Mongol ruler. On Lesbos, Zaki, out of necessity, takes advantage of these origins. Yet in Afghanistan, this is what forced him to flee.

There in the Hindu Kush, the Hazaras have always been outsiders; for more than a hundred years they have been subjected to pogroms at the hands of Pashtun rulers. The Taliban are also Sunni Pashtuns, and they have branded the Hazara minority their enemy and scapegoat - because they are Shiites, because they are different.

When the Taliban rule, the Hazaras are oppressed. When the Taliban aren’t in power, the Hazaras fall victim to terrorist attacks. That’s why Zaki fled Afghanistan. He made his way through Iran to Turkey, taking difficult routes and always alone. On the Turkish Mediterranean coast, he finally boarded a rubber dinghy with 40 others. The crossing cost $1,000 each. At its narrowest point, it’s only nine kilometers to Lesbos, from Asia to Europe, to the promised EU. “The crossing took 37 minutes. ” That’s how precisely he measures the time, how precisely he remembers every moment. It was a terrifying 37 minutes, because Zaki can’t swim.

In 2015, at the height of what Europe calls the “refugee crisis,” thousands crossed this route every day. In the headlines, Lesbos quickly became a “nightmare island,” and that was meant to include everyone: refugees who drowned in the Mediterranean in horrendous numbers; vacationers whose beach idyll was suddenly threatened by washed-up life jackets; local hoteliers whose accommodations remained empty as a result.

Ten years later, the numbers may have decreased, and there are stricter regulations and different routes. But refugees still arrive on Lesbos in the thousands, and two migratory movements that could hardly be more contradictory still intersect here: Some lie on the beach, others end up in camps. Tourism meets xenophobia. It’s a global problem that many on Lesbos feel isolated and overwhelmed by. Some residents have reacted with the hostility that Zaki repeatedly experiences. But a few others have taken action and helped - like Daphne Vloumidi.

For more than 30 years, she and her husband have run the Votsala beach hotel, and together with a few regular German guests, she founded an organization that offers support to the refugees. They named their NGO Odysseas, the modern Greek name of Odysseus, the ancient hero who endured an odyssey. Zaki also received help from Odysseas. After arriving on Lesbos, he lived for two years in the notorious Moria camp - synonymous with limbo for the refugees. “It’s the worst camp in the world,” he says. He recalls 28 people in one room, stacked in triple-decker bunks. Three- hour queues for food. Constant fighting between Afghans and Arabs. Moria was designed to accommodate 2,500 refugees. When the camp burned down in 2020, 12,000 people ended up homeless on the streets of Lesbos.

Zaki remembers a single beautiful day from his time in the camp. Daphne Vloumidi had invited him and others from Moria on a day trip to the Votsala Hotel. They barbecued, played soccer, and were welcome. When Zaki finally received a positive asylum decision at the end of 2018, he asked for a job at Votsala. And so the refugee who came across the sea became a waiter at the beach hotel.

It’s not a dream job. Zaki always dreamed of becoming an aeronautical engineer. “But our lives don’t allow that,” he says on the hotel terrace. Yet he doesn’t complain, and even his worst experiences are recounted with a smile that mingles helplessness with the courage to keep going. He’s happy to have made friends among his colleagues at Votsala. And he’s also pleased to have guests from Germany, England, or Italy who are interested in his story. He talks about his escape and how, despite everything, he still loves Afghanistan, his homeland.

He’d like to switch roles here in the hotel, too, he says with this smile. “Then I imagine what it would be like if we came from Afghanistan as tourists with lots of money.”

Lesbos, July 2025

Translation: Lisa Kremer