This is Mohammad’s story. In a series of blogs this week he will be talking us through his journey from Syria to Greece and the difficulties he faced along the way. You can find the first blog here.
I will never forget the name of Moria.
When we arrived at that camp, we asked for a wheelchair, but nobody helped us or even told us what to do.
They put us in a place that looked like a lock-up. A while later I had time to see that the refugee camp consisted of three main parts: the upper, which was for families; the second part, which was divided in three sections: section A for special cases, section B for minors, and section C for single women and their children; and the third part, which was for men.
I spent my first week there, in that kind of lock-up. During that period, I had to finish my registration papers but I didn’t have my wheelchair to move from place to place, so my nephew carried me on his back. We went to many offices and asked many organisations about my wheelchair but there was no answer. It took 10 days until I finally got one. But, until that time, my only option to go from one place to another was my nephew who helped me a lot. He even carried me to the toilet. Trust me, to be carried on somebody´s back, with everyone looking at you, makes you feel inhuman. The only thing I wanted was to live as I used to.