Is it Friday yet?

I was determined that this week was going to be the week when no one would throw anything at my face. It wasn't. Someone got upset because I didn't give him two toilet rolls and, as a protest, decided to take none instead. But why couldn't you just hand it over to me? Why did you have to throw it at my face? 

Some weeks this job feels impossible to handle. This wasn't one of them, but the last one was. I'm eager to write about the details, but most of it is all confidential. They are not my stories to tell. Not for now anyway. It involves human trafficking, panic attacks, suicide attempt, depression, despair... The episodes replay in my head over and over. How I wish I could cuddle all these people in a pile of cotton and sing lullabies... 

I walk around the camp and some people call my name and say "Hi Sara". I think about how sad it is that at some point in their life, when someone asks them "where do you live?" you have to answer "at Moria Refugee Camp". It's not a camp. It's a detention centre. It's sad and dirty and I wish no one had to be here ever. I arrived not knowing anyone around here, I'll leave calling many of them friends, but feeling powerless when it comes to improve their life conditions. I never expected to leave before all these people were gone for good from this camp.

Lost thoughts from a scattered mind. One month left in Lesbos. Probably the last, but who knows.