The first weeks in the port in Piraeus were tedious. One day morphed into the next. There were no days in the week. There were things to be grateful for, of course. We were alive. That might sound dramatic but all of us had friends and even family members who were not. We were safe.

That was a consolation. Modern technology meant we had access to the world we’d been forced to leave behind. This is something today’s migrant is grateful for and, in my case, when your pregnant wife is hundreds of kilometres away it provides reassurance.

My day would start early. There was one bathroom for men and children – probably about 400 of us at its peak and one for about 300 women. We would queue for an opportunity to wash. Then we would start to queue again this time for tea or warm milk which the volunteers – mainly Greek – would prepare and serve from 8am every morning. It would take until almost 11am before everyone had been served.

We got two meals a day. They arrived by truck from local catering companies. I was told the Greek government paid for the food. It was rarely appetising but it was hot and, for a while, filled your stomach. Strangely, queuing for food filled your day as well and that too was good.

One day a volunteer challenged some of us, questioned why we were allowing everything to be done for us, said it was forming bad habits, making us dependent on others to do things we were capable of doing for ourselves. That night six of us – three Syrian, two Afghani and one Iranian – discussed this and resolved to change.

We organised a loose roster of duties where some of the men and older boys prepared and served the tea in the morning, managed the distribution of the food in the afternoon and evening and generally began to take control. It was a small but important step that helped restore a feeling of self-worth.

Personally, I felt better. My days had more purpose. Others felt the same. Within a week we had two large tents, where Afghani and Iranian children were taught English through Farsi, the other was for most of the children who were taught in Arabic.

It brought a pattern to our lives. It was better. About a month ago officials encouraged us to move to two camps three hours drive from Athens. Some did but the majority of the migrants chose to stay. People are tired of being on the move.

EU’s failure to deliver

Sometimes I feel like I am an extra in a movie where others have written the script which defines our role and we are just moved around the set to suit the whim of the director. I think of home a lot. My wife is due to give birth to our second child in a few weeks. What woman could have borne what she has through her pregnancy and not complained? Yet I talk and text her multiple times every day and not once have I heard a single complaint. I miss her and my daughter. I have no idea when I’ll meet our new child.

My wife, who is devout, says it is the will of Allah. I’m not so sure. To me it’s like the world is conspiring against the needs of millions of people who have done no harm to anyone and have no ambition other than to live a peaceful and reasonably prosperous life.

Recently there’s been a disquieting development around the camps in Athens. I was approached by men with English accents who introduced themselves in a friendly manner.

They asked if I was Sunni (most Syrians are) and when I asked why they needed to know, they said that they wanted to talk about faith.

They were Salafists (an extremist, intolerant interpretation of Sunni Islam) from the north of England and wanted to convince people in the camps to adopt their views.

I was angry. We are fleeing the consequences of just such madness. I and my friends and those thousands of others with us in Athens – Sunni, Alawite, Christian, Yazidi – want no part of any movement or sect that dresses hatred in the cloth of religion.

We had an angry exchange. I was not polite when I told them to leave.

Extreme Islamist views

We’ve largely empty days, too much time to think and perhaps those groups hope those more devout than I could fall prey to the idea that the West has abandoned them and that what remains is to dedicate yourself to literalist, selective, tenets of your faith.

It’s shocking. It is real however, and I worry about yet one more threat around us when most of us had hoped to leave sectarian divisions behind when we boarded the dinghies that brought us to Europe.

I spoke with my mother last week. The situation at home is chronic. She’s resigned to living her life in constant fear. I try not to think of it. Instead I think of our life as it was and I imagine our hope which my wife carries in her belly.

Mustafa is a pseudonym to protect the the author’s identity. He was in conversation with Fintan Drury and his column will appear regularly over the summer