My first refugee camp

Today I did something that I expect most people will never do. I spent the morning searching for, and the afternoon in, a refugee camp..in a developed country. It was one of the most jarring experiences I think i've ever had. I peel off a perfectly tarmacked road in a socially functional county, having just stopped off at an hypermarché where I could have bought anything from a washing machine to a walnut and enter a state of suspended animation. A large village/small town, 1km long, expands infront of me. Gentle, relaxed people mill about doing not very much. A shipping container acts as the office for one of the volunteer hubs and I head on over to introduce myself. Seeing the enormity of the situation I feel distinctly inept coming with the news that I have come to bring cupcakes. I don't mention it at first, and they ask me if I want to come into the kitchen to chop vegetables for the free evening meal tonight.  Realising that I am in danger of volunteering and then slinking off to eat 96 cupcakes if I don't find some courage, I ask if there is a women's and children's centre? Yes! They pipe up, it's half way through the camp. A lovely French woman shows me the way and enroute she fills me in on the details of the camp - what facilities are where (welcome centre, laundry, phone charging station, food truck, German kitchen, Red Cross and MSF, men's and women's clothing distribution centre, the women's and children's centre and of course hundreds of small wooden homes), how many people used to be there (3000), how many are there  now (600-700, 2/3 single men with families either at home or in the UK, the rest families of mostly women and children), what racial make up they have (mostly Iranian and Iraqui Kurds), etc... 

We arrive at the women's and children's centre and I am so pleasantly surprised. It is light, bright, airy, cool and has a lovely relaxed energy. There are basic comforts - benches, cooking facilities, room to play and big areas to sit, but no soft furnishings, no cushions to ease the hardness of the wooden sofa, nothing to make it homely. It is run by a bright, clear eyes English woman named Rose. I explain to her that I have baked fistfuls of cupcakes and have squirty icing and little toppings to offer as a fun activity. She absolutely adores the idea and embraces my efforts, removing any trace of foolishness I felt on arrival. 'We shall decorate them together tomorrow!' she exclaims, then goes on to explain in Kurdish to the children that they will have cake tomorrow. And not only that, but they will be decorating them too. Dozens of pairs of little eyes light up and these brave, fragile little beings excitedly spin around the shelter, making my heart squeeze with joy. 

I want to say I'll stay and help for the foreseeable future, but I am stopped by my responsibilities: dogs aren't allowed in the camp and I have had to shut Skyla in the truck whilst visiting. This, in principal, is of course absolutely fine, but I am more than a little uneasy: the vehicles of the volunteers are parked on what is essentially an abandoned parking lot by a disused railway, a five minute walk away from the camp. I am moderately uneasy leaving the truck there unsupervised (especially given it now contains most of my worldly belongings), and the idea of shutting Skyla in there for 2 x 4hr stints a day is beyond my limit. So I reconcile with myself that I will stick with my original plan of a short visit and use this time to build relationships with the volunteer teams.  And with this, I can keep in touch to plan a return trip later in the year, leaving Skyla with my parents for a few weeks. 

So, here so am, sitting on the sofa in my truck, parked up by a lake, reflecting upon what has been a very important day in my life. I am so excited to visit the camp tomorrow and share in the fun of cake silliness, to see the childish disbelief and joy bubble up to the surface of these sweet kids, to feel that I am giving them something completely unnecessary and indulgent. To give them the chance  to feel special rather than outcast, in limbo, fractured. 

Many of you who read this will know of my project 'Small Acts of Kindness'.  To those of you that have donated, I can not thank you enough. There are not words to describe how important it is for me to be here sharing and giving to these incredibly vulnerable people. Those of you that don't know Small Acts of Kindness, if you feel moved by what I am doing, I encourage you to visit my gofundme page to learn more.. It is full of information and there is the option to support me by both sharing the idea to your friends and family, and by donating so I can buy more raw materials.

So here's the plug folks:

Gofundme.com/docinatruck

Instagram:smallaok (or my personal one lizziep123)

Twitter: smallaok

For the duration of my trip I will be using only wifi so please bear with me if I am sporadic with updates or post two blogs at once! I promise I am writing them in real time. 

Okay, it's time for me to close up the truck and jump (literally, it's a long way up) into bed. Tomorrow can't come fast enough! I can't wait to share tomorrow with you all. xoxo