It's quarter past one in the morning on a clear skyed Wednesday night. The P A systems are blaring from across the marina in the Customs area and it takes us five hours to finally work out what is going on.
Monster size catamarans are chugging in with up to 4000 Turks escaping from their past lives in Libya. Big white buses are lining the roads leading to the port along with a dozen ambulances. The PA systems blare muffled orders in Turkish and Arabic and the light shimmers from 300 metres away, over and above a barbed wired fence, surrounded by spotlights, causing us to shield our eyes as we try to peer over and catch a little of the action.
My heart wells up with an empty feeling of helplessness. Nothing I can do to assist these people. It is cold, the puddles are ankle deep and there is a storm in the air. A fence a world away separates us. There is nought to make you feel welcome here right now and these boat people are arriving with just their passports and a plastic shoppingbag filled with memories of a past life.
Pray they get a chance. Strangely they may consider themselves the lucky ones. I hope so.
