This Greek Mother’s Day I celebrated the strongest mothers I’ve known – the refugee mothers, whom I have had the honour of working with and learning from for the past three years.

Mothers who were uprooted to be saved from war, from slavery, from trafficking circuits, from oppressive spouses and abusive societies.

Who have walked for kilometres, curled up in flimsy boats and backs of trucks, experienced prison, torture, rape, pushbacks, the brutality of refugee camps and Greek obstetric violence.

Who became lionesses to have a better fate for their children.

And they continue to fight every day, along with all their personal demons, in a country that often deprives them of basic human rights and against an inhuman European policy.

Dealing with an unimaginable cyclone of asylum procedures, very often without shelter, without healthcare, without identity, while being called on to keep their children fed, warm and safe.

Who embrace every possibility given to them, to create a new life for themselves and for their children.

Who always have a smile and a thank you on their lips for every nugget of humanity they meet.

Who always ask me how my children are, if I rested, and they worry if they don’t see me for two days.

Who often call me mom and put aside some of their little money to get me a present for Mother’s Day.