Education is a fundamental human right, enshrined in the 1989 Convention on the Rights of the Child, and the 1951 Refugee Convention. To deny it is to deny a child the chance to grow, to be safe, and to belong. Education is a lifeline. Yet, this right remains out of reach for many refugee children with 49% being out of school. During humanitarian crisis education is sidelined. Between 2010 and 2017 less than 3% of humanitarian funds were allocated to education. Even though education is at the core of the realization of so many other human rights. To claim, enjoy and protect your rights – whether they be social, economic, cultural, political or civil – education is a fundamental tool. School plays a key role in every aspect of a child’s development. Going beyond cognitive skills like reading and numeracy, it also nurtures social and emotional growth. The classroom offers structure, routine, and safety. It is where children learn to cooperate, to build relationships, and build self-confidence. School also introduces children to sport. More than a simple form of recreation, physical education provides children with the opportunity to connect, to practice teamwork, and to experience the joy of shared achievement. Sport fosters resilience and self-worth.

In recent years, the global displacement crisis has reached unprecedented levels. Conflicts, persecution, climate change, and economic instability have forced millions of people to flee their homes to seek safety and dignity elsewhere. Whilst legal frameworks and humanitarian responses focus on shelter, food, and documentation. One crucial aspect is under-prioritized: the psychological and emotional impact of forced displacement.

Motherhood is a profound journey that demands strength, care and resilience. For refugee women in Greece, the experience of motherhood is deeply shaped by the challenges of displacement, uncertainty, and systemic barriers. While every mother carries hopes for her children’s safety, education, and happiness, refugee mothers often fight for the most basic needs, without state nor family support to go through this journey.

Since the Easter weekend, one of the most important celebrations in the Orthodox calendar, Kos has transformed its face. As every spring, shopfronts have been freshly repainted, restaurants along the harbour have reopened, terraces are filling up, and the air is filled with a mix of languages. The return of tourists brings small businesses back to life, rekindles the enthusiasm of restaurant owners, and infuses the island with the seasonal energy locals know so well.
But just a few kilometres away, in another Kos, doors don’t open with the same warmth. For those who cross the sea seeking asylum, there’s no ouzo toast to welcome them. In this microcosm of the Aegean, two kinds of travellers coexist: some are welcomed, served, pampered; others are ignored, monitored, and sidelined.