Singing in circle
Music 4 Lesbos
freezing in greek
phoenix maria, lesbos, january 2026
Yeah, I know this!—or at least I should! I was given the visitor rules at the social center years ago and even signed them. I completely understand they have to manage constant shortages, so everything needs to be transparent and fair. No personal gifts to individuals here at the social center. But look at her—wearing fluttering, way-too-short summer shorts and a chic three-quarter jacket—standing in the icy north wind. Meanwhile, her baby is wrapped in a polyester blanket. Even the ice-bathing Viking shivers seeing this nearly two-meter-tall African mother holding the bundled infant close to her chest. Can I throw my big leather coat over her? She refuses it, luckily—not because I’d be cold, but because I’d probably get a scolding from the director of the social center standing nearby. Yes, it’s freezing, and for the guys waiting in the “food chain,” the only defense is silly jokes and loud laughter to keep their teeth from chattering. But you learn something here: a cheerful heart warms your toes (or “Zecherl,” as we say in Austria).
I’m holding my guitar lessons on the south side of the social center’s concrete hall. This sunny and wind-sheltered spot keeps my fingers from freezing on the strings. The club isn’t staffed during the New Year break, and since I’m officially just a visitor, I can’t go in alone. But the Palestinian guy who sits with me on Monday seems warm enough to spend an hour doing basic rhythm and posture exercises on guitar. Originally from Jaffa, he spent his childhood between Syria and Lebanon, where his family is now scattered. He trained as a hairdresser and is heading to Lithuania, where a relative promises him work. If he’s still there in March, maybe I’ll finally get a haircut from him—assuming we can organize some tools for him by then.
Today I reached out to a few old friends on a hunch, asking if any surplus scissors or clippers might be lying around in their fancy hair studio back home. Big smiles all around every time the pirate Phoenix is calling back home. And yes, where should the hairdressing support package be sent? You might think, haha, „Beach behind the fish restaurant“ is no address. But it’s as good as any. Villages outside the bigger towns here don’t have house numbers or street names. The postal address is just the village, and if you want to be sure the package isn’t lost, add the name of a local shop owner—anyone with a store or café where the post can leave it. Better than a P.O. box, and everyone knows you ordered “toys” from the online sex shop—not mine, for shure. No idea why my name’s on it!
Back to the newcomers here in Greece. As I’ve said before, on the chaotic boat ride from Turkey to the European island, there’s no luggage. If you’re lucky, you hold a plastic bag with your passport, toothbrush, and wallet. M. tried twice before he could officially apply for asylum in Europe. Before he’s had no luck with Turkish border guards. Coming out of the Syrian border tunnel, they caught him immediately and booked him for three months—his first prison experience at 25. Not pleasant, judging by his tone and look on his face. On the first crossing the ocean here, they caught him again by the water. This time, only nine days in jail and a transfer to Istanbul, 300 km from the border.
But wait a minute—I already broke the second rule by getting into a conversation about traumatic flight experiences! I don’t even remember how it started. M. speaks English so well that you just start chatting: “Where are you from? Where have you been? Which languages do you speak?” Even innocent questions can lead people into very dark memories if you’re not careful. That’s exactly why the volunteer rules exist. Hearing someone’s trauma without knowing how to handle the fear, grief, and anger possibly errupting is not helpful for them—or for you. And it’s hard to process what people endure on the run. Maybe you remember International Women’s Day three years ago, when I casually chatted with a young African woman at a party because she looked so sad sitting alone. Later, I posted her harrowing story on social media—Women’s Day, solidarity, you know!—using a photo from behind and with no names of course, to protect her. The following fuss was intense! She threatened me through her lawyer, and at the NGO I had a crisis meeting making me delete the post. I’ve learned a lot since then, and I’m no longer eager for personal details. The joy that people made it safely across the ocean to Europe is enough.
Over the four years, I’ve seen all kinds of social behavior in various NGOs around the camp—from stylish French women cozying up to young Middle Eastern men in the camp cafe, to the kindergarten teacher who washes her hands after touching a little one. From my perspective, the social center here deserves huge credit—they really manage to maintain a good atmosphere. Friendly, open, clear, and organized, even with constantly changing staff. Personally, though, I still managed to embarrass myself breaking rules twice on my first day.
At the beach, nothing much is happening. I tried twice to invite people to dance, with flyers and posts. I decorated the beach with driftwood “land art” and prayer flags and set up a decent sound system. Not “techno party, boom boom!”—just enough for barefoot hopping on the stones. The playlist is fun, including transitions and small effects, and my flute playing should add some magical touches. The island isn’t raving yet with the Phoenix at the beach, but we’re working on it.
Ecstatic Dance is planned to run throughout the year.
During the holy days—or rather—nights, I had a lot of time because of digital fasting. This is the second year I’m using it as a recalibration, checking if I can survive without constant digital input. Short video clips on sozial media mess with your brain and take more time than you think. What hits harder, though, is seeing all the successful, happy, partying people in Bali, Baku, and blabla. And wow—they’re beautiful! I regularly startle myself when I look in the mirror, tired from digital aimlessness and hollow hours in front of the screen. My overgrown beard and scruffy saltwater hair don’t help. Digital life is a bit grim, and the pressure of it makes me strangely productive. So I used the long, dark nights and short days around New Year to catch up on delayed projects.
Following my yoga master’s advice about structuring your day for heart chakra development, I’ve been writing a schedule every morning since December 28, right after getting up. The next 16 hours fly from one activity to another, with short pauses to breathe. But if it works, the mix of reading, practicing my instruments, cooking, eating, repairing, chopping wood, writing, swimming, and… practicing again feels amazing. Subjectively, it doubles your day time. Ah, and I almost forgot—the authorities actually managed to prevent the wild musician from working in the refugee camp. I’ve already mentioned the annoying translation of the payment confirmation on my otherwise spotless criminal record, which took too long. And then, oh no—the certificate expired. They’ll happily try again next winter.
