As Boats Sail from Libya, Greece Swings Right on Migration

After Ahmed left Egypt, he made the journey through Libya and across the Mediterranean Sea to the Greek island of Crete. He carried with him not just the dream of a better future but the hope to survive. “Our trip was difficult,” he said. “We were at sea, and we feared we would drown. We had no gasoline for the boat, no food, no water.” 

At the time he recounted his crossing, he had only been at the old Kitrenossi Building, an abandoned structure on the outskirts of Crete’s Rethymno that now served as a makeshift shelter, for one day. He described a grueling journey at sea. The passage from Libya to southern Greece, an often deadly corridor that was once used less often than the Aegean crossing from Turkey, has now become increasingly common. In recent months, displaced people from Sudan, Egypt, Bangladesh, and beyond have set off from North Africa to the Greek islands of Crete and Gavdos in growing numbers. 

“As far as I remember, the first report came sometime in the autumn of 2023,” explained Lefteris Papagiannakis, director of the Greek Council for Refugees. At the time, he added, “there was an issue because we knew that there had been some arrivals in Crete, but we couldn’t quite understand how or why.” 

Many of the early arrivals to Crete, Greece’s largest island, had reportedly intended to reach Italy. In June 2023, for instance, an Italy-bound fishing trawler from Libya went afoul of its route and sank off the coast of southern Greece’s Pylos, killing hundreds. As time went on, boats carrying refugees and migrants began to set sail from Libya with the intention of reaching Greece. 

The route from Libya to Greece is notoriously deadly. The journey itself can take several days on the open sea, and survival isn’t guaranteed. Refugees and migrants travel in flimsy boats, dangerously overloaded and equipped with engines not suited for such a lengthy and perilous crossing. 

Worse yet, it’s common for boats to run out of fuel or face harsh weather along the way. The Missing Migrants Project documented 139 cases of missing migrants on the Central Mediterranean route between January and February 2025 alone, making it the deadliest migrant route in the region.

Rihab had left Sudan with her sister, both hoping to reunite with their mother in France. That reunion is now shrouded in uncertainty. The sisters ended up in temporary housing in Crete’s Agia, not far from Chania. Having gone barefoot for days, Rihab now hoped to find a pair of shoes. “We almost died,” she explained. “Our journey was hard. The boat engine wasn’t working.” 

“We were at sea, and we feared we would drown. We had no gasoline for the boat, no food, no water.” – Ahmed

Crete, Europe’s fifth-largest island, had never before been a sustained landing point for migrants, nor was it prepared to become one. Local authorities, eager to preserve the island’s visitor-friendly image, have passed responsibility for creating temporary housing facilities back and forth, despite clear signs since 2023 that Crete would face a growing influx. Combined with a lack of national government planning, this has transformed a manageable flow into a visible humanitarian crisis, during the heart of the tourism season, leaving real people in limbo. The result: men and women sleeping in port areas, sports fields, and abandoned buildings.

At the port of Rethymno, up to 442 people took shelter on a small fenced-off plot, hidden from tourists. Exposed to 40-degree heat (104°F), they had access to just three chemical toilets and no running water. They lay on blankets and pieces of cardboard, drying their clothes on the ground or hanging them over rocks by the port. The only shade came from olive netting, hastily strung up to offer minimal relief. The reasons they ended up there were unclear. Locals said the facility in Agia was full; others claimed it was the result of phone calls from high-ranking officials. Whatever the cause, it added to the atmosphere of chaos and uncertainty that shapes their daily lives.

Most were young men, and many explained that Libya is too dangerous to pass through with women and children. As one Egyptian man, at the time waiting for transport to one of the three holding facilities, said, “I hope someday I can bring my son with me.” 

In response to far-right rhetoric that portrays the majority of arrivals as young men without legitimate asylum claims, and criticizes them for arriving without their families, several realities must be acknowledged. The journey is perilous, and it is often the men, those physically able to withstand the risks, who migrate first in hopes of earning enough to eventually bring their families. Moreover, Libya is notoriously dangerous, particularly for female migrants. It is known for its slave markets and remains a deeply hostile environment where women face extreme risks, including sexual violence, trafficking, and forced labor or prostitution.

One of the temporary shelters, a facility in Heraklion known as the “Fridge,” was off-limits to press, but multiple sources explained that the conditions there were dire: Refugees were held in a basement with no windows, and fainting wasn’t uncommon. 

Many of the refugees and migrants had to wait for days under the summer sun at the port before the authorities eventually transferred them to the old Kitrénosi building near Latsimas. A dilapidated, makeshift facility, it was set up hastily by the municipality. It was only meant to hold some 150 people, but its occupancy now topped 450, according to Alekos Marinakis, a regional councilor with the Communist Party of Greece, or KKE. “We want people to live in dignity,” he explained. “We don’t want our country to become a prison of souls.” 

In the dark, cramped Kitrénosi building, where the only bathroom facilities were chemical toilets, the stench of sweat and sewage hung thick in the humid air. People slept shoulder to shoulder on flat strips of cardboard retrieved from the garbage outside. Ventilation was as scarce as privacy. For his part, Ahmed, the Egyptian migrant, said he was just grateful to have food. “Life in Egypt is almost unlivable,” he went on. “It’s too hard. There’s no future there. That’s why we left.” 

All around him, people lined up in the midday heat to escape the suffocating air inside the building. They gathered under the few trees that offered shade, or cooled off beneath the makeshift water faucets, before returning inside. Some asked for cigarettes. Others just asked where they were. 

At the gate, new arrivals were getting off buses. They scavenged scraps of cardboard to piece together ramshackle pallets to sleep on atop the hard cement floor. Communication with the police wasn’t helpful. No translators were present, and the police officers shouted orders in Greek, adding to the confusion and tension. Arguments erupted — not just between police and migrants, but among the exhausted, displaced men. Across the street, staff turned away drivers who’d spotted a sign that led to the sea. This part of the island, it seemed, was not meant to be seen. 

The rise in arrivals wasn’t just on Crete — boats were also reaching the small island of Gavdos, Europe’s southernmost point. At Trypiti Beach, eight boats that had shuttled migrants to Greek shores sat abandoned. Nearby lifejackets, clothes, and other personal belongings sat in scatters — silent markers of who landed and pressed on by foot along a nearby path. “If we kept all the boats here,” one local said at the harbor, “we’d be sunk.” 

A ferry was preparing to depart, and close by, tourists on holiday sat in a small boat, fishing and drinking by the shore not far from a dinghy still holding lifejackets and discarded clothing. The eerie signs of desperate journeys were invisible to the tourists, who appeared happily relaxed as they carried on.

Refugees and migrants hardly spend much time on Gavdos, sticking around only when bad weather delays the ferries off the island, but many locals have adopted the view that their presence threatens the tourism the community relies on. Local Manolis Tsigonakis had escorted migrant boats to the shores during the trying winter months, but he was concerned. “We only experience migration in passing,” he said. “They’re kept at the port, but it still creates a negative image for tourists.” 

Concerns like these have taken root amid the Greek government’s rapid shift toward far-right rhetoric on migration. Right-wing politicians now speak of the humanitarian crisis as a “hybrid war” and issue panicked warnings about the impact of immigration on the country’s social fabric. Still, Greece isn’t alone in this rightward shift: The European Union at large has moved toward stricter migration controls and hardline anti-migrant policies, some of which have led to embarrassing diplomatic mishaps. 

In July, EU envoys, including Greek ministers, turned up in Libya with the hopes of visiting Benghazi. General Khalifa Haftar, the unrecognized warlord who rules eastern Libya, immediately declared the European visitors persona non grata. After following his orders to depart and effectively granting him legitimacy, the EU has appeared to prepare to renew engagement with Libya under new terms. 

Some have speculated that this could result in a new migration pact flush with enormous sums of money for Libya, a deal not unlike the EU-Turkey agreement in 2016. These agreements, which the EU has also struck with Lebanon and Egypt, outsource migration controls to third countries: In other words, political concessions and funds are traded for reduced migration. “To prevent escalation, we’d give them money to run the trafficking networks,” argued Papagiannakis of the Greek Forum for Refugees. “Then, they’d collect the profits and cut their losses, somehow channeling funds into the war to help Haftar, who is aligned with European interests, win. It sounds bizarre, but in international relations, nothing is impossible.”

Meanwhile in Crete, the tourist season continues to deliver surreal scenes of leisurely holidaymaking alongside the misery of exile. At an exhibition center in Agia, a 20-minute drive from Chania, another ad hoc shelter has come up. Out of the three camps in Crete, this one has appeared most often on television. On the backside of the building, posters advertising tourist destinations are pinned up: “Must Visit Rural Crete,” “Visit All-Year Round,” and “Must Do Alternative Activities.” 

During a visit to that facility, two refugees fainted from the heat. An ambulance soon arrived — one was worse off than the other, reportedly because of dehydration. People all around were asking for painkillers. Volunteers said many were suffering from fevers. Any health concern not deemed urgent on the spot meant a long wait to see a medical professional. 

For the refugees and migrants, life inside the camp was a routine: eat, sleep, wait. Small children kicked soccer balls. Men and women stayed in separate areas. Two young girls sprinted to their father for a hug, then played games with one another beside him. Some prayed together. Others prayed on their own. One man grabbed a broom and swept the rugs scattered across the floor. Mealtime came around again. Some took showers in makeshift stalls. There was only one faucet they could all use to wash their clothes. 

In exchange for waiting patiently, they hoped to soon file their asylum claims. For most, the Greek government has already dashed that hope. New migration policies mean their next stop will likely be closed refugee facilities in Malakasa or Amygdaleza, both on mainland Greece near Athens. On July 9, Prime Minister Kyriakos Mitsotakis announced that his government had introduced a three-month suspension of new asylum claims for refugees and migrants arriving from North Africa. Human rights groups and legal experts have condemned the move, especially regarding Sudanese refugees fleeing an ongoing war, but the Greek government has only shrugged. 

According to Papagiannakis, Greece has already violated the principles of asylum. For years, Greek authorities have carried out pushbacks — extrajudicial expulsions in which displaced people are effectively denied their right to request asylum — on the country’s land and sea borders with Turkey. Despite challenges, pushbacks have continued in ebbs and flows. 

In 2021, for instance, Greek authorities pushed back Syrian refugees who intended to seek asylum, returning them to Turkey. During that time, around 400 people were detained, and it was explicitly stated that they would never be allowed to apply for asylum. In that case, asylum was ultimately granted after only a month, but the decision was announced by the European Commission and not by the Greek government. 

“The result is a hardening of this stance, a realization among many that Greece is turning toward a far-right approach [to migration],” Papagiannakis explained. “What followed was that Greece was triumphantly declared by the European Union as the ‘shield of Europe.’ This led to the sense that Greece had impunity and could do whatever it wanted, and we committed pushbacks at a level that amounts to a felony.” 

He added, “In the same way now, the government seized the opportunity, invoking an invasion, a hybrid war, and brought in the theory of population replacement. Because when you start slipping toward the far right, you keep sliding, and then the slide just gets steeper. Now we’re on the slide. Soon, things are going to get ugly.” 

Back at the facility in Agia, excitement suddenly broke out. News spread that some of the residents would be allowed to leave, and many began to celebrate. They lifted their cardboard mattresses, gathered their clothes. Children cheered. Some Sudanese refugees packed their belongings into large plastic bags, smiling and embracing one another. They couldn’t have known it yet, but their futures were as uncertain as ever.