*Photo courtesy of Rama Alhariri *

Growing up as a Syrian-American who struggled to learn and fluently speak Arabic, I never anticipated that a day would come where my imperfect Arabic would be needed. During a refugee service trip organized by NYU New York students, I worked with and spoke to refugees from Syria, Iraq, Palestine, Afghanistan, Pakistan and more. Our service trip group consisted of 13 students traveling from NYU Paris and NYU Abu Dhabi, with each of us working with organizations like Médecins du Monde, Our House, Mosaic Go House, Love and Serve Without Boundaries and Hestia Hellas.

My role during this trip was to be a medical translator at MDM, a non-governmental organization devoted to providing free medical relief to refugees. I translated between Arabic-speaking patients and English-speaking Greek doctors.

MDM’s polyclinic — a clinic that provides both specialist and general medical services — was strategically situated where many refugees and asylum seekers lived, near a neighborhood called Omonia. The building lay behind a tall iron gate, where lines of people stretched from the inside of the polyclinic, and spilled out of two glass doors onto a plain courtyard. The abundance of signs in Arabic, Farsi and Urdu overlooking the streets signaled the neighborhood’s cultural segregation from the rest of Athens, and we were there to help bridge that gap.

Volunteers’ belongings were secured on top of shelves holding storage boxes and patients’ records. We meandered through the crowd of patients in khaki vests emblazoned with blue crosses, helping refugees find the pharmacy and attend their doctor’s appointments.

The polyclinic became a melting pot of different accents. Farsi, Urdu, and Arabic were only some of the languages spoken by the patients, and the organization struggled to have a sufficient number of translators. Arabic-speaking patients could identify my group members as Arabic speakers through our hijabs and Levantine features. During my first day, one woman stopped me and asked: “Arabi?” Arabic?

Having lived in the Middle East for most of my life, I thought I could recognize most accents, but hers was unfamiliar. Approaching her to see if I could help, she eventually explained that she was a diabetic with heart problems, and was there to pick up medicine. I retrieved her medical file and directed her to the pharmacy. I sighed in relief at having understood her as she thanked me and walked away.

My friend, Farah and I later concluded that her accent must have been a mixture of rural Syrian and Iraqi, and was one of the most difficult dialects to understand among the refugees. Despite having never enjoyed my high-school Arabic classes, I have grown to appreciate the language.

Without time to rest, a doctor motioned for Farah and I to enter his pediatric office, where a mother and daughter sat waiting for us to translate for them.

“What seems to be the problem?” the doctor asked.

The mother took out a box containing medicine. “My daughter has a fever and has been coughing for the last three days. I’ve been giving her this for her ear infection, but her ear still bleeds.”

At that point, the father entered the room, alongside his son drinking some cola. The doctor criticized letting the son drink coke, but the father laughed it off, saying, “let him drink his coke.” With a frown, the doctor commented that coke worsened the boy’s oral thrush - the fungal infection in his mouth - then proceeded to examine the daughter.

“Your daughter needs to go to the emergency department,” the doctor concluded. “The prescribed antibiotic may not be working because the microbe infecting her ear may have changed. Identifying a new microbe would allow the doctor to prescribe a better antibiotic.”

I translated. Disgruntled, the man complained that he’d been to the hospital eight times, and only found it unhelpful. He grew impatient at the vehement instructions of the doctor, unconvinced that the case needed emergency attention. Trying to remain polite, he dismissively thanked us, promising he would go to the hospital before walking out with his family.

I sensed he would not seek medical help, and the doctor confirmed my suspicions.

“He won’t go,” he said. “His daughter has had an ear infection for eight months. At this rate, the infection could spread to her brain.”

It was only my first day, but I already saw how language barriers and systemic inefficiencies could frustrate patients and sow distrust, interfering with their desire to access medical care. Around the polyclinic, patients commented on how doctors either crumpled and trashed their medical documents in other hospitals, or referred them to other clinics without helping.

Witnessing the passion of these volunteering doctors and their relentless perseverance despite not always being recognized for their efforts, I felt a sense of comfort knowing people deeply care for vulnerable populations. Unfortunately, this concern is not always enough to cover the health needs of refugees. One man explained to me that in an Afghan refugee camp called Malakasa there is only one doctor for every 2,000 refugees. In the latest emergency case, the ambulance did not show up for two hours and when it arrived, the afflicted person had already passed away. This level of deficit in health resources is not universal, but its global presence is consistent.

I soon grew to notice that these patients who had escaped conflict also suffered high rates of mental illness. The shortest wait to schedule an appointment with a psychiatrist in a hospital is a month, and through MDM it can extend up to three months. Later during an outing with some Syrian refugees we met at a squat, one soft-spoken man showed me how he was afflicted with chronic tremors.

“I shake so much because of my anxiety,” he said. He pointed to the water on the table which was swishing back and forth in the bottle. “I have my foot on the table. Look how the water stops shaking when I remove my foot.”

This example sheds light on how the deterioration of refugee care in Greece and the world only exacerbates mental health problems. A social worker at MDM informed me that funding cuts have led to the closing down of one of the organization’s clinics and a shortage of medicines in its pharmacy. Similar monetary deficits are present across many programs that support refugee welfare. For example, the UNHCR’s Emergency Support to Integration and Accommodation (ESTIA) program, which has been renewed every six months since its implementation in 2015 has halted. The program has housed over 20,000 refugees and its nonrenewal is now leading to an inundation of refugee eviction from homes.

I translated for an Iraqi refugee searching for a place to stay at MDM’s shelter after his date of eviction. He could not find free beds in any shelter, and became homeless until MDM freed up space two days later. Those who are lucky enough to find shelter can only stay for ten days at a time, from 6 p.m. to 7:30 a.m..

“It’s not just me I’m concerned about,” he explained. “There are women and children — families — who have to live on the streets now.”

When I had first looked at all the work MDM was doing, I felt optimistic: the glass was half-full. There were humanitarians working to improve the lives of refugees. There was hope.

This view shattered after I visited the shelters. Homelessness, illnesses and unemployment remain rampant. So why then are we content with a half-filled glass, when it should be filled to the brim? When it comes to granting people their basic rights and needs, how can we be optimistic about half-fulls? Day after day corruption spills the water, rendering the glass dry. Inequality increases and complacency remains constant.

There is still so much more that institutions and the global community can do to meet the needs of refugees. Volunteering in local refugee communities and donating to organizations are only a few examples. After this service trip, I am an eyewitness to the refugee crisis and we can work to either contribute to the problem, or be a part of the solution.