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OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
i
Oxford Monitor of Forced Migration
The Oxford Monitor of Forced Migration (OxMo) is a bi-annual, independent, academic
journal engaging in a global intellectual dialogue about forced migration with students,
researchers, academics, volunteers, activists, artists, as well as those displaced themselves.
By monitoring policy, legal, political and academic developments, OxMo draws attention
to the realities of forced migration and identifies gaps in refugee protection.
Editorial Board
Editors-in-chief
Andrea Ortiz
Domiziana Turcatti
Academic Monitor Editors
Chunkai Cao
Tiger Hills
Sophia Iosue
Trinh Truong
Paul Vernon
Emma Walker-Silverman
Field Monitor Editors
Sophia Iosue
Maurice Kirschbaum
Nick Lancaster
Policy Monitor Editors
Assad Asil Companioni
Maurice Kirschbaum
Nick Lancaster
Drashti Thakkar
Emma Walker-Silverman
Artistic and Creative
Expressions Editors
Nina Matsumoto
Fatima Zehra Naqvi
Disclaimer
Opinions expressed by authors in OxMo do not necessarily reflect the views of the Board
of Editors. Articles published in OxMo do not represent the views of the Refugee Studies
Centre or the University of Oxford. Copyright for articles published in OxMo rests with the
author(s). Materials may be downloaded, re- produced, and circulated in entirety provided
that the title, author, and source (OxMo) is acknowledged. Unless indicated otherwise, the
photos featured with each article were taken by the author(s). The photo on the front cover
is an open access image retrieved from Pexels. The photo on the back cover was taken by
Luis Ram (permission has been secured from the artist). For more information about OxMo’s
past issues and upcoming deadlines, visit our website www.oxforcedmigration.com or
follow us on Twitter: @oxmofm
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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Table of Contents
Letter from the Editors
Andrea Ortiz & Domiziana Turcatti
iv
ARTISTIC & CREATIVE SECTION
All Along the Watchtower
Jussi Jaakola
2
Mother Cry!
Yohana Tekeste
3
Home Rides in Backpack
Abdul Samad Haidari
4
ACADEMIC SECTION
‘It’s a Choice Between no Life and a Good Life’ - Navigating Youth across
Borders: Young Afghans’ Search for Safety and a Future in Europe
Maria Wardale
8
Experiences of Nicaraguan Political Refugees in Costa Rica
Gracia Silva
22
Do Ezidi Women Need Saving? An Analysis of the Politics of Victim- and
Saviourhood in Baden-Württemberg’s ‘Special Quota’ Humanitarian
Admissions Programme for Ezidi Women and Children
Andrea Theresa Haefner
36
Turning Asylum Seekers’ Smartphones into Control Devices: The
Introduction of the Data Extraction Policy in Austria
Ivan Josipovic
54
Confronting the US Immigration Detention System in the Biden Era
Zoe Martens
64
Ethnographic Reflection on Exilic Narratives Outside Closed Camps: The
Case of Residual Liberian Refugees in Nigeria
Tosin Samuel Durodola
79
The Impact of COVID-19 on ex-Gazan Palestinian Refugees in Jerash Camp,
Jordan
Cevdet Acu
95
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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The Asylum Trap: The Authors of Asif’s Story
Sinead Walsh
108
The Crises Behind Crises: Reformulating Humanitarianism to Address Why
People Flee
Sinead Walsh
115
POLICY SECTION
Dreamers vs. Immigrants: The Impact of Framing on Dreamers and Irregular
Migrants
Emma Labovitz
126
Under the Hong Kong’s National Security Law: How Can Western
Democratic Countries Support Politically Persecuted, Exiled Anti-Beijing
Dissidents?
Jason Hung
134
Business and Human Rights: The Case of Japan
Kimiko Kuga
142
Palestinian Refugees and COVID-19: Navigating through Lebanon's Multi-
layered Crisis
Jasmin Lilian Diab
149
La Nouvelle Politique Migratoire au Maroc en Faveur des Subsahariens
entre Succès et Échecs
Soumia Bouhdoud
156
FIELD SECTION
Cyclone Nargis and Displacement: Sensing the Places
Chung-Ah Baek
163
The Islanders and the Outlanders: The Case of Lesvos
Marilena Anastasopoulou
168
Next Stop: Nowhere
Clara Dybbroe Viltoft
175
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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Letter from the Editors
Dear Reader,
The years 2020 and 2021 have brought to the forefront the violent inequality plaguing our
world. The COVID-19 pandemic made more visible the intimate interconnectedness of
society, as well as the power money and geopolitics have in directly impacting people’s
health and chances of survival. In some countries, citizens received life-saving antibody
treatment and vaccines by early 2021, while in others body bags continued to be left
outside hospitals due to lack of space. The pandemic further impacted the most
marginalized in already disease-ridden countries, with the poorest and most vulnerable
dying from lack of hygiene and shelter that may have helped prevent the spread of COVID-
19. As mobility measures and restrictions put in place in 2020 are lifted this year, we are
seeing a surge in migration and forced displacement. In a global context marked by
turbulence and change in these last two years, forced displacement continues to be one of
the prominent issues of our time, for which this issue of OxMo seeks to contribute to critical
scholarship and innovative works on forced migration today.
This issue of the Oxford Monitor on Forced Migration features eighteen pieces of critical
scholarship by authors around the world, as well as three creative and artistic submissions.
Our authors are nationals and residents of over ten countries and engage with forced
migration across Africa, Asia, Europe, the Middle East, Latin America, and North America.
The issue sheds light on how COVID-19 has impacted the forcibly displaced and calls
attention to the failures of humanitarian assistance and asylum systems in receiving
countries. In our academic and policy section, two pieces explore the impacts of COVID-19
on displaced communities, particularly Palestinian refugees in Jerash camp in Jordan and
in informal camps and settlements in Lebanon. Critical scholars in our Academic section
question the politics of victim- and saviourhood of humanitarian programs in Austria, as
well as the limited asylum assistance provided to politically persecuted Hong Kong citizens
in the UK. Similarly, scholars interrogate the mutually reinforcing factors that explain the
continued expansion of the U.S. immigration detention system and the ethical implications
of the use of technology, particularly smartphone data, in asylum processes in Europe.
In addition to the critical articles on receiving country policies, this issue showcases pieces
capturing and describing unique experiences of forced displacement. These pieces show
how some young Afghans view migration as part of the journey to adulthood, autonomy,
and independence; how solidarity and community are central to the lived experience of
forced displacement for Nicaraguans in Costa Rica; and finally, how resistance, resilience,
and transformation are central to Liberian refugees´ sense of agency in Nigeria.
As in previous issues, Volume 11 Issue 1 also includes powerful pieces from the field,
including a first-hand account of the inside workings of a Departure Centre in Denmark,
and an analysis of how those displaced by climate change conceptualize space. These are
followed by a piece on how memory and identity inform perceptions of insider and outsider
for islanders in Lesvos.
In line with OxMo’s mission to engage diverse and global scholars with experiences of
forced migration, as well as those without, this issue includes scholarship in French,
accessible to francophone readers, as well as two pieces in our artistic and creative
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
v
expressions section written by refugees themselves. An additional piece in our Policy
section discusses the importance of framing of the migration narrative, which highlights and
aligns with OxMo’s aim to include voices of those displaced in critical intellectual and policy
dialogue across the globe. As Jussi Jaakola states in his poem on displacement, “Truth
never damages a cause that is just,” which is why as OxMo we believe that by engaging in
critical thought on forced migration, injustices and inequalities taking place today may be
brought to light.
Finally, we would like to thank everyone who has worked tirelessly to put out Volume 11.1,
and who continued to think and write about migration during an unprecedented time for
humanity. In the next few months, as we emerge from this crisis and return to our normal
lives, we encourage you to think about how those forcibly displaced may not have the
opportunity to return to “normality” and how their new normal may in fact require significant
rebuilding and resilience from an already impacted community.
A special thank you to Drashti Thakkar for the graphic design of this issue, and to the
University of Oxford for their continual efforts to take migration seriously as an academic
issue in and of itself. And finally, thank you to our readers for engaging in what is undeniably
one of the most defining issues of our times.
Andrea Ortiz & Domiziana Turcatti
Co-Editors-in-Chief
Oxford Monitor of Forced Migration
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
1
ARTISTIC & CREATIVE SECTION
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
2
All Along the Watchtower
Jussi Jaakola
Displaced people
Different time zones
The past and the present
Every breath you take
Between memory and history
Silence your mind and allow your heart to think
Everyone you know, touched by corruption
Authoritarian, non-democratic politics
The abuse and misuse of power, all along the watchtower
The importance of creating dialogue
In light of oppression and responsibility
The ideals of liberty, justice and legality
Deepening your knowledge and understanding
Resilience, when scrutiny is lacking
Truth never damages a cause that is just
The future starts with transparency
The Author
Jussi Jaakola is a film director, writer and
poet. He is known for ‘60 Seconds of
Solitude in Year Zero’, an anthology film
dedicated to preserving the freedom of
thought in cinema and is the author of
‘Saturday Night: Poems 1999–2011’ and
‘Unconditional Love: Poems 2012–2017’.
His work has appeared in the Journal of
Jungian Scholarly Studies and the poetry
anthology ‘Chorus’, edited by Saul
Williams and published by MTV
Books/Simon & Schuster in the United
States.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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Mother, Cry!
Yohana Tekeste
Mother of millions
Mother of good ones
Mother of unalloyed hearts
Mother of great minds
Are you not crying?
For you have lost all your children
The war said ‘I need some'
So you gave red ones
The desert said ‘I need some'
Then you gave your beloveds
The sea said 'I need some'
You gave your flesh
Are you not sad and crying?
Why is God not responding?
For your womb is full of scars
Are you not shouting?
Why is God not listening?
You cried your lifetime
Sadness sucked your blood
You are lonely and deserted
You have been sitting alone gravely
Your kids are everywhere
With lost feelings and identity
Are you not telling God
How it hurts to see
Your own children get played
With waves of tragedy
Mother of gold and diamonds
Don't let others wear your jewellery
Cry for your children, cry for their safety
The Author
I am Yohana Tekeste. I was born
and raised in Asmara, the capital
city of Eritrea. I had the most
wonderful childhood in my
hometown. As a child, I was
attached to my parents,
especially to my father. He is my
role model and hero in life.
Speaking of forced migration,
nothing is comparable to home.
I wish everyone gets the chance
to get back home and fulfil their
dreams. People are forced to be
away from home because of war,
economic problems, or political
systems in their homelands. I
want to be the voice of my
people. Being a refugee is the
worst thing that I have
experienced in my life. As we are
born in our home, we hope to die
in our home.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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Home Rides in Backpack
Abdul Samad Haidari
I carry my home in a small backpack.
This is my pillow on these rough footpaths.
A blanket, on these cold, moist sidewalks.
Its holds keep me calm
Its hug wraps me warm.
In it, I snail,
bury shards of childhood memories…
Memories of joy and grief.
My broken pen’s stained blood.
The burnt pages of my school books.
On it,
are itched Baba’s finger prints.
Ammi’s last desperate teardrops.
Hakima’s gory red ribbon.
In it,
I carry the bombed soil of my hometown.
The wistful fragrance
of my apricot, walnut and almond trees.
The last silent woes of my crumbled walls.
The shattered fragments of Ammi’s dreams.
The aromatic mists of my mud-made home.
The lush wetlands of our lives.
It reminds me of Baba’s last helpless look.
Sisters’ boiled, rushing tears.
Brothers’ final, fearful hugs.
Ammi’s last worried embrace.
With it,
I ran across the jungle.
Climbed the piercing wire-fenced borders.
Sailed on the back of dark water
in starving seas.
Its strong rope bridges my village and I,
Dah Mardah’s unforgettable memories.
With it,
I cried
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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when there was no shoulder to lean.
With it,
I shared my lonesome anguishes
when the hermit walls of camp confined
my very existence.
In it,
resides every bit of me.
Every adulthood remembrance.
Every youthful moment.
We both survived life of captivity.
It measures the length of brutal times,
we’ve spent in detention.
The midnight groans.
The late evening outburst sighs.
It witnesses my miseries.
Carries their unsaid crimes.
Holds my young Afghani pride.
This backpack honours my dignity.
Knows me more than the belated humans
I’ve rarely met.
But it has been for a while now.
My muscles are becoming weaker.
I run out of that childhood stamina,
unable to carry it longer.
My vision glazes over,
unable to hold that old-time sight.
My hands lose the grasp.
I run out of breath.
I’m afraid to sing my last farewell
in this cold and unfamiliar land.
But when this bruised heart
bids the last goodbye,
these stubborn eyes shut,
close forever,
please bury my backpack alongside me,
or place it under my wandered head
instead of cold bricks.
So that we turn into ashes together.
To fertilize your harvesting mango trees
as a final gift.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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This is the only way
I can offer my gratitude as a refugee.
23 October 2017 - Bogor, Indonesia
This poem highlights my own personal life as a refugee during the time when I was sleeping
on pavements. I had no one with me, no hope to move on in the adversity of survival, but a
backpack alone to hang on to. The backpack in which I carry the shards of both good and
bitter memories of my life.
The Author
Abdul Samad Haidari is a
33-year-old Afghan
refugee living in Indonesia
since 2014. Abdul is the
fifth generation, running
for his life. He first became
a refugee at the age of 8 or
9 and has been on the run
ever since. Abdul
previously worked as a
journalist and humanitarian
aid worker in Afghanistan.
During his time in
Indonesia, he taught
literacy to women
refugees, and authored an
illustrated book of poetry
called ‘The Red Ribbon’
which has become one of
the top 3rd best sellers in
Indonesia. He attended
several literary festivals and
spoke in various human
rights panel discussions with the UNHCR, IOM, and in other refugee-themed discussion
groups. He was invited to Ubud Writers & Readers Festival in 2019. Abdul Samad could not
complete his bachelor’s degree in journalism because war interrupted it. However, he is a
certified translator/interpreter, accredited by Cairo American University and a member of
the Jakarta Foreign Correspondents Club (JFCC).
OxMo Vol. 10, No. 1
ACADEMIC SECTION
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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‘It’s A Choice Between No Life and A Good Life’ -
Navigating Youth Across Borders: Young Afghans’ Search
for Safety And A Future In Europe*
Maria Wardale
*This article was written prior to the recent withdrawal of US and coalition forces and
subsequent Taliban takeover in Afghanistan in August 2021. In light of these events, the
issues discussed herein remain of paramount importance today, as likely growing numbers
of young Afghans will make their way out of a situation of heightened insecurity in search of
a brighter future.
Abstract
Between 2008 and 2018, young Afghan men consistently represented over half of all
independent asylum-seeking youth in Europe, and their numbers show little sign of
abating. This is despite the fact that their journeys towards Europe are increasingly volatile,
and arrival is commonly met with protracted legal uncertainty, fear, hostility and destitution–
the very conditions most young asylum-seeking Afghans are attempting to escape. What
does this mean for their experiences of growing up across borders? Both policy and
scholarly literature tend to portray young independent migrants as a particularly vulnerable
and traumatized group of ‘child’ refugees, for whom migration from conflict is inherently
disruptive to their transitions to adulthood. This essay challenges these accounts, drawing
primarily from qualitative and ethnographic research exploring young Afghans’ motivations
to migrate, the reality of becoming an adult in Europe’s institutional environment, and the
risky strategies young Afghans employ in attempt to navigate a better life for themselves. I
demonstrate that independent Afghan youth migration is a socially, culturally and
historically embedded feature of–not a disruption to–becoming adult, in which immediate
safety is but one aspect of their wider search for secure and viable futures. By reframing
young Afghans' experiences through a lens of youth transitions, I call for a more nuanced
understanding of independent youth migration in which the search for safety, support and
autonomy are all vital in young migrants’ active pursuit of a more meaningful and secure
future.
Introduction
In 2015, the number of independent young migrants claiming asylum in Europe increased
sharply to 96,000, an eight-fold increase on the annual average in the previous ten years
(Allsopp and Chase 2019; Scalettaris et al. 2019). The vast majority were between 15 and
17 years old, 91% were boys and young men, and at its peak, young Afghans represented
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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the largest group after Syrians. In fact, young Afghan men consistently represented over
half of all independent asylum-seeking youth in Europe between 2008 and 2018 and their
numbers show little sign of abating (Donini et al. 2016; Kuschminder and Siegel 2016).
Given that these young Afghans migrate and arrive at a critical and formative stage of their
youth, it is pertinent to ask: how do they experience transitions towards adulthood through
migration?
In many ways, the reality of young Afghans’ lives disrupts dominant western notions of what
it means to be young, which are premised on the idea of youth as a period of innocence
and dependence on the stable natal home (Boyden and Howard 2013; Lulle and King
2019). Most have grown up through long-term and intensifying unrest and violence in
Afghanistan, Iran and Pakistan (Kuschminder and Siegel 2016). Their journeys towards
Europe are characteristically volatile and unpredictable, punctuated with prolonged
periods of hardship, family separation and instability (Kaytaz 2016; LØnning 2020). Further,
their lives in Europe, which have gained increasing attention over the last ten years, often
include protracted legal uncertainty, upheaval, destitution and serious mental health
concerns (Chase and Allsopp 2020; Allsopp and Chase 2019).
As a result, and perhaps unsurprisingly, while there is a growing body of literature exploring
the positive role of independent youth migration for transitions to adulthood elsewhere
(see for example Christiansen et al. 2006), Afghan migration to Europe today rarely features
in these discussions. Rather, there is a tendency across youth and social work literature to
portray young Afghans as a particularly vulnerable and traumatized group of ‘child’
refugees within the wider group of ‘unaccompanied minors’, for whom migration is
inherently disruptive to their experiences of youth (Chase 2020; Wernesjö 2020). These
perspectives are underpinned by a developmentalist approach that depicts youth as a
universal experience at a fixed, biologically determined point in time (Lulle and King 2019;
Worth 2009). In turn, they fail to adequately account for the social and cultural significance
of Afghan youth migration through history (LØnning 2020; Monsutti 2008; 2007) and leave
little space to explore young migrants’ own subjective experiences of growing up which are
imperative for any nuanced analysis of youth (Christiansen et al. 2006).
This paper seeks to address these shortcomings, starting from a conceptualisation of youth
not as a fixed stage, but as a process of becoming, ‘a constantly evolving experience,
embracing its changeability and instability’ (Worth 2009: 1058). I draw primarily from
qualitative and ethnographic research to explore (1) how young Afghans’ motivations to
migrate to Europe are shaped by their position as youth, (2) what happens when their
expectations are not met in Europe and (3) how they seek to navigate Europe’s social and
institutional landscape in search of a better future. By focussing on how young Afghans
understand their own transitions towards adulthood, I hope to bring nuance to the
narratives around ‘crisis’ by highlighting how the challenges of growing up in Europe arise
not simply because of their past, but from the constraints on constructing better futures.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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Afghan Migration to Europe in Context
While the numbers of young Afghan migrants arriving in Europe have gained increasing
attention over the last decade, young Afghan men have in fact been migrating outwards for
the last forty-years. Before unpacking the experiences of young Afghans today, it is
important to situate more recent migration flows within this historical context.
Afghanistan’s history resembles one of protracted crisis; crisis is not a temporary
emergency, but an everyday reality (Mmembe 1995, cited in Belloni 2020). Since the
Communist Coup in 1978 and the Soviet invasion of 1979, it has been in an almost constant
state of political and social unrest. High levels of outwards migration, primarily of young
men, to Iran and Pakistan continued through the 1980s and by the early 1990s, 40% of all
refugees under the provision of the UNHCR were Afghans (Donini et al. 2016). Political
instability and violence have only served to intensify in the last thirty years; the fall of the
Najibullah regime in 1992 and the capture of Kabul by the Taliban in 1996 led to a reignition
of fighting and instability in Afghanistan.
These initial outward flows of migration were largely circular and temporary and, as
Monsutti (2007) argues, became an embedded feature of Afghan life. When Iran and
Pakistan were initially welcoming to Afghans, they provided the opportunity to work, live
modestly, broaden social networks and accumulate the money needed to face the
expenses of marriage on return to Afghanistan. In a context where age is defined not by
dates of birth (which neither states nor parents record) but through psychological and
physical maturity and capability, migration from conflict therefore served as a marker of the
transition to adulthood (Donini et al. 2016). By enabling young Afghans to become
economically independent, contribute to their community and demonstrate their qualities
as resilient and responsible (male) providers, migration represented, at this point, a rite of
passage to adulthood.
However, compared to these earlier flows of outwards migration to Iran and Pakistan, the
options for young Afghans today are significantly more limited. Over the last twenty years,
Iran and Pakistan have started to perceive Afghan migrants as an economic burden and
social threat, and as a result have developed strong anti-Afghan rhetoric and policies to
prohibit most Afghans from legal status (Scalettaris et al. 2019). At the same time,
Afghanistan remains in a situation of extreme insecurity and political turmoil–the US
intervention in 2001 and the withdrawal of international coalition forces, businesses and
NGOs in 2014 has led to an overall upsurge in fighting, widespread instability, economic
and social immobility and a lack of rule of law. In absence of viable prospects in Iran and
Pakistan, young Afghan men have started to make their way towards Europe since the
1990s.
Compounding these difficulties, the migratory pathways to Europe have become
increasingly fragmented, unpredictable and violent for all migrants attempting to make
their way irregularly, owing to heightening border controls (Collyer 2007; Schapendonk
2012). For Afghans, these difficulties are particularly acute–they generally lack the social
and financial resources required to overcome the barriers of restrictive border regimes, and
endure extreme levels of hardship, state and interpersonal violence, exploitation, detention
and multiple removals along their way (Kaytaz 2016; LØnning 2020). In fact, owing to these
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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multiple barriers, many Afghans never make it to their preferred destination in north or
western Europe (Scalettaris et al. 2019). Yet, while young Afghans and their family members
are generally aware to some degree of the unpredictability and adversity of migration to
Europe, the numbers of Afghans embarking on this journey remain unabated.
Against this background, outwards migration has become a persistent feature of
Afghanistan’s social landscape and has, in the past, provided a successful route to (male)
adulthood (Monsutti 2007). The next section will explore what this means for how young
Afghans understand their own decisions to migrate to Europe today.
Why Do Young Afghans Migrate to Europe?
‘…to have a better life, to save themselves, you know, to come and educate themselves,
people take the risk…’ (Young Afghan in the UK, cited in Chase and Allsopp 2020: 13)
Perhaps unsurprisingly, given the widespread and longstanding unrest and violence, most
young Afghans describe safety as the primary driver of their decision to migrate (Donini et
al. 2016). In some circumstances, this reflects specific and more immediate dangers faced
by young Afghan men, including threats or direct violence by the Taliban relating to their
family’s political or religious affiliation, ethnic persecution and interpersonal violence
(Kuschminder and Siegel 2016). However, for many, the search for safety goes far beyond
an escape from immediate danger. Particularly for the high number of young Afghans who
have spent most of their childhood as undocumented migrants in Iran or Pakistan, it reflects
a more pervasive sense of what might be best captured by De Genova’s (2002) term
‘deportability’; feeling ‘always afraid’ and ‘in danger’ (Vervliet et al. 2015). Thus, their
migration towards Europe represents not simply flight from immediate risk, but a search for
ontological security—the stability and predictability that enables one to find a place in the
world (Chase 2013).
It follows, therefore, that the search for safety is not just about survival but living a life that
one considers meaningful or fulfilling. In fact, within young Afghans’ narratives, there is little
distinction between the two, as one young Afghan explains, ‘it is a choice between no life
and a good life’ (Chase and Allsopp 2020: 13). In part this reflects the social and moral
expectation of migration that has become so culturally and socially ingrained that to stay
behind is simply not an option. Most young Afghans do not in fact make the decision to
migrate as they reach adolescence (though they may instigate the physical departure), but
they nevertheless accept the obligation because ‘it is in the blood of our generation’, one
young Afghan explains (Donini et al. 2016: 30). Like in other contexts of prolonged crisis
(Belloni 2020), they grow up knowing that their future lies out there and as such, when it
comes to the stage of their youth where they have to take ownership of their futures,
migration becomes the inevitable choice to seek a better life.
How then, do young Afghans navigate the realities of the unpredictable and challenging
journey and what does this mean for their transition towards adulthood? For some, the
hardship of the journey provides a means to prove their self-sufficiency and resilience to
their families, and thus gain social recognition (Kaytaz 2016). Young Afghans often speak
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
12
with pride about their ability to endure the migration journey, ‘we Afghans we are
brave…we can overcome any obstacle’ (Kaytaz 2016: 294). Even having experienced
multiple deportations, many say they will keep going because they are willing to ‘play’ or
‘gamble’ with their lives; with few other options, they state, they ‘have nothing to lose’
(Donini et al. 2016: 13; Scalettaris et al. 2019: 10). At the same time, ‘failing’ the migration
project—that is, not reaching northern or western Europe—brings considerable shame and
as a result, young Afghans are likely to keep the struggles of their journey away from their
family. By enduring and overcoming challenges and saving face in front of their family, they
are able to assert their position as self-sufficient and resilient sons. In these ways, without
the certainty that the migration journey can provide either safety or social recognition,
young Afghans enter part of the initiation process of adult masculinity. Drawing from
BenEzer and Zetter (2015), the journey in itself, irrespective of its ‘completion’, is highly
formative and transformative in the transition towards adulthood.
Central London. Photo taken by the author.
However, the journey is transformative in other ways that influence Afghans’ experience of
youth. Though the decision to move may have initially been a social and familial obligation,
they may reappropriate the meaning of the journey in ways that differ from their parents’
expectations. For example, young Afghans speak extensively about their ‘dreams’ for the
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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future in Europe. These may not necessarily be clearly defined, but often include more
neoliberal ideals of individual aspiration and freedom; the desire to have fun, the ambition
to study, and to fulfil personal goals. That is, to explore not just a better life but a new life
that they hope will begin on arrival in Europe (Donini et al. 2016; Meloni 2020). These hopes
and aspirations - realistic or not - are powerful; they provide a tool through which to
navigate their physical surroundings, and maintain a sense of progress; as long as they keep
physically moving, they can keep the hope of overcoming the ‘not-quite’ liminal stage of
youth, alive (Scalettaris et al. 2019; Ungruhe and Essen 2017). Thus, the journey provides
the space through which they can fulfil some of the expectations of Afghan adult
masculinity, whilst also holding a space for their new future, where a new life awaits them.
Becoming Adult on Arrival in Europe
‘Now I’m stuck in the middle, I cannot move forward, I cannot move backward, I cannot go
anywhere. It’s very hard to explain, I just don’t know what to do. I’m alive but I’m dead’
(Young undocumented Afghan in the UK, cited in Gladwell and Elwyn 2012: 10)
Arrival in Europe significantly and abruptly reshapes young Afghans’ position of youth. In
large part this reflects the fact that the binary legal distinction between child and adult,
which holds little meaning in Afghanistan, defines their rights and protection in Europe
(LØnning 2020). Before briefly setting out the institutional framework for protection, and
outcomes for young Afghans, this section explores how arrival in Europe fails to adequately
meet young Afghans' expectations and as a result, both suspends and accelerates the pace
and direction with which they wish to pursue their future.
Institutional Arrival
The vast majority of young Afghans enter the ‘unaccompanied minor’ framework at some
point within their time in Europe. This category is assigned to young migrants who enter
Europe without a parent or responsible adult. Removal is prohibited in this context, and it
is associated with educational, social, practical and financial support that purportedly meet
young people’s ‘best interests’ under Article 12 of the UN Convention on the Rights of the
Child (Allsopp and Chase 2019; Lems et al. 2020). However, it comes with conditionalities
such as the agreement to move accommodation or change school when required to by the
Home Office, and to otherwise comply with immigration authorities.
Crucially, the framework is predicated on the binary distinction between child and adult at
age 18. After reaching 18 years old, young migrants ‘age out’ of the framework, and
abruptly lose this institutional support. Most young Afghans do not have refugee status at
this point. Thus, their transition to adulthood becomes a ‘transition to illegality’ (Allsopp and
Chase 2019). As a result, and somewhat paradoxically, the transition to adulthood often
entails heightened risk and precarity at the time when they are expected to move on.
Further, on becoming ‘adult’ their prospects of obtaining refugee status rapidly decline. In
the UK in 2018 for example, the grant rate dropped from 27% to just under 6% between
those under and over 18 years old (Home Office 2019).
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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Security, Frustration and Hopelessness in Europe
For some young Afghans, arrival in Europe signals the beginning of physical and
psychological maturity. For example, many speak of their physical arrival as an affirmation
of their strength and resilience to ‘make it’ (Scalettaris et al. 2019). Others describe a
renewed sense of freedom on arrival – it marks the start of new possibilities of what to do
and who to be, as one young Afghan reminisces, ‘when I arrived in the UK, I became an
adult (kalan)…because when you arrive, your mind changes. You think that you have to
make something with your life and yourself’ (Meloni 2020: 428). Further, Chase (2013)
found that young migrants spoke extensively about the safety and security they
experienced on arrival in the UK, in contrast to the upheaval they had endured to get there.
Thus, some do, if only for a moment, find the safety, freedom and rite of passage that
motivated their decision to migrate.
However, for the majority who are not granted permanent legal status, these quickly
dissipate and are replaced by an overwhelming sense of insecurity, frustration and
hopelessness as they begin to experience the reality of life as an undocumented young
migrant in the asylum system (Chase 2013; Chase and Allsopp 2020). This ‘shock of reality’
is not unique to young Afghans; the adversity and insecurity of the asylum system has been
extensively documented amongst other migrant groups (see for example, Lewis et al. 2014;
O’Reilly 2018; Parker 2020). However, these experiences present particular challenges for
young migrants specifically, because they obstruct essential aspects of this formative stage
of becoming adult; the security to envision and plan for their future, and their ability, with
support and guidance, to (re)negotiate their place in the adult world (Chase 2013; Chase
and Allsopp 2020). In Europe, their legal liminality coincides with their generational
liminality.
Without legal status, young migrants experience pervasive senses of fear and insecurity in
Europe, and they speak of them in similar terms to the perpetual fear experienced in Iran
and Pakistan. In part this reflects the suspicion and hostility directed towards migrants by
immigration officials, who, as one young Afghan describes, treat them ‘like an animal’
(Chase 2010: 2056). But insecurity permeates all aspects of their lives outside of the legal
system. Even those purportedly protected under the ‘unaccompanied minor’ framework
describe feeling that, without the security of permanent legal status, the ‘care’ can feel like
an intrusive form of surveillance (Chase 2010). For those who have left the care system
without legal status, legal uncertainty is even more corrosive of their sense of safety in
Europe because of the prospect of deportation. As a 20-year-old undocumented Afghan in
the Netherlands explains, ‘if they deport me to Afghanistan, it is like death; I deal with this
feeling every day even while I am sleeping’ (Kuschminder and Siegel 2016: 16). Without
legal status–or even the guarantee of it–Europe fails to provide the space of safety they
anticipate prior to arrival, halting their sense of progress.
At the same time, arrival in Europe fails to provide the opportunities that young Afghans
seek in order to pursue their futures, both in terms of their familial expectations and their
individual aspirations. For example, they express dissatisfaction that the skills and
competencies they may have learned through former employment, or the responsibility
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
15
they acquired in the household growing up, go unrecognised, or can even work against
them if they are perceived to be ‘too agentic’ (Kaukko and Wernesjö 2017; Allsopp and
Chase 2019; Otto 2020). However, the sense of being held back also arises where they do
not have specific goals in mind, as one young Afghans explains ‘having refugee status as
the final thing…I look at it as the beginning of my life. If I had it, I could plan for my future’
(Kuschminder and Siegel 2016: 16). Without legal certainty, it can feel impossible to even
think about, let alone pursue, a future.
The frustration at being ‘held back’ from opportunities is coupled with feeling ill-equipped
and insufficiently supported to make the right decisions about their life, even where the
opportunities do arise. Despite showing considerable resilience and autonomy along their
journey, it is difficult to make the good choice in such an unfamiliar environment without
adequate guidance. They feel ‘alone in a completely new land–everything, everything new’
(Meloni 2020: 428). This is the experience for those in and out of the ‘unaccompanied
minor’ system. Amongst the former, many feel like their social workers are ambivalent about
their future, or mistakenly think that because of their struggle, they should be able to ‘look
after themselves’ (Kaukko and Wernesjö 2017; Otto 2020). For the latter, ‘ageing out’ can
feel even more isolating and lonely: ‘just turning 18 does not suddenly make you mature
and capable’ (Gladwell and Elwyn 2012: 14).
To conclude, there are significant discrepancies between the anticipation of, and the reality
of young Afghans’ futures in Europe, resulting in a sense of being both held back and forced
to grow up too quickly in Europe. The insecurity, uncertainty and lack of prospects are,
tragically, not new to young Afghans. However, resilience and courage are no longer
perceived as ‘favourable’ characteristics in Europe, and without the prospect of a legal
future, their capacity to aspire begins to erode. As one young Afghan in the Netherlands
says, ‘I forgot my dreams; I used to have many plans and dreams for the future. I just think
about today not tomorrow’ (Kuschminder and Siegel 2016: 16). Without the certainty of a
legal future in Europe or the support to achieve it, they become ‘frozen in the present’
(Bloch et al. 2014: 152).
(Re)Navigating Becoming Adult in Europe
Youth do not, as Lulle and King (2019) argue, simply accept the structural positions ascribed
to them but actively seek to re-shape them for their own means. This section explores the
ways that young Afghans mobilise (constrained) tactics of agency in order to regain a sense
of autonomy and hope for their future, and to renegotiate their position towards adulthood.
Institutional Disappearing
As explored above, becoming undocumented results in heightened insecurity and risk for
young Afghans. Notwithstanding these risks, many young migrants choose to disengage
with the institutional system before they are legally required to, most often as they approach
the age of majority and an increased likelihood of being refused refugee status. This
phenomenon known as institutional ‘disappearing’ is widely identified amongst young
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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independent migrants across Europe. It is estimated that approximately 10,000 young
independent migrants ‘disappeared’ in 2015, over 5,000 of those in Italy. In the UK,
approximately 2,000 young migrants ‘disappear’ from the care system each year (Allsopp
and Chase 2020). Given the risks of life as an undocumented young person including
violence, destitution and exploitation, it is unsurprising that disengaging is a high priority
‘problem’ amongst NGO and statutory policy-makers, though existing attempts to address
it through reporting and police intervention are inconsistent and often ineffective
(European Migration Network 2020).
However, considering the failure of institutional and legal systems to meet young Afghan
migrants’ needs and aspirations, disengaging can for many young migrants, feel like the
most feasible and only option to pursue a better future for themselves (Allsopp and Chase
2019; Bloch et al. 2011). Where the alternatives are the threat of deportation or close
monitoring by social workers (Meloni and Humphris 2019), ‘disappearing’ can be
understood as a valuable (though fragile) resource for young migrants (Bloch and Chimienti
2011).
Disengaging from statutory services should of course not be glamorized as a collective or
subversive agentic act against the state. Young Afghans often reflect on this being the point
where their life turned into a ‘disaster’ (Gladwell and Elwyn 2012; Meloni 2020). Most
migrants do not know what life ‘underground’ will entail (Allsopp and Chase 2019: 299). As
Allsopp and Chase (2019) highlight, it rarely brings any lasting positive outcomes for young
Afghans, who most often return to institutional support after a period of struggling with the
hardship of being undocumented, in a much more vulnerable position than before. Some
Afghan migrants do not even consider their ‘disappearing’ to be an active decision at all,
but the result of meeting the ‘wrong people at the wrong times’ and losing their way (Meloni
2020: 428).
Notwithstanding these limitations, situating this act of resistance within the context of their
generational and legal liminality highlights how disengaging can provide a tactic for young
Afghans to reignite their sense of autonomy over their future. In a material sense, Afghan
migrants may be willing to forego the risks of illegality in order to avoid the risk they foresee
as most dangerous, namely deportation, and therefore, they attempt to protect a space for
their future (Allsopp and Chase 2019). For others, the decision to disengage into illegality
is less about deportation. In Italy for example young Afghans are aware of the inadequate
implementation of such systems, but nevertheless choose illegality as a means to pursue
their own plans, often to work in the shadow economy (Allsopp and Chase 2019; Meloni
2020). Thus, resisting the expectation of institutional inclusion to become ‘invisible’ (Bloch
et al. 2014), can create a sense of (temporary) safety and opportunity that the existing
framework fails to provide.
Similar to the notion of ‘social navigation’ by Vigh (2006 cited in Christiansen et al. 2006),
young Afghans’ decisions to disengage into illegality provides a means through which to
circumvent some of the barriers that Europe’s institutional landscape presents them with.
By refusing to wait, or depend on others, it can provide a means to attempt to re-set the
pace and direction of their future trajectories in line with their vision of a better life (Allsopp
and Chase 2019; Bloch et al. 2014). Outcomes aside, the very act of disengaging also holds
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
17
a symbolic value for young Afghans. As in their migratory journey, by taking risks, and
embracing uncertainty, they can demonstrate a level of strength, independence and
responsibility over their futures. As Meloni (2020) suggests, in the new space of uncertainty
comes new possibilities and renewed hope that something might change for the better.
Selectively Disengaging
Young Afghans may practice more subtle forms of disengagement to resist the stagnation,
insecurity and alienation of the institutional system, that do not necessitate ‘disappearing’
or entering illegality. Like on the journey, they may partially withhold information about
their current circumstances from family back in Afghanistan. They also commonly withhold
information about their past from social workers and foster parents, not solely due to
trauma (though this is important), but also as a means to ‘bracket’ their past, and ‘just get
on with [their] life’ (Chase 2010: 2059). In front of peers, withholding information resists the
stigma of the ‘asylum seeker’ label and appear ‘normal’ (Chase 2010; Kaukko and Wernesjö
2017; Wernesjö 2020).
By selectively disconnecting from the people around them in ways they feel are beneficial
for their journey towards adulthood, young Afghans can renegotiate a new place for
themselves in the adult world across borders. Not sharing the harsh reality of their current
situation with their family can assist them in becoming responsible sons, to preserve an
image of self-sufficiency and avoid the possible shame of their ‘failed’ migration project
(Allsopp et al. 2015; Kuschminder and Siegel 2016). As Brandhorst et al. (2020) illustrate in
other separated families, silences can also be understood as an act of care and protection,
allowing them to enact an emotional ‘provider’ role expected of them as young adults for
their parents. In Europe, withholding information from peers can help to cultivate a sense
of normality, allowing them to focus on making friends and building a new life. As one
young Afghan in the UK explains, college provided a ‘a safe haven where I could go and
hide…a smokescreen in a way... until I stood on my feet’ (Chase 2013: 864).
Conclusion
As this paper has demonstrated, the initiation process to adulthood for young Afghans
starts long before arrival. The decision to migrate represents not simply an escape from
danger, but ‘a quest for meaning, social recognition and a re-appropriation of their lives’
(Scalettaris et al. 2019: 8) and the journey provides an opportunity to prove their resilience,
courage and valour, while also keeping the dream of a new and different life in Europe
alive. However, for many young Afghans, Europe confronts them with a situation of
continued fear, precarity and lack of opportunity - the very conditions they seek to escape.
Their resilience and future-seeking are misinterpreted or treated with suspicion on arrival
in Europe, resulting in an uncomfortable position of being held back and forced to grow
up too quickly. However, without legal certainty, it is difficult to maintain the hope that a
better life - whatever this entails - is possible. As a result, and similar to the findings of Bloch
et al. (2014) in other contexts of undocumented youth, they find their lives both accelerated
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
18
and suspended, resulting in a paralysing state of being ‘stuck in the middle’ (Kuschminder
and Siegel 2016).
However, within this position of liminality emerges the possibility of change. Rather than
waiting or depending on an institutional structure that fails to meet their needs, young
Afghans may disappear or navigate the system by selectively disengaging. These practices
are commonly depicted as ‘problems’. However, when positioned within the backdrop of
their broader life trajectory, it is possible to see these acts of agency as a remobilisation of
the risk-taking, resilience and hope that keep their vision of a future alive during the journey.
These practices of agency should not be romanticized; they emerge out of a highly
constrained set of alternatives and can often reinforce the structural immobility they attempt
to overcome. However, paying attention to young people’s narratives around these often
high-risk and difficult decisions, helps to reframe them as fragile but potentially
transformative acts that allow young Afghans to regain, if only temporarily, a new sense of
autonomy over their lives, and a renewed possibility of change.
By exploring young Afghans’ subjective experiences, it becomes clear that migration from
conflict is not inherently disruptive to youth transitions. As is found in other areas where
conflict, risk and upheaval are everyday parts of young lives, enduring or overcoming
hardship through migration is a central part of what it means to become an Afghan adult.
The problem arises when young people enter a social and institutional environment that
fails to recognise this and are confronted with a very different expectation of the nature and
pace of transitions to adulthood. Reframing young migrants’ motivations, expectations. and
vulnerabilities through a lens of youth transition is important for bringing nuance into the
migration debate so often flatly portrayed as ‘crisis’. Further, it can help to inform an
improved institutional environment for young migrants, which values equally their search
for safety and support, and their autonomy to pursue a meaningful and secure future.
The Author
Maria Wardale has recently received an MA in Migration and Global Development with
distinction from the University of Sussex. She returned to academia following three years
working for a London-based NGO directly supporting survivors of torture and trafficking to
navigate the UK’s asylum and healthcare labyrinth. Maria is passionate about bringing
nuance to the oft-victimizing narratives around forced migration and asylum through a
migrant-centred research approach. Her MA dissertation used participatory photography to
explore friendship as an informal practice of care amongst those seeking asylum in the UK.
Having now completed her MA, she hopes to pursue a career in migration research.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
19
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Experiences of Nicaraguan Political Refugees in Costa Rica
Gracia Silva
Abstract
In this article, I examine the lived experiences of forcibly displaced Nicaraguans who fled to
Costa Rica starting in April 2018, as a result of political persecution, violence, and
repression in Nicaragua. I use an ethnographic approach, having spent three months in
Costa Rica conducting participant observation in collective houses inhabited by young
political refugees, with whom I also conducted individual interviews. In Costa Rica,
Nicaraguan refugees are facing a series of difficulties and feelings of frustration,
xenophobia, and labour discrimination. However, I found that the company of others in
similar situations has helped them make sense of what has happened to them and cope
with dire circumstances. This article sheds light on the role of solidarity and community as
important aspects of integration and contributes to improving people’s understanding of
refugees’ realities.
Introduction
In 2018, the ongoing Nicaraguan socio-political crisis led thousands of people to flee to
Costa Rica. Like many other Nicaraguan youths, I left Nicaragua and went to San José, Costa
Rica’s capital, to hide from the overwhelming State violence and repression. I spent three
months there, before traveling to continue my studies, and I participated in groups that
were organizing to support the growing number of Nicaraguan refugees. These refugees
faced the challenge of building new lives in a context of economic problems, uncertainty,
and xenophobia, and I noticed how, despite being in Costa Rica, their minds and hearts
were focused on Nicaragua.
The purpose of this article is to give an overview of the lived experiences of young
Nicaraguan political refugees in Costa Rica, their challenges, and their needs. In the first
section, I situate the reader in the context of the Nicaraguan protests, explaining the
situation that propelled thousands of Nicaraguans to flee the country and seek refuge
elsewhere. In section two, I outline the main bodies of literature relevant to this research.
Next, I describe the methodological approach of this research, which was based on the
construction of horizontal relationships with the Nicaraguan refugee community. Section
four presents the stories of two Nicaraguan refugees, and section five reflects on their
negotiation of the challenges they are facing in Costa Rica. In the last section, I include
recommendations on how Nicaraguan refugees can be better supported.
This work seeks to improve people’s empathetic understanding of the lived realities of
refugees by foregrounding their voices and allowing their faces to be imagined in order to
prevent their dehumanization, while also making their resistance visible.
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23
Nicaraguan 2018-2020 Wave of Protests
Since the Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN) and Daniel Ortega returned to power
in the 2006 presidential elections, democratic institutions started to weaken under the
concentration of state powers in the hands of the ruling party (United Nations Office of the
High Commissioner for Human Rights OHCHR 2018). Disjuncture between the government
and wider society reached its peak in April 2018, when brutal government repression
towards citizens protesting social security reforms gave rise to the ongoing Nicaraguan
socio-political crisis—something the country has not seen in decades.
The first months of the crisis were marked by street demonstrations, marches, pickets, and
the occupation of university campuses such as the National Autonomous University of
Nicaragua (UNAN-Managua) and the Polytechnic University of Nicaragua (UPOLI). The
government’s response to the protests was to deploy combined forces of pro-government
armed groups and police officers using military-grade lethal weapons in organized attack
operations against protesters. This involved gross human rights violations including
obstruction of access to medical care, extrajudicial killings, enforced disappearances, and
instances of torture and sexual violence in detention centres (Amnesty International 2018a;
United Nations Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights OHCHR 2018). By 19
August 2018, the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights
OHCHR estimated more than 300 people dead and thousands injured (United Nations
Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights OHCHR 2018).
As a result of the overwhelming State repression, street demonstrations stopped abruptly
in October 2018. However, the government has since continued its effort to silence any
trace of dissent through other strategies such as the criminalization of protesters,
surveillance, harassment, arbitrary arrests, and selective kidnappings mainly conducted by
the police (Cuadra 2019). The repression strategy also includes the creation of laws to
outlaw dissent and restrict the exercise of human rights, as well as official statements that
deny the repression and its consequences, categorizing protesters as ‘coupists’ or terrorists
(Amnesty International 2018b; Amnesty International 2021). The persecution has been such
that by March 2020, more than 100,000 Nicaraguans had fled the country. Around 77,000
of them requested asylum in the neighbouring country of Costa Rica (UNHCR 2020), which
adopted an open-door policy for all persecuted Nicaraguans (Bran 2021).
Solidarity and Integration
Through the experiences of Nicaraguan refugees, I reflect on how people ‘cope’ with
refugeehood and the role of solidarity and community as important aspects of integration.
Zetter at al. (2002) state the difficulty in identifying and establishing a cross-national set of
integration indicators. Based on an extensive literature review and three case studies of
European countries, they propose a typology of integration along four main clusters of
indicators: 1) the citizenship domain, 2) the governance domain, 3) the functional domain,
and 4) the social domain. Similarly, psychologists Ager and Strang (2008) established a
conceptual framework to understand what integration means for the resettlement of
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
24
refugees and other migrants. They discuss four overall themes when talking about
integration: 1) achievement and access across the sectors of employment, housing,
education, and health; 2) assumptions and practice regarding citizenship and rights; 3)
processes of social connection within and between groups in the community; 4) structural
barriers to such connection related to language, culture, and the local environment.
My focus on the role of solidarity places a particular interest in the fourth domain of Zetter
et al. (2002)—the social. Here, the focus is on informal processes of integration, such as
social inclusion and participation, sense of connectivity, and acquisition of social capital. It
also fits into the third theme proposed by Ager and Strang (2008) in which they pay
attention to social bonds, senses of belonging and respect, and shared values. They found
that refugees usually identified social connection to be the defining feature of an integrated
community.
With respect to the concept of solidarity, while recent studies on migration and
refugeehood have started to conceptualize its role, the term elides consistent definition
(Bauder and Juffs 2020). For the purpose of this article, I borrow the concept of solidarity
used by Jesuit priest, Ignacio Martín-Baró, as part of his Liberation Psychology, a conceptual
school that has been dealing with the consequences of social conflict and the trauma of
institutionalized violence in Central America since the 80s (Martín-Baró 1994). Following his
definition, solidarity represents an effort to get out of the framework of restricted individual
responsibility and assume a broader parcel of social responsibility, bearing the
consequences of what others need and do. The narrow schemes of institutionalized
responsibility are objectively overcome, and by supporting the weakest and neediest
sectors of society a situation of greater justice is fostered (Martín-Baró 1990).
I observed how one of the most important and constant motivators of refugees was the
support of others and the commitment to reciprocate this support. The refugee stories
presented in this article foreground how they have established new relationships and
networks for material and emotional support, exemplifying how social support is as much
a basic determinant of wellbeing as food, shelter, income, health care and social
opportunities (Simich et al. 2005).
Research Process
During my time in Costa Rica in 2018, I came to learn that young Nicaraguan refugees were
living in groups and supporting each other to pay rent and cover basic needs such as food
and personal hygiene items. Seeking ways to understand the impact of political violence
and forced migration as experienced and lived by these young refugees upon arrival and
integration into Costa Rica, I conducted fieldwork in San José, Costa Rica, from mid-May to
mid-August 2019. I undertook participant observation and conducted in-depth interviews
with 13 Nicaraguan refugees.
It was difficult to get a group of political refugees to share their experiences with me. To
accomplish this, I used snowball sampling. With the help of Costa Rican professors and
Nicaraguan activists-in-exile that I met in 2018, I started contacting people, introducing
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myself and my research. Being open and honest about my own experience leaving
Nicaragua to go to Costa Rica in 2018 was fundamental to this process. Many of the people
I was able to access were willing to talk to me only because they knew I had a similar
experience. When I connected with a refugee who was open to talk with me and wanted to
support my research, I asked them to refer another refugee.
It is important to acknowledge that the use of snowball sampling is prone to sampling
biases (Noy 2008). In this case, this is evidenced in the homogeneity of the research
participants, who are mostly women in their twenties who were living in Managua at the
time the protests started. Nevertheless, this process of recommendations and references
was key to establishing a baseline degree of trust between myself and the participants
which made it easier to create a horizontal relationship. This horizontal relationship was
essential in fostering research that placed the voices and desires of the refugees to the fore
and to abandon a position of expertise from which the researcher takes control of the
research process (Gupta 2018).
When undertaking participant observation in a shared home, I always introduced myself to
the individuals that lived there and explained my purpose as a researcher. If the home
members agreed to support the research, I started spending time at their homes. This
provided me with an opportunity to observe and, at times, participate in their everyday
dynamics. I selected three refugee homes and started building a relationship with them by
taking the role of accompanier as a reliable and consistent presence who makes respectful
visits. Accompanying involves:
Standing alongside people, working with them, seeking to develop
collaborative relations that recognize power inequities within the
relationships as well as within the contexts in which one is working, and
seeking to transform them when the people themselves see that as part of
the transformative task (Comas-Díaz et al. 1998: 779).
Following Watkins (2015), I adjusted to the life in the community and sought to be open to
dialogue and to hear what was important for the refugees in a respectful and thoughtful
manner. I tried to value the needs and resources of the community and refrained from
setting the agenda or usurping their knowledge. I did my best to create a horizontal
relationship with the research participants, but it is important to acknowledge that our life
circumstances created a difference, of which we both were aware. This can be appreciated
when one of the participants told me: ‘I know that you experienced a situation similar to
mine. The problem is that in the power relationship between the two of us, you are in
another position at this moment.’
Alongside this ethnographic work, I also invited 13 young refugees to tell their life stories
in detail during in-depth unstructured interviews. During the interviews, we talked about
their involvement in the protests, their decision to flee Nicaragua, and their process of
integration in Costa Rica. The interviews took place at various locations in accordance with
them, sometimes it was at their residence, a coffee shop, a park, or a location at the
University of Costa Rica. Before the start of the interview, they were asked to read and sign
a consent form. I highlighted the fact that their participation in this study was voluntary and
that they could withdraw from the study at any time. The interviews lasted between 50 and
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
26
180 minutes. All the interviews were recorded and notes were taken. To ensure anonymity
and to safeguard their identities, interviewees are referred to using pseudonyms.
To communicate these stories, I purposively use a storytelling narrative approach in which
we can see how the value of the experience of living with other Nicaraguan refugees is
contextual and contingent upon the individual. A growing body of researchers have
proposed the use of the arts, According to Gupta (2018) arts act:
As a powerful vehicle with which to disrupt this amputation of seeing and
restore compassionate witness. Art can make the invisible become visible.…
Art can create a tangible memorial that declares the truth of injustice inflicted
upon marginalized communities (Idem. 2018:13).
As such, in the process of writing, I adhered to interviewees’ testimonies. I use extended
quotes and retain any grammar mistakes and changes between tenses to foreground the
refugee’s voices. I assume an omniscient voice to narrate some parts without quoting the
whole interview. Any judgment on my part is made explicit in the text.
Although my intention is for the reader to listen to the voices of these refugees, it is
necessary to acknowledge that there is an implicit interpretation of their words in the
process of selecting quotes and writing the stories which is filtered by what appeared as
most important to me (Martínez 2014). The translation process is another filter that mediates
the messages of the co-researchers. When translating the quotes from Spanish to English,
it was difficult to maintain accuracy when dealing with colloquialisms, slang, and different
references to the Nicaraguan culture. I reproduced the original speech as accurately as
possible and tried to express the meaning of what they were saying.
The Impact of Forced Displacement
The two stories I present next reflect on how exile changes the lives of Nicaraguan political
refugees and how they cope with the challenges of being a refugee and integrating in a
new country. I consider these stories to be significant because they narrate personal
experiences that are part of collective events.
Flor de Luz
One of the reasons I accepted this interview and being part of this research
is because I need to say many things.
Flor de Luz wants to talk, and I want to listen. He tells me he had already graduated from
college when he decided to be a part of the occupation of one of the universities in
Managua. He always advocated for peaceful ways to protest and one of the main reasons
he decided to leave Nicaragua was the growing spiral of violence. He crossed the border
through a blind spot near the border post of Peñas Blancas and went directly to Upala, a
city close to the Nicaraguan border, where he stayed with a paternal uncle.
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His uncle and his uncle’s wife took him to a place where he could apply for asylum. He
received the support of the Upala office of the Migrant Social Rights Centre (Centro de
Derechos Sociales del Inmigrante, CENDEROS), an NGO that works to empower migrant
populations in Costa Rica. He spent three months in Upala trying to find a job. He had
experience as an educator and as an artist, and his dream was to find a job as an art teacher.
Pretty soon, he realized that dream was not going to become a reality. He tried to work in
construction but quickly discovered he was not cut out for heavy physical labour. Then, he
worked on a couple of things he could find, like taking care of houses.
He had a good relationship with his uncle but not with his uncle’s wife:
My relationship with my uncle’s wife was really complicated because the lady
is white, with blue eyes. She is xenophobic, because my uncle told me, he
did not tell me that she is xenophobic, he told me that his wife did not like
nicas very much.
Thus, Flor de Luz decided to leave and try his luck in the city of Cartago, where he had a
cousin. He stayed in Cartago only for a short period because he did not feel comfortable at
his cousin’s house: ‘I felt great with her [the cousin], but then I began to feel rejected by her
husband. It was like, “Shit, what am I doing here? I have no job, I have nowhere to go, I have
no way to go anywhere else”’. In the end, he returned to Upala and his uncle, but stayed
only for a short time because he could not stand the humiliation and mistreatment by his
uncle’s wife.
He had no Costa Rican friends and he avoided talking to Nicaraguan people because he
was worried they would be supporters of the FSLN. This was until acquaintances and friends
started to arrive in the country. When one of his friends and her family moved to Ciudad
Colón, a town in the province of San José, he decided to go and live with them. But once
again, the environment was tense.
The CENDEROS’ office at Upala referred him to the San José office. Through them, he
received monetary support from Relief & Resilience through Education in Transition (RET),
an international NGO that promotes the development, participation, and integration of
vulnerable refugee populations. His psychologist suggested that he should find another
place to live because he needed a quiet space to heal. When I ask about his emotional
wellbeing, he mentions:
Just imagine that I got the flu three times, because I came from Nicaragua
without wanting to talk, I had somatic symptoms because of the repression,
I mean, directly in my body, I had somatic symptoms. I was sick like a month
and a half, counting all the time I was ill. I started to heal when I went to the
psychologist and started talking.
With the money from RET, he started renting a house with some other Nicaraguan people.
He thought things were going to get better, but the stress continued: ‘I am very depressed
because I want to leave the house where I am living, because, in the house where I live,
people do a lot of drugs, they are not responsible people’. I asked him to explain more
about the difficulties he is experiencing, and he told me he feels conflicted because he does
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not like living with his housemates but he cannot afford to leave. He does not have the
support from RET anymore, and he is worried because:
I have to find a way to make my own income, and to do that I need some
peace of mind. If I left Nicaragua, it was to live in a quieter environment that
allowed me to do other things, because I no longer wanted to be part of the
protests.
Flor de Luz is trying to find a job so he can rent a place with a friend. He has not had any
stable work since he came to Costa Rica. His father and some friends have sent him money
a couple of times, RET provided him with funds for a short period, and sometimes he
manages to earn some money from theatre work.
He now has some friends from Nicaragua, and has found the support of people from Costa
Rica:
I have found a lot of support, especially from Costa Ricans, actually. I struggle
with my own share of xenophobia and with the xenophobia that we carry,
and I fight with the people who play Alejandro Mejía’s song Nica en Costa
Rica, and with all the xenophobia crap because the truth is that I have found
many great Costa Ricans. Sure, they do not understand, because they do not
understand at all, or just understand half, but they want to support you, they
believe you.
Despite the growing social support he receives from friends and Costa Ricans, he does not
feel good: ‘I feel that I have not been able to move forward and suddenly I say to myself,
no, do not worry, you have not moved forward because you are alone, because you have
not figured out how to do it …. I suddenly feel I am a failure’ (Flor de Luz, Interview, 8 July
2019). But although he is tired, he wants to continue his work as an artist. This is his dream,
and while he knows it is hard, he wants to continue pursuing what makes him happy.
Abril
Abril is thirty, but she is small and looks younger than she is. We are sitting in her bed,
looking at each other while we talk. Her room does not have any furniture other than the
bed, but she keeps all her possessions organized inside two suitcases and a couple of
backpacks.
Abril participated in the occupation of the UPOLI and the UNAN-Managua campuses.
Because of this, she was harassed by Ortega’s supporters and received several threats to
her and her family. Scared, Abril’s family pressured her to leave the country, which she
agreed to. Her mother was worried that the road to Costa Rica would be too dangerous
because of the police surveillance, so they collected money to buy her a plane ticket.
On 18 June 2018, Abril landed in Costa Rica. All she knew was she was coming to an NGO,
and they would help her. At the airport, she was received by a member of the CENDEROS
team. They gave her room at a refugee house. They also gave her psychological assistance
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and helped her to apply for asylum. In the beginning, she did not trust anyone at the
refugee house, but then she started making friends:
While I was in CENDEROS I met wonderful people, not only the people who
worked there, but also my peers, who, like me, were going through the same
situation, who were also refugees. And it was a situation where I felt more
comfortable because I had someone to talk to.
Supported by the money she received from RET, she left the refugee house and started
living by herself. She did not like this experience. She could only pay for a small room and
had to share the bathroom and kitchen with several people. She did not have her work
permit yet, and the money she received barely covered her rent and food. She felt
frustrated and lonely, so she moved in with two other Nicaraguan refugees that she met
when attending a support group for refugees. The experience was good not only because
they split the housing expenses, but also because: ‘again, I had someone with whom to
interact, with whom to communicate and share experiences, stories, to talk if I was feeling
bad, and such’. She was happier living there, but in December 2018, when her friends with
whom she participated at the UPOLI occupation came to Costa Rica, she decided to move
in with them:
I pay for the house, my friend pays for the food, we split it up. I mean, she has
her room, I have mine. She usually, because I have been the one who has
worked the most because she did not even have the first ID card yet, so, she
prepared the food. Since I left early and came really late, then, she made the
food, cleaned, and I came, ate, and went to bed. …. we talk, and we are like
the güegüense, we make fun. We give ourselves that kind of support in which
we try to make fun of what is happening to us, you know? To avoid being so
stressed.
Though she feels better living with her friends, she is still dealing with stress and
depression:
Look, I think my stress gets accumulated. Not only do I have the stress of what
happened and what is happening in Nicaragua, but I have the stress that I
am here, and I have to solve problems here and now. So, everything gets
together. There are like two parallel moments, but in the same context, I
mean, in the same experience. I mean, I am here and now, but trying to know
what is happening in Nicaragua, remembering things that happened to me,
but I also know that I have to solve problems here, that I have to search for
work, that I have to find a way to pay bills, and such.
Abril tells me she is always looking at the news and worried about the things that are
happening in Nicaragua because her family is still there. The other stressful situation she is
facing has to do with money. Sometimes they do not have enough money to buy basic food
and hygiene products. She has had multiple jobs, such as waitress, kitchen assistant, store
attendant, but none for more than a couple of months. Most of the money she gets is from
her family in Nicaragua, even when she knows her family is struggling and also need the
money. She thinks labour discrimination is the main difficulty she is facing. She shares,
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‘some people look at your papers, and it is all good until they see your [refugee] ID card
and then return them to you’. Abril frequently discusses the impact this has on her self-
perception and life aspirations:
I have mixed feelings, if this really, if this really happened, you know? Like,
why? When did things mess up? When did I get here? And such. And also,
leaving my studies, and starting from zero. I mean, there I already had a life
plan, I already knew where I was going. Instead, here, it is like making another
new life plan. How long will I be here? These are the questions I constantly
ask myself. Sometimes it is hard for me to concentrate, it is hard for me... yes,
I mean, there are days that I have trouble concentrating. There are days that
I just want to sleep, and I just start thinking and thinking, and I cannot sleep.
Or maybe I go to sleep, and I do not want to wake up.
Abril cannot imagine her future right now. She mentions she talks with her friends but that
they ask why she is sad, and she does not have a clear answer to that. She just feels sad. She
says this is why she talks to me, because I am not asking why. Abril stopped receiving
therapy after she left CENDEROS. Then she received therapy with Doctors Without Borders,
but she stopped when she started her last job because she did not have the time.
Challenges and Needs of Nicaraguan Refugees
These examples reveal how the life worlds of Nicaraguan refugees have areas of
convergence and contrast. I chose to present these two stories because Abril’s story is
paradigmatic of the other ones I heard while I was conducting my research, while Flor de
Luz’s story is the exception. He was the only research participant who was not happy living
among other Nicaraguan refugees. Additionally, he was the only one who expressed that
he wants to stay in Costa Rica while the others want to go back to Nicaragua. Despite these
differences, these two stories mention some of the main themes that emerge from the wider
set of interviews such as financial stress, xenophobia, and feelings of hopelessness and
frustration.
According to a study of the International Organisation for Migration (IOM) (Organización
Internacional para las Migraciones 2019) on mixed migration flows of Nicaraguan people
in Costa Rica, Nicaraguan migrants’ biggest worries are income sources, access to food,
and access to medical assistance. During my time at refugees’ homes and through the
interviews, I also observed how the lives of these migrants were mostly focused on their
struggle for survival and access to basic needs. The most common struggle was their
difficulty in finding a decent job. When they did find a job, it was usually under precarious
conditions, with an income below the minimum wage and no benefits.
Conversations about labour exploitation were common. This is unsurprising given that IOM
highlights that while 74% of the refugee surveyed population had a job in Nicaragua, only
42% had found a job in Costa Rica. Most of the time, the job they could find did not match
their skills and involved poor work conditions. Indeed, many Nicaraguan refugees with
higher education were earning less than the minimum wage and many of them found that
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their work permit from the Directorate General of Immigration and Foreignness was not
recognized in many private workplaces, citing labour discrimination as the primary reason
Nicaraguan refugees cannot find a job (Organización Internacional para las Migraciones
2019).
Simich et al. (2005) mention that discrimination in policy and practice are major challenges
for immigrants and refugees, especially with respect to employment opportunities. This
becomes crucial because employment affects other relevant integration issues such as
economic independence, self-esteem, and self-reliance, social interaction with members of
the host society, and planning for the future (Ager and Strang 2008). For Abril and Flor de
Luz, the difficulty of finding a job frustrated them. They already had experience in their fields
of study, were used to working in their areas and had ambitions and plans for their future.
When I met them in Costa Rica, they took any job available, but it was hard for them to
adjust to the working conditions they were facing. They were forced to accept these
working conditions because they needed the money to pay rent and to buy food.
The insecurity and burden of not having an income combines with the wider stress of
transnational family relations and daily confrontations with xenophobia. All interviewees
mentioned experiencing discrimination and perceived that many Costa Rican people lack
empathy and sensibility towards their immigration status. Even Flor de Luz, who
characterizes his interactions with Costa Ricans in a more positive way, outlined the difficulty
of dealing with the xenophobic behaviour of his uncle’s Costa Rican wife. According to the
IOM, this is a common situation, with 40% of the surveyed population indicating that they
experienced discrimination in Costa Rica, mostly related to their nationality (Organización
Internacional para las Migraciones 2019).
Despite these negative perceptions, Abril and Flor de Luz mentioned they have met ‘great’
and ‘wonderful’ Costa Ricans who have supported them. This positive connection with
Costa Ricans is important and should be cultivated because creating social bridges with the
local community contributes to making refugees feel safer and has a positive impact on
their perception of quality-of-life. Based on research with refugees in the United Kingdom,
Ager and Strang (2008: 180) mention that ‘friendliness from the settled community was very
important in helping refugees to feel more secure and persuading them that their presence
was not resented’. Similarly, Zetter et al. (2002) emphasized the importance of feeling
socially included in the dynamics of the host community for the active integration of
migrants. In the case of Flor de Luz, who did not feel happy living among other Nicaraguan
refugees, establishing good relationships with Costa Ricans has contributed to his
emotional stability.
The relationship with other Nicaraguans is another crucial factor in how refugees feel in
their new setting. Establishing social bonds with co-nationals is associated with
improvements in quality of life, independently of their involvement with the local
community, and contributes to effective integration (Ager and Strang 2008). Bonds with co-
nationals are crucial sources of informational, material and emotional resources (Atfield et
al. 2007), and their social support is an important factor to cope with stress and reinforce
self-confidence during crisis situations (Simich et al. 2005).
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Street demonstration against the Nicaraguan government organized by Nicaraguan
refugees, San José, 2019. Photo taken by the author.
For Nicaraguan refugees in Costa Rica, a source of support in dealing with the frustrating
circumstances they face in Costa Rica has been the company of other Nicaraguan refugees.
Abril had to live with other refugees because they needed each other to pay rent and buy
food. It was easier to share resources than to live alone. But living together, interacting with
people with similar experiences with whom she can talk – people with whom to keep
company and get her mind off her problems – also has the benefit of acting as an emotional
stress relief. Shared houses serve as spaces for solidarity acting as communities of
resistance because, as Watkins and Shulman (2008) explain, there is an expectation that
their cohabitants will support each other to achieve a common good. Facing great
uncertainties, they find ‘more humane ways of being together’ (Watkins and Shulman 2008:
209). They are together because they need each other, but by working together, they also
nurture an atmosphere of extended family.
However, this does not erase the memories they have about the things that happened to
them or that they witnessed, the worries they still have about the situation of Nicaragua or
the complexity of the emotions associated with their situation as refugees. As Abril says,
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their minds keep thinking about the past and the present, about Nicaragua and Costa Rica.
The political violence they suffered and their experience as refugees are inseparable. Both
violent experiences left young people’s lives in limbo and impeded the pursuit of their
plans.
Final Reflections
This study has shown how some refugees may feel like they have to start over, in worse
conditions, when they already had a life plan in Nicaragua. They are worried about not
finding a job and they feel stagnant. While informal support is important, effective formal
services are still necessary to guarantee access to favourable work conditions for refugees
and to meet their most pressing needs.
Likewise, it is vital that these young people have psychological support. IOM (2019) found
that 71% of the refugee population surveyed indicated that they suffer emotional distress
that prevents them from conducting their daily tasks. Yet only 19% of them has sought
assistance, mainly through non-governmental or civil society organizations (Organización
Internacional para las Migraciones 2019). Implementing such support is critical in
integrating and improving refugee life worlds. However, the fact that some of them, like
Abril, have to stop going to their therapy sessions because of the need to work illustrates
the complexity of their difficulties and the fact that solutions must take into account multiple
aspects of their wellbeing.
Social support and solidarity networks provided by co-nationals are perceived positively by
these young refugees. However, it would be interesting to further explore if the support of
other Nicaraguan refugees facilitates access to employment, education, and other
opportunities that lead to integration or if, on the contrary, they are conducive of
segregation. Additionally, as we hear in the stories, refugees are trapped between their
past in Nicaragua and the need to survive in Costa Rica, thus facing a split in temporality. It
would prove fruitful to dig deeper into this phenomenon and assess how it affects refugees’
capacity to integrate into their host society.
This article has sought to write the refugee’s stories in a more literary style in order to more
effectively capture their emotions, feelings, thoughts and life worlds and bring them closer
to us. It has sought to make them imaginable as real people, with a past, and with hopes for
the future. This closeness, I argue, fosters a better understanding of the way forced
displacement can mark and transform someone’s life and the realization that these people
need social support and to be heard without discrimination or distance.
The Author
Gracia Silva is a culture, migration, and human rights researcher and activist. She has worked
in non-profits in Costa Rica and the United States accompanying, translating, and assisting
migrant populations. She completed her master’s in Anthropology during which she wrote
a thesis exploring social trauma and solidarity networks among Nicaraguan refugees in
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34
Costa Rica. Gracia has attended and presented in conferences and forums on culture,
migration, and human rights in Central America and the United States. She is committed to
using ethnographic research to enrich the comprehension and management of cultural
diversity and international migration.
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OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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Do Ezidi Women Need Saving? An Analysis of the Politics
of Victim- and Saviourhood in Baden-Württemberg’s
‘Special Quota’ Humanitarian Admissions Programme for
Ezidi Women and Children
Andrea Theresa Haefner
Abstract
Following the 2014 genocide committed by the so-called Islamic State against the Ezidi
minority in Northern Iraq, the German federal state Baden-Württemberg launched a
‘Special Quota’ Humanitarian Admissions Programme (Sonderkontingent) to bring over
1,000 women and children for psychological treatment. To explore how different aspects
of the politics of victim and saviourhood are at play in the programme, this paper uniquely
brings a range of theoretical frameworks into dialogue with primary data from expert
interviews. I argue the Sonderkontingent is embedded in an Orientalist discourse of non-
Western women as oppressed and ‘in need of saving’. My findings suggest that the
programme’s exclusive employment of the label ‘the vulnerable’ to women and children
illustrates a gendered and racialised understanding of victimhood, whereby a
hierarchisation of vulnerability during the selection process necessitated the performance
of the expected victimhood. While the Sonderkontingent had the intention to ‘save’ Ezidi
women, the findings of this research indicate that participants were exposed to new forms
of vulnerabilities in Germany, most notably through cultural and language barriers,
restricted legal rights (i.e. concerning family reunification and freedom of movement) as
well as through a Eurocentric approach to trauma treatment. In light of the negative
implications identified, as well as wider criticism of the power-asymmetry between an active
superior West and a passive inferior Other at the core of humanitarianism, this paper ends
with a call for more decolonial approaches in the humanitarian sector and outlines lessons
learned for similar programmes in the future.
Introduction and Background
In August 2014, the so-called Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS) staged a brutal attack on
the Ezidis
1
in the Shengal region of Iraqi Kurdistan. In what became the 74th genocide
committed against their community, an estimated 10,000 Ezidis were executed or
kidnapped (Cetorelli et al. 2017). Images of those who could flee but were trapped in the
mountains and stories of women’s sexual enslavement for ISIS fighters were prevalent in
news coverage around the world (Buffon and Allison 2016). In Germany, where the largest
Ezidi diaspora lives due to displacement in previous decades, the Central Council of Ezidis
1
This article uses the spelling Ezidi, other spellings are Yazidi, Yezidi and Êzîdi.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
37
(Zentralrat der Êzîden in Deutschland) approached the State Ministry of the federal state
Baden-Württemberg for support (Junne et al. 2019). Just three months later, in October
2014, a ‘Special Quota’ Humanitarian Admissions Programme for 1,000 particularly
vulnerable women and children from Northern Iraq
2
was initiated, bringing women who had
been freed from ISIS captivity—most of which were Ezidi but some belonged to other
minorities—to Germany for trauma treatment. Participants and their children were placed
across 22 municipalities and whilst established under a temporary humanitarian protection
scheme for only two years, as of 2021, almost all continue to live in Germany (Junne et al.
2019).
The programme is unique on many levels. Firstly, Baden-Württemberg was one of the first
international actors to react to the genocide. Secondly, it was the first time in Germany that
a Humanitarian Admissions Programme (HAP) was set up at a state level, rather than by the
central government. Thirdly, the programme brought attention to the Ezidi cause in the
international community, best exemplified by Nadia Murad who arrived in Germany
through the Sonderkontingent and later received a Nobel Peace Prize for her advocacy. It
served as a pilot project for later HAPs and resettlement programmes for Ezidis to Australia,
Canada, and France.
While some praised it as a best practice, others maintained that the 95 million Euro budget
could have been used to build up support infrastructures locally, criticising its ‘sensational’
character and Eurocentric approach (see for example Hauser, cited in Stiefel 2016). Indeed,
the exclusive focus on supporting sexually abused Ezidi women provides grounds for
concern whether the Sonderkontingent falls into the long-standing pattern of ‘white men
saving brown women from brown men’ (Spivak 1993).
Research Focus and Methodology
Studies thus far have largely approached the programme from a psychology perspective,
focusing on the trauma experienced by participants and different treatment models (see
most notably Hillebrecht et al. 2017; Rometsch-Ogioun El Sount et al. 2018; Kizilhan 2015;
2017), and have not used a social-science lens (with the exception of McGee 2018).
Considering its international appraisal, the programme warrants further coverage in the
field of social sciences and critical assessment.
The present article examines the Sonderkontingent’s underlying assumptions mainly from
the perspective of Postcolonial, especially Postcolonial feminist, critiques of
humanitarianism. I argue that the programme is embedded in an Orientalist discourse of
Black and Brown women ‘in need of saving’. It has a gendered and racialised understanding
of Ezidi women’s ‘victimhood’ and labelled them as ‘the vulnerable’. Using the
Sonderkontingent as an illustrative case study, I employ a holistic interdisciplinary approach
which critically engages with existing theories on (gendered) Orientalism, sexual and
2
Translated from German ‘Sonderkontingent für 1.000 besonders schutzbedürftige Frauen und Kinder aus
dem Nordirak’ and from now on referred to as ‘Sonderkontingent’.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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gender-based violence (SGBV) interventions, and the politics of labelling to demonstrate
how these issues play out in the humanitarian sector.
In order to make the arguments I present here, I am drawing on the findings from interviews
conducted in 2020 with nine key informants who were directly engaged or were highly
familiar with the Sonderkontingent: two staff members of the IOM and UNHCR who were
working with Ezidi survivors in Duhok at the time, one representative from the Baden-
Württemberg State Ministry, one representative from the State Ministry’s local partner
organisation in Iraq, one social worker in Freiburg supporting programme participants, one
representative from a German- and one representative from an Iraqi-women’s rights
organisations working with Ezidi survivors, one Ezidi survivor and activist who arrived in
France through a similar HAP, and one German-Ezidi representative from the transnational
umbrella organisation for Ezidi Women’s Councils. That my primary data is exclusively
based on external perspectives on the programme, including my own positionality as a
white German national without any prior connections to the Ezidi community, presents the
largest limitations of this research. However, I was able to account for this limitation by
successfully selecting a sample of external yet diverse set of actors with different
perspectives on the Sonderkontingent. Semi-structured interviews with open questions
relating to the person’s role in the programme and opinion on the above criticisms were
conducted in German and English, which were later transcribed and thematically analysed.
Two Ezidi women walk at Shebil Qasim during Eda Rojiet Ezi celebrations. Photo Credit:
Rezhna Tannia, December 2020. Permission has been secured from the artist.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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Literature Review: The ‘Saviour’ of Non-Western Women
Orientalism and the Victimisation of Black and Brown Women
This section seeks to challenge the perceived objectivity and neutrality of humanitarianism
by outlining how Orientalist discourses, especially on the victimhood of Muslim women,
inform its programming. In his seminal work Orientalism (1978), Edward W. Said criticises
the Western representations of ‘the East’ or ‘the Orient’ as backward, uncivilised and
inferior, which formed a juxtaposition with a progressive, civilised and superior Western-
self. From a Foucauldian understanding of discourse as power, Said finds the Orientalist
representations a means of exercising cultural hegemony to legitimate European rule over
the (post)colonial world and reinforce the idea of the Orient as the Other (ibid).
Postcolonial feminist scholars criticised Said for not distinguishing gendered
representations and thus not capturing women’s experiences in his analysis. Their analyses
found Western discourses to often homogenise Black and Brown women as a monolithic
oppressed victim (Kapur 2002; Spivak 1993), contrasted with the image of a modern,
educated, politically and sexually liberated Western woman (Chaudhuri and Strobel 1992;
Mohanty 1984). This dynamic bears relevance for the case of Muslim communities,
historically described as particularly sexually deviant in contrast to the ‘respectable’ gender
relations of the West (Stoler 2016: 306). While the image of ‘the oppressed Muslim woman’
is rooted in colonial and orientalist discourses, its prevalence gained traction again in the
aftermath of the 9/11 attacks. With the title of this article, I am referring to Lila Abu-Lughod’s
(2013: 82) book ‘Do Muslim women need saving?’ which analyses how gendered
Orientalism in modern-day literature uses ‘pornographic’ display of violence and
oppression. Domestic violence, honour crimes, female genital mutilation, polygamy and
the veil are some of the widely addressed topics in this discourse, which portray Muslim
women as passive victims of their culture who lack agency. Sara Farris (2017: 11) argues
that Muslim women personify ‘the victim par excellence of non-Western male violence in
the Western European imagery’, with (Arab) Muslim men characterised as the violent and
barbaric perpetrator. This narrative, coined as ‘neo-Orientalist’ by some (see Samiei 2010
for an overview), is argued to serve an anti-Islam agenda and a relativisation of, or
distraction from, oppression and sexism within Western society (Abu-Lughod 2013; Farris
2017).
Humanitarianism and SGBV
Authors such as Spivak (1993) and Kapur (2002) have long been criticising Orientalist
discourses to have historically served Westerners as a justification for interventions. In
recent years, this has empirically most often been discussed for the US-led invasions of
Afghanistan and Iraq. Ample research has analysed how the women’s rights agenda was
co-opted to morally justify violent humanitarian interventions (Abu-Luhgood 2013; Khalid
2017). While these dynamics may be most evident in militarized actions, some scholars
more broadly criticise humanitarianism (in this paper understood as the broad apparatus
of non-state and state actor engaged in different subfields of humanitarian action) as a
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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continuation of the colonial past into present times (for a collection of essays see Duffield
and Hewitt 2009).
Despite humanitarian action’s aim to alleviate suffering based on the principles of humanity,
neutrality, impartiality and independence (Chaplin et al. 2019), critical scholars maintain
that an asymmetrical power relationship between a saving superior Western-self and an
inferior non-Western Other remain at its core (Barnet 2012; Fassin 2010; Tabar 2016; Ticktin
2014). These academics argue that subjects of humanitarian aid are characterised by
innocence and a lack of agency, reflecting Orientalist discourses outlined above. A major
critique is that the humanitarian sector values so-called ‘global knowledge’, meaning the
expertise and interest of the Global North, over local expertise (Turner 2019). This epistemic
superiority of the Global North leads to the fact that paternalism becomes an ‘organizing
principle of international humanitarian order which relies on dual notions of care and
control while involving in other’s lives to protect them even against their will’ (Barnett 2012:
485). In other words, whilst the Other is silent, the humanitarian has agency and power to
determine what is best for the Other. In this context, Linda Tabar argues that
humanitarianism reproduces racialised hierarchies through its making and
operationalization of the suffering ‘victims’ (2016).
Here it is particularly relevant to look at SGBV interventions. In the 1990s, following the
emergence of new types of wars (most notably the Bosnian war and Rwandan genocide),
in which rape was increasingly employed as a weapon of war, SGBV was placed high on the
international agenda (Mertens and Myrttinen 2019). Until today, SGBV interventions,
especially when militarised, remain a contested topic amongst feminist scholars.
Celebrated by some for its achievement of establishing feminist concerns at the
international level (e.g. Cohn and Enloe 2003), others have pointed to the shortcomings
including the reproduction of Orientalist narratives and the commodification of victims (for
an overview see Veit, 2019). Radna Kapur (2002) argues that the focus on violence against
women in the international human rights arena has contributed to the image of non-
Western women in the victim position, therefore, losing its emancipatory agenda.
Other critics claim that this move confirmed the female body as vulnerable and therefore a
site of policing, protection and intervention (Ticktin 2011), much like it had been in colonial
times where regulations of sexuality constituted imperial power (Stoler 2016). Miriam
Ticktin (2011; 2014) argues that the unprecedented attention of humanitarians to sexual
violence medicalises and therefore depoliticises the issue, without demanding greater
social justice and accountability. The entanglement of sexual violence with gendered
relations of power, as well as the context in which the violence occurs, including continuums
of violence by Western forces, become erased and more political claims are displaced
(ibid).
The Politics of Vulnerability
We can therefore see that the categories of victim and saviour in humanitarianism are
deeply entwined with colonial legacies. This section now turns to how the gendered and
racialised understanding of victimhood is reflected in the policy label ‘the vulnerable’.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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Whilst the concept of vulnerability bears different meanings depending on the academic
discipline, in the policy world ‘the vulnerable’ is employed as a category to determine
protection needs and support. Having become a ‘buzz-word’ in recent years (Flegar 2018),
migration scholars have for decades criticised that the labelling and categorisation of
individuals oversimplify unique positionalities and needs. Policy categories are used to
group people together assumed to share certain characteristics, such as age, gender or
disability (Bakewell 2008). This is linked to the process of labelling, involving the
‘disaggregation, standardization, and the formulation of clear-cut categories’ (Zetter 1991:
44) which ‘are translated into bureaucratically assumed needs’ (1991: 39). Once a category
and then a bureaucratic label is established, it becomes a tool for humanitarian
programming to identify certain issues and responses. The process is found to misinterpret
individuals’ experiences which then results in implementing a one-size-fits-all approach
failing to address their actual needs (Bakewell 2008).
Another major criticism is the power imbalances at the very core of this process: due to their
non-participatory character, policy categories and labels reflect the interests, values and
judgements of those who label rather than those who are labelled (Zetter 2007). While it
may appear that people are put in a seemingly neutral ordering process, the protection
actors determine who is perceived as ‘worthy’ or ‘deserving’ and the type of support
granted (Sajjad 2018). Sajjad describes labelling as an exercise of power that divides the
world into the colonial binary between ‘civilised’ and ‘uncivilised’, ‘Western’ and ‘Third
World’ (2018: 46), or in the case of this article ‘victim’ versus ‘saviour’.
The link to the discourse on racialised and feminised victimhood is particularly visible in the
employment of the vulnerability label. There appears to be a longstanding assumption
among humanitarians that ‘the (most) vulnerable’ would be women, children and the
elderly (Fiddian-Qasimiyeh 2017; Sözer 2019), which is connected to a wider infantilization
and feminisation of the refugee figure (Enloe 1993; Malkki 1996). This supposedly self-
evident character of the vulnerability label is found to avoid a critical discussion of what the
label actually entails (Flegar 2018; Sözer 2019; Turner 2019) and to ignore unique and
situational vulnerabilities (Chaplin et al. 2019). In practice, the binary categorization
translates into the common exclusion of all refugee men from the vulnerability label (Farrag
2009; Turner 2019). It further increases the risk of leaving behind those who face complex
sets of intersecting identities, meaning for whom different identity markers such as gender,
age, (dis)ability and ethnicity intersect to unique discriminations and vulnerabilities (Chaplin
et al. 2019). As Sözer (2019: 4) eloquently states: While categories ‘bind’ those labelled
‘vulnerable’, they ‘blind’ the policymaker from seeing the contextual nature of refugee’s
vulnerabilities.
The politics of vulnerability in humanitarian practices is even more intensified and
problematic given a recent shift among humanitarians from targeting ‘the vulnerable’ to
focus on ‘the most vulnerable’ (Sözer 2019). The emerging hierarchical system offers
assistance only to a fraction of those in need of support, which leads scholars to describe
refugeehood as a ‘vulnerability contest’ (Howden and Kodalak 2018) whereby the
evaluating humanitarians’ expectations of worthiness have to be matched. As the
vulnerability label is connected to accessing resources and services, it is found to
encourage, and at times necessitate, the performance of the powerless, vulnerable victim
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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(Malkki 1996; Turner 2019). Lewis Turner (2019) summarises that scholarship found this
performance to include ‘demonstrat[ing] material destitution’ (Wagner 2018: 43), publicly
identifying with humanitarian labels (Clark 2007), and framing one’s experiences within
particular narratives to establish ‘credibility’ in the eyes of humanitarians (Sandvik 2011)’
(cited in Turner 2019: 14). I would add that the suffering body bears particular importance
for claims of deservingness, as outlined in the previous section in the context of sexual
violence (Ticktin 2011). While some scholars maintain that refugees’ strategic performance
of vulnerability presents an exercise of agency, it does not take away from the fact that they
remain in a subaltern position where the power lies with the humanitarian (Turner 2019).
Case Study: The ‘Saviour’ of Ezidi Women
Having these various aspects of the politics of victim- and saviourhood in humanitarian
programmes in mind, I came to question how they applied to the Sonderkontingent. This
is why the following part applies these criticisms to the programme, after which their
consequences, namely the creation of new vulnerabilities, will be discussed. The paper’s
findings are visualized in Figure 1.
Figure 1: Overview of the paper’s findings and argument
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Victimisation of Ezidi Women
As outlined in the introduction, the Sonderkontingent was established in reaction to the
atrocities Ezidi women suffered at the hands of ISIS. Ethnically Kurdish, Ezidis are one of the
oldest monotheistic religious communities indigenous to the Middle East. Estimates put
their number at about 500,000 spread through northern Iraq, northern Syria, western Iran,
Turkey, Armenia and Germany (Kaya 2019). Their undeserved perception as ‘devil-
worshippers’ has made them the object of persecution from the 16th century onwards under
the Ottomans up until the 21st century under ISIS, whereby the latter attack accounts for the
74th genocide (Tezcür et al. 2020). On 3 August 2014 and the days following, an estimated
3,000 Ezidi men were executed and approximately 6,400 women and girls taken hostage
and sold into domestic servitude and sexual enslavement (Cetorelli et al. 2017). The
systematic sexual abuse, including rape, bears a particularly destructive element for the
Ezidis whose community is characterised by a closed caste system whereby marriage and
sexual relations with non-Ezidis are strictly prohibited (McGee 2018). At the time that the
Sonderkontingent was initiated in October 2014, it was unclear whether women returning
out of ISIS captivity would be accepted back. The decision by the spiritual father of the
Ezidis, Baba Sheikh, that returning women were still members of the community was only
taken later that year (Junne et al. 2019).
This sexual violence was at the centre of public discourse around the Ezidis. Ezidi women
found themselves in the paradoxical situation of being expected to provide testimony of
the sexual violence experienced to receive international support, whilst still being
stigmatised within their own community (Hardi 2018; Hosseini 2019). In a paper analysing
Western media coverage of the genocide, Buffon and Allison (2016) find a ‘hyper-visibility’
of Ezidi women’s injured body, combined with a strong focus on the Ezidis’ non-Muslim
belief system, the historic violence and discrimination faced, and the courage of survivors
to speak out. Their analysis shows that Ezidis’ diverse narratives and subjectivities were
silenced, which particularly rendered Ezidi men invisible, or worse conflated with the
perpetrator ISIS. The production of an undifferentiated image of the ‘abducted woman’,
they argue, mobilised a cultural representation of victimhood ‘infused with Orientalist and
patriarchal tropes’ (Buffon and Allison 2016: 177). Other scholars have also found that the
image of the Ezidi refugee has become highly feminised (McGee 2018; Stuewe 2018).
Consequently, we can see that the representation of Ezidi women strongly reflects (neo-
)Orientalist discourses criticised in the above section, focusing on their victimhood and
describing them as infantile, disempowered and incapable of self-determination. Seeing
that Ezidis are not Muslim and would therefore at first sight not fall into the category of ‘the
oppressed Muslim woman’, I conclude that more importantly Ezidi women were violated
by ‘the Muslim man’ and for this reason appear in need of saving.
Thereby this discourse appears to neglect the wider historical, social, political and cultural
background. While not wanting to trivialise the atrocities of the 2014 genocide, scholars
have called for a better contextualisation (Al-Ali 2018; Kaya 2019). The sexual violence
under ISIS exists within a continuum that includes everyday forms of gender discrimination
and inequalities in Iraqi and Ezidi society prior to 2014. Al-Ali (2018) notes a long history of
the politicisation of Iraqi women’s bodies, which includes the instrumentalization of
women’s rights during the US invasion mentioned earlier but has also played a role in
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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regional and national politics. As an ethnic minority, Ezidis have been even more vulnerable
to existing forms of gender-based violence and discrimination in political, legal, and
socioeconomic terms (Kaya 2019). Not accounting for this background offers only a
restricted understanding of the roots and context of the genocide and hence limits the
means to address it (Al-Ali 2018).
In my interviews, the two representatives from the Ezidi and German women’s rights
organisations were the most outspoken in criticising a sensationalisation of the Ezidi case
and argued that, as victims of the West’s enemy ISIS, Ezidi women presented a unique
opportunity for instrumentalization. In line with the works of Farris (2017) and Abu-Lughod
(2013) referred to earlier, they argued that the saviour of Ezidi women serves an underlying
agenda: it allowed the West to avoid taking any responsibility for the sociohistorical context
in which the violence occurred and distract public scrutiny from its own social issues such
as sexism or questionable asylum practices. They saw an inconsistency in the State Ministry’s
focus on the sexual violence experienced by the Ezidis while neither supporting women in
other war contexts (e.g. Sudan, Democratic Republic of the Congo or Myanmar) nor having
strong policies to combat violence against women in Germany.
As I have shown, the representation of the Ezidi genocide shows parallels to Orientalist
discourses focusing on the victimhood of non-Western women. Building on this
background and my interviewees’ criticism, I will explore in the following section how these
narratives were translated into the Sonderkontingent’s programming.
The Politics of Victim- and Saviourhood in the Sonderkontingent
The way in which this discourse informed the Sonderkontingent’s set-up is arguably most
evident in its exclusive focus on women and children. The Baden-Württemberg State
Ministry found women to be ‘the most vulnerable’ population due to their experiences of
sexual enslavement, as well as loss of family members and husbands which required them
to provide for their children by themselves. The project team reasoned that men had higher
chances of arriving in Europe through irregular channels, whilst women had more difficulty
to cross the borders or survive in the IDP camps (Junne et al. 2019)
3
. I therefore reason that
the Sonderkontingent had a clear gendered understanding of who was deserving of
protection.
Further, in reacting to the sexual violence experienced at the hands of ISIS, the programme
appeared to neglect the continuum of violence described in the previous section. Some of
my interviewees maintained that the project team did not account sufficiently for oppressive
patriarchal structures in the Ezidi community, such as dowries, forced marriages or limited
access to education, as well as the stigmatisation Ezidi women and children faced when
returning from ISIS captivity. In the programme’s concentration on trauma therapy, we can
therefore find elements of the medicalisation and depoliticization of sexual violence which
3
The irony of excluding Ezidi men, knowing that they need to irregularly cross brutal border regimes to be
reunited with their spouses, should be noted.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
45
Ticktin (2011) criticises. The focus on bodily integrity and medical treatment appear more
important than the wider socio-cultural context.
Whereas the image of Ezidi women centres on their victimhood, the State Ministry is
characterised in the saviour position, as evidenced in media representation, brochures and
interviews with the project team. McGee (2018: 104) describes the public presentation of
the three male programme leaders (two of which have Ezidi roots), as an ‘omnipresent
figure of the superman-saviour from the West or diaspora’. Interview statements of Michael
Blume, the lead project manager, such as ‘when are you ever asked to save 1000 lives?’
(translation
4
, SWR1 2019) or ‘you can save a life for the price of a car and I think democracies
should do that’ (cited in Wallis 2018), are troublesome and give ground for concern about
the perceived superiority of the Western humanitarian. The Orientalist juxtaposition of a
saving West to the barbaric and victimised non-Western other reproduces itself time and
time again.
Finally, it appears that the programme displayed a paternalistic and not participatory
approach. While the State Ministry stated to have cooperated with local organisations, most
notably the Ezidi Supreme Spiritual Council in Lalesh, my interviewees suggested that these
consultations were not representative. In their opinion, the patriarchal structures within
Ezidi society meant that women were neither present in the decision-making bodies nor
properly consulted. This suggests that the project team valued their own knowledge over
that of those they aimed to support, reflecting earlier outlined criticism of humanitarianism.
A lack of understanding of the local context, and particularly the local politics, was
confirmed in the interviews I conducted.
The Politics of Vulnerability in the Sonderkontingent
To further comprehend how gendered understandings of vulnerability and victimhood
played out in reality, we have to look at the selection process of the programme. In 2015, a
team from the Baden-Württemberg State Ministry flew to Duhok Governorate to interview
and personally select participants. As mirrored in the Sonderkontingent’s name, in addition
to only selecting women and children, they aimed to choose those deemed ‘particularly
vulnerable’
5
, which brought yet again issues with it.
Initially, the State Ministry decided on two selection criteria for Ezidi women: the need to (1)
be located in Northern Iraq, and (2) have been victims of traumatising experiences, put
more explicitly, of sexual violence at the hands of ISIS. With the programme established
relatively shortly after the genocide when many Ezidi women were still in captivity, the State
Ministry was initially unsure whether they would succeed in filling the quota of 1,000
participants. However, they soon faced a situation where they had more interested and
suitable candidates than places. Therefore, on top of the before-mentioned criteria, the
State Ministry established a ranking which ‘included the duration of captivity (from a few
days to several months), the severity of traumatisation (up to flashbacks and acute
4
When ‘translation’ is indicated, this means it was translated from German into English.
5
German refugee policy uses the term ‘schutzbedürftig’ for ‘vulnerable’, which translates into ‘in need of
protection’, and hence reflects the saviour-narrative even stronger.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
46
suicidality), medical indications (e.g. self-harm to evade further abuse), the dissolution of
protective family structures, and the perspective for successful treatment in Germany’
(translation, cited in Junne et. al 2019: 72).
For the selection process, the State Ministry interviewed Ezidi women who had been
recommended by local protection actors based on details related to their captivity,
traumatising experiences, current psychological state, and acute complaints (Junne et al.
2019). From my interviews, it becomes clear that the State Ministry not only categorised
Ezidi women into those who were considered ‘worthy’ for participation but further
established a hierarchy among them. The representative from the umbrella organisation
for Ezidi Women‘s Councils clearly expressed the brutality of this process in our interview:
‘What is a criterion? How often and long one had been raped? The more the better chances
are to be included?’ (translation).
These questions direct us to the need for Ezidi women to match the criteria and thus the
idea of deservingness for the project team. In my interviews, representatives from the IOM
and UNHCR who had observed the selection process, maintained that many women did
not answer truthfully: ‘there was this idea of having to perform victimhood. “Explain
everything that had happened and how horrendous everything was”’. They believed that
women recounted more severe scenarios, out of fear of not being included in the
programme, or consciously withheld information, for instance on missing family members,
due to rumours that they would have a better chance of being selected. These accounts
provide concrete examples of the discussed problem in the literature review that
competition over the recognition of one’s vulnerability may force people into performing
the expected vulnerability. In the end, both interviewees maintained that it was not the
‘particularly vulnerable’, by the programme’s own definition of vulnerability, who were
selected. Based on follow-up screenings the IOM did, my interview partner estimated that
only about half of the women brought to Germany matched the selection criteria of being
severely traumatised.
My research, therefore, found that the Sonderkontingent repeated a pattern of Western
humanitarian practice in which a group of people is selected, labelled and then given
access to certain privileges. I argue that the selection criteria rather reflected the priorities
and interest of the Baden-Württemberg State Ministry, than those of the local community.
It seems like another manifestation of Western hegemony that the programme team flew
to Iraq—with a limited understanding of the local culture and circumstances—to personally
select suitable candidates, rather than relying on the assessment of local actors. In the last
section, I now turn to the consequences of these shortcomings in the set-up, as mirrored in
new vulnerabilities that emerged upon arrival in Germany.
New Vulnerabilities: Structural Barriers
While the State Ministry maintained that the change of scene and a stable structured day
helped the women to overcome their trauma, most of my interviewees contended that the
cultural and language barriers, as well as bureaucratic restrictions, were hampering the
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
47
perspective of starting a healing process in Germany. A social worker supporting the
programme participants in Freiburg described:
Thinking about what counts as vulnerability, I recognise with which
background and experiences, and under which conditions—culturally,
politically, through the genocide—these women arrived here in order to
receive support, and in which renewed dependency they entered due to a
lack of local networks, language barrier, lack of access to information,
completely new culture and society …. Thus, vulnerability is very multifaceted
at home as well as here. Whilst in principle they are refugees—even if they
don’t see themselves as such—the corresponding legal frameworks again
pose great barriers to participate in socio-political life (translation).
Interestingly, this suggests that while aiming to support ‘the most vulnerable’, the
Sonderkontingent exposed the participating women to new vulnerabilities, which in turn
limited their ability to act autonomously.
These restricted legal rights are connected to the Sonderkontingent’s problematic set-up
as a Humanitarian Assistance Programme. As de-facto visa schemes with humanitarian
scope, HAPs are built on the assumption that people need only temporary protection and
will return to their country of origin. HAPs have been criticised for their ‘rights trade-off’
(Endres de Oliveria 2020) since they minimise social provisions and rights compared to
resettlement programmes for refugees under the 1951 Refugee Convention. This affected
the participating women in two ways. Firstly, their residency status is only temporary,
currently being renewed every two years, and bound to a specific municipality, which
severely hinders the women’s freedom of movement and exposes them to constant legal
insecurities. Secondly, it limited the possibility for family reunification, which is particularly
problematic, considering that participants were told at the beginning of the programme
that they could be reunited with their husbands after two years. Although in our interview
the State Ministry blamed the federal government for changing the legislation following the
migration summer of 2015, other interviewees saw it as a political failure of Baden-
Württemberg.
Overall, it is difficult to imagine how the women should enter a healing process while
exposed to a completely new environment, not knowing if they will be reunited with their
families or whether they will have the right to stay in the long-term. Furthermore, there is
the question of whether the trauma treatment in Germany was a suitable approach to begin
with, as will be discussed in the next section.
New Vulnerabilities: Trauma and its Eurocentric Treatment
The exclusion of male Ezidis was the most prominent obstacle reported in all interviews,
severely hampering the women’s healing process. Whereas the project team assumed in
the beginning that most of the women had lost their husbands in the genocide, several
participants had to separate from their spouses to participate in the Sonderkontingent. In a
strongly patriarchal society, most of the participating married women had previously been
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
48
dependent on their husbands. The separation of spouses through the programme was
particularly puzzling seeing that family ties present an important stabilising factor in trauma
therapy. In the words of one of my informants, an Ezidi survivor himself, ‘they needed their
husbands more than therapy’. In my interviews I was told that many women felt deceived
until today, torn between returning to their husbands in Iraq or providing a better future for
their children by staying in Germany.
Moreover, although the project team aimed at putting participants that were related in the
same accommodations, participants were dispersed across 22 municipalities. My
interviewees maintained that many women were not aware of this before their arrival and
perceived it as secondary isolation. The family separation and related uncertainty were
indeed identified as ‘the most important distressing factors’ in an independent research
paper (Rometsch-Ogioun El Sount et al. 2018: 8) and described as ‘destabilising’ in the
programme’s own evaluation (Junne et al. 2019: 268). According to the interviewed social
worker, this translated for some women into psychological crises, sleeping disorders,
constant anxieties and instability. The preoccupation with the wellbeing of family members
in Iraq, many of which were either missing, in ISIS captivity or dire situations in IDP camps,
was found to leave little capacity to focus on closure and processing of the trauma.
Another issue addressed in my interviews was that the programme’s Western approach to
trauma therapy did not sufficiently respond to the women’s cultural background and
experiences. Similar to criticism of Eurocentrism in humanitarianism, recently the field of
trauma studies has been criticised for not understanding the interplay between body and
mind in non-Western cultural contexts, including the failure to capture trans- and
intergenerational trauma in collective societies (see e.g. Milich and Moghnieh 2018). My
interviewees found these concerns highly relevant for the case of Ezidis who have a strong
communal orientation.
Indeed, the programme’s key traumatologist Prof. Dr Kizilhan discussed extensively the
unique understanding of trauma in the Ezidi’s collectivist society and the need to develop
culturally sensitive approaches. With the 2014 attack awakening memories of the previous
73 genocides, he found that Ezidi women have experienced traumatisation at individual,
collective and transgenerational levels, and the healing process would concern not only the
individual but also the community as a whole (e.g. Kizilhan 2015; Kizilhan and Noll-Hussong
2017). He outlined that Ezidis understand and express trauma differently from Western
societies and that hence traditional Western psychotherapy is only suitable to a limited
degree.
Whereas the need for culturally sensitive approaches was communicated early on, my
findings suggest that these were not necessarily implemented. In fact, the
Sonderkontingent’s set-up foresaw for each municipality to develop its own psychosocial
care response with little guidance from the State Ministry. Another criticism to be
considered is that the Sonderkontingent did not offer the appropriate treatment for
genocide survivors. My interviewee, who was working for the IOM’s psychosocial support
unit in Duhok at the time, maintained that a more elaborate programme linking specialised
trauma healing with ad hoc and culturally sensitive community-based psychosocial activities
would have been necessary. He said:
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
49
I don’t know if they underestimated, or they knew, and they didn’t want to
think about it … I feel that the programme itself failed a bit on its assumptions.
Bringing out of the mess witnesses and victims of a holocaust—because it was
a holocaust, we were using this word, I am not inventing—and then somehow
parachuting them into the beautiful Stuttgart; very rich, very nice, but without
the proper follow-up.
While the expectation was that the women would come to Germany and immediately start
treatment, in reality hardly anyone took up the ‘established and individualised trauma
therapy in a European understanding’ (translation, Landtag von Baden-Württemberg 2016:
5). Instead, participants engaged predominantly in group therapy measures, such as art or
movement therapy. Acknowledging that adequate communication and integrated
psychosocial care were not provided to the women at the early stages of their stay in
Germany, the IOM representative concluded: ‘only half of the work was done’, meaning that
they succeeded in bringing the women over, but failed on supporting them in their healing
process.
Conclusion
While the Sonderkontingent was established to ‘save’ Ezidi women after the genocide, my
interview data suggests that new vulnerabilities were created in the process, forming part
of the continuum of traumatisation and violence the women experienced. In sum, I have
argued that the Sonderkontingent reacted to and is therefore reflective of an Orientalist
discourse of Brown – here Ezidi – women ‘in need of saving’ from the West. The programme
appears to reproduce many of the problematic power-asymmetries in humanitarianism,
where a paternalistic approach denies voice and agency to those it aims to support. In its
exclusive selection of women and children and ignorance of Ezidi men, the
Sonderkontingent appears to employ a gendered understanding of both victimhood and
vulnerability. This in combination with the new vulnerabilities created in Germany, through
structural barriers and a Eurocentric approach to trauma healing, I maintain, should lead us
to question whether the very reason the Sonderkontingent was initiated – the psychological
treatment – was successfully provided in the end.
With this article, I by no means want to deny that the Sonderkontingent presented a positive
life-changing opportunity for many participants, especially the young who see their future
in Germany. However, I insist on the importance of critically examining how the
Sonderkontingent is embedded in a humanitarian system that serves to perpetuate
Western hegemony. Therefore, at a time of Post-, and more so De-colonial approaches, this
article ends with a call to rethink humanitarian and migration governance as we know it.
Doing so would require to not simply broaden the scope or change aspects of a HAP like
the Sonderkontingent, but to also challenge the Eurocentrism and Neo-colonialism at its
very core. With this paper, I hope to demonstrate small steps that need to be taken by
Western humanitarian programmes targeting SGBV survivors which include a careful
consideration of the local context, true consultative processes, as well as the critical self-
reflection of the humanitarian’s own positionality and discourses that inform programming
decisions.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
50
The Author
Andrea Theresa Haefner graduated with distinction from the MSc “Migration, Mobility and
Development” at the School of African and Oriental Studies in 2020, and holds a bachelor’s
degree (summa cum laude) in “Liberal Arts and Sciences” from Amsterdam University
College. Since 2015, Andrea has been working in the field of migration and asylum, with a
particular passion for gender issues and feminist perspectives. She co-founded and worked
with grassroots initiatives and NGOs supporting refugee’s socio-economic integration in the
Netherlands, France, the UK and Germany, as well as was employed in Brussels for two years
at UNOPS and the International Centre for Migration Policy Development.
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Turning Asylum Seekers’ Smartphones into Control
Devices: The Introduction of the Data Extraction Policy in
Austria
Ivan Josipovic
Abstract
Refugees are often forced to embark on an irregular journey to apply for asylum in a safe
country. Smartphones are a key tool for orientation both on the road and upon arrival. In
recent years, countries like Belgium, Denmark, Germany, and Austria have introduced
policies that enable authorities to evaluate asylum seekers’ data storage devices, in
particular smartphones. The goal is to gather evidence on an individual’s identity, their
travel route, or potential public safety risks emanating from a person. By analysing short
messages, social media activities, internet searches, and geolocation data, immigration
authorities heavily intervene into individuals’ private spheres, raising questions over data
protection, voluntary consent, and proportionality. This article draws on the case of Austria
to explore how Smartphone Data Extraction (SDE) could come to be considered a
legitimate policy tool in an era of the new data protection discourse. It maps adversary
stakeholders and conflicting political rationales at this new site of migration control, arguing
that we are witnessing an experimental phase of SDE policies in Europe, where the
purpose, the scope, and the ethical implications are strongly contested.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
55
Introduction
Smartphones are an essential tool for anyone who is on the move across unknown territory.
People who flee their country and who seek to apply for asylum in Europe often embark on
an irregular journey. More than any other group of migrants, they rely on digital devices for
geographical orientation, information on institutional procedures in countries of transit and
destination as well as a means for mobilizing social resources through communication
networks (Kaufmann 2016; Zijlstra and van Liempt 2017). Recently, political actors and
immigration authorities in Europe have begun to use immigrants’ reliance on smartphones,
turning them into tools of migration control. The extraction of data from asylum seekers’
devices has become common practice in asylum procedures across countries like Norway,
Denmark, or Germany (Bolhuis and Van Wijk 2020). Contacted phone numbers, country
codes, email addresses, or location data can be used to establish an applicant’s identity,
their travel route or to assess potential security risks, all three of which are relevant to rights
and duties throughout the asylum procedure as well as the acquisition of a legal status.
As a policy tool of border control, Smartphone Data Extraction (SDE) raises multiple legal,
ethical, and practical questions. How can the right to respect for private life be upheld?
What does the asymmetric power relation between authorities and immigrants mean for
the provision of consent under data protection regulations? How and by whom is data
saved, processed, and interpreted? Recent analyses (Meaker 2019; Bolhuis and Van Wijk
2020) have shown how countries that implemented some form of SDE grapple with all of
these questions.
This article studies the case of Austria, which adopted a corresponding law in 2018. It
analyses how SDE could be considered a legitimate policy tool and which hurdles policy
makers encountered in the process of implementation. The article is based on a policy
analysis that draws on four sources of data material: the related legal act from 2018,
parliamentary debates between August 2015 and August 2018, parliamentary inquiries, as
well as political party press releases and newspaper articles.
In the following section, I describe the contemporary role of digital infrastructure for
processes of border control and elaborate on the implementation of SDE in other European
countries. In the third section I turn to the case of Austria and discuss 1) the political climate
and the argumentative patterns for the introduction of SDE, 2) the legislative process and
civil society resistance, and 3) implementation issues. In the final section, I seek to draw
lessons from Austria’s case by identifying the major sites of conflict in this realm of migration
control.
Background: Smartphones as Control Devices
Migration control and criminal justice databases have been a central pillar of the European
border regime for almost three decades (Jeandesboz 2017). Starting from the early 1990s,
several European Member States started dismantling border control posts based on the
Schengen Agreement that was later incorporated into EU law. Of course, Schengen did not
mean a Europe without borders for all. By the early 2010s, the EU had entered a new era of
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
56
border control, by increasingly militarizing its external borders in southern Member States
against unwanted immigrants (Lemberg-Pedersen 2018) and by delegating immigration
control activities to private firms and neighbouring countries like Turkey, Libya, or the
Ukraine (Bialasiewicz 2012). Data management through digital infrastructures constituted
another key dimension of this new border regime. Various data bases and detection tools
enable authorities to verify, identify and assess potential risks associated with individual
immigrants (Van der Ploeg and Pridmore 2016). In the context of asylum, the most
prominent infrastructure is EURODAC, an automated fingerprint identification system
which is intended to support an efficient implementation of the Dublin Convention (and
later the Dublin Regulation). Like its legal predecessors, the current Dublin III Regulation
stipulates that the country in which an asylum seeker first applies for international protection
is responsible for accepting or rejecting the claim.
Following the so-called refugee crisis of 2015, several EU Member States began restricting
immigrants’ access to their territories and asylum systems. Given the fact that the principle
of providing asylum is a core aspect of liberal democratic constitutions as well as a legal
obligation under international and EU law, policy makers largely refrain from substantive
changes to this legal realm and instead introduce procedural hurdles. Identification, namely
the process of linking personal (and biographical) information to a particular individual is a
key step in asylum procedures (Van der Ploeg and Sprenkels 2011). It does not only set up
the informational basis for making an individual bureaucratically manageable, but also
holds information that is potentially relevant to the assessment of state responsibility and
security risks.
For more than a century, passports have been the primary linkage between an individual
and its citizen persona (Torpey 2000). Yet, as the possibilities to forge documents grew and
as people from war-torn regions began to arrive without any documents (either because
they were destroyed or because individuals were stateless), state authorities responded by
increasing informationalisation and digitisation in other material spheres (Van der Ploeg
and Sprenkels 2011). After documents, the human body became machine-readable
through the application of biometric technology (ibid.). Now, we witness how smartphones
as globally dominant technological self-extensions are turned into plains for inscribing state
control.
Extracting data from digital devices, such as a person’s messages, internet searches, social-
media activities, or geolocations, enables authorities to make people identifiable without
relying on a great deal of their self-disclosure. However, the production of evidence
through such infrastructures is by no means a neutral way of rendering asylum procedures
more efficient. In fact, it is a deeply social and political process by which purposes of data
extraction need to be defined, where parameters of evidence need to be constructed and
where particular actors need be selected to conduct interpretations of the material at hand
(Amelung et al. 2020, Dijstelbloem et al. 2011).
Bolhuis and van Wijk (2020) have recently described the increased use of social media and
mobile devices for migration control in asylum procedures in Belgium, Germany, the
Netherlands, Norway, and Sweden. The extent and concrete realms of application of SDE
differ across these countries. For example, while the German Immigration Office can only
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
57
apply SDE if no less intrusive methods are available to establish a person’s identity, Norway
and the Netherlands have informal criteria that are based on an officers’ personal evaluation
of the data carrier. The German case, which offers the most extensive scholarly
examinations on internal proceedings so far (see for example Biselli and Beckmann 2019),
provides for a three-step procedure. First, immigration officers who are responsible for the
registration of asylum applicants early upon arrival decide whether a data carrier (mainly
smartphones) should be read out. This is the case if the individual is not able to provide a
passport or any replacement documents. Second, the data carrier is attached to a hardware
system that automatically retrieves, complies, and saves particular types of meta-data from
the phone, including login names and profile information of social media and email-
addresses, the language used in text messages, country codes saved in contacts and calls,
domain endings of websites, and geolocation data. Eventually, the results report of this
automated data extraction can be inquired for release by immigration officers who conduct
the asylum hearing in order to be able to look for contradictions to applicants’ personal
indications (ibid: 12).
The existing evidence on the feasibility, efficacy, and legality of SDE shows a myriad of
practical, legal, and ethical issues that are common to digital infrastructures of migration
control (Brouwer 2011; Ajana 2015). In Germany, the Federal Data Protection
Commissioner argued early on that the law did not provide any guarantees that data
analysis would only be conducted in cases where it was necessary due to no other
remaining options of identification. She furthermore pointed out that the systematic data
evaluation without a judicial order might be potentially unconstitutional. In June 2021, the
Administrative Court of Berlin concluded the first lawsuit against related practices and
found that the federal immigration authorities had indeed wrongfully read out the data
carrier of an Afghan asylum seeker, because they had not examined milder means.
Despite early controversies in Germany, where SDE was introduced in 2017, Austria
followed the example one year later. In the next section, I elaborate on how SDE came to
be seen as a legitimate policy tool for processing asylum seekers in Austria.
The Introduction of SDE in Austria
In Austria, the legal basis for SDE was created in July 2018 under the
Fremdenrechtsänderungsgesetz 2018 (BGBl I Nr. 56/2018) (Aliens Law Amendment Act
2018). The corresponding ministerial bill (38/ME) announced ‘creating the possibility for
the seizure and analysis of data carriers in the possession of the asylum seeker (in particular
cell phones)’ (own translation). Para. 39a. of the amended BFA-Verfahrensgesetz (BFA-
Proceedings Act) states:
(1) The bodies of the public security service shall be authorized to make a
backup copy of data contained on seized data carriers for the purpose of
establishing identity and to evaluate such copy if a foreigner has filed an
application for international protection and it is not possible to establish
identity on the basis of the available evidence […].
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Section (2) of para. 39a. furthermore allows the examination of data carriers if the declared
travel route cannot be reconstructed based on any other evidence. The following part will
take a closer look at how this legislative measure under Austria’s post-2015 conservative-
right-wing coalition government was realized.
Political Climate and Policy Rationales
Like many other EU Member States, Austria experienced a steep rise in asylum applications
in 2015 and 2016. Although it managed to successfully accommodate tens of thousands of
people, the political climate turned from an initially welcoming culture to scepticism and
outright hostility towards refugees. The conservative People’s Party (ÖVP), at that time part
of a grand coalition government with the Social Democrats, as well as the far-right Freedom
Party (FPÖ) were the driving forces of an anti-immigration discourse in Austria. Although
the Grand Coalition had passed some of the most restrictive asylum laws in the country’s
history, the 2017 snap elections turned into a competition over what else could be done to
curb migration and discipline people who had successfully established a status. The ÖVP
and FPÖ won the election and formed a new government coalition around the common
project of law and order politics. A few weeks into office, the FPÖ interior minister Herbert
Kickl made his first political announcement, in which he argued that he would respond to
the wishes of the majority population and implement restrictive asylum policies, including
SDE.
Interestingly, however, the FPÖ fostered debates over asylum seekers’ smartphones much
earlier. As early as September and December 2015, the FPÖ made parliamentary inquiries
to the former interior minister. At that time, the media sensationalised a public debate
about why asylum seekers own (expensive) smartphones if they come from war-torn
regions. Some sources spread misinformation, arguing that the federal government gave
away smartphones for free. Although most mainstream news outlets soon debunked these
myths and ridiculed existing assumptions over asylum seekers and technological gadgets,
the FPÖ maintained these stories in its parliamentary inquiries. After their question on an
alleged smartphone give-away-action was answered negatively, the FPÖ members of
parliament turned their argumentation around. The second inquiry referred to reports that
highlighted the importance of smartphones for refugees ‘as an anchor to their homeland’
and as a means to maintain contact with their families. Based on this, the FPÖ members of
parliament asked if the interior ministry was using phone data to tackle the issue of lost
travel documents and to determine asylum seekers’ countries of origin. Again, the question
was answered negatively–there was no legal basis for such practices.
After arriving in government office, the FPÖ was ready to create precisely this kind of legal
basis. Between 2018 and mid-2019, when the coalition broke apart, the ÖVP-FPÖ majority
passed a series of restrictive laws. The laws were mainly driven by two strains of logic that
cut across their immigration policies: increasing the administrative availability of asylum
seekers through disciplinary measures and responding to alleged bogus identities in
several legal areas. In this way, SDE arrived in a large legal amendment package that also
enabled authorities to introduce machine-readable asylum procedure ID-cards that can be
used for identification purposes or to grant access to particular reception facilities. The
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assumption of bogus identities is also reflected in another part of the package, which
changes the Universities Act to prevent the misuse of student mobility for obtaining a
residence title. During the same year, the FPÖ furthermore triggered a legislative debate
on immigrants’ misuse of electronic health insurance cards, which led to the introduction of
facial images on these cards.
Thus, it is important not to think of the introduction of SDE as an isolated measure, but as a
policy tool that emerged from a particular anti-immigration discourse and that is part of a
series of other instruments that reflect similar political rationales. An FPÖ member of
parliament’s statement, issued prior to the introduction of the respective ministerial bill,
reflects the assumption that asylum seekers are dubious and obscure figures:
There are possibilities that are now being created for the first time, for
example, tracking via cell phones or the like. You [the opposition] can now
argue against it, say, no, you don't want that, stand here and say that. But I
would like to point out that there is a reasonable suspicion that a person is
lying to the Republic, to the officials of the aliens branch of the police, when
he or she is being questioned. [That goes] to the extent that he or she does
not even speak the language of the stated country of origin or know its
capital or the national currency and the like. (own translation)
Legislative measures and resistance
In April 2018, the federal government eventually presented the ministerial bill of the Aliens
Law Amendment Act, which, it was argued, would increase the efficiency of procedures and
more quickly establish the need for asylum applicants’ protection. The SDE provision
related to immigrants who fall under the legal realm of the asylum procedure and to those
whose situation is unrelated to asylum but are caught without legal permits and
identification documents. In its original version, the legal proposal enabled authorities to
seize and check data carriers to assess an individual’s identity and his or her travel route. It
also allowed them to draw on the data in cases of suspected false information during the
asylum procedure and authorised parts of the public security service to transfer evaluated
data for the purpose of criminal prosecution to the responsible authorities.
This triggered a wave of public statements on the bill, coming from human rights
organisations as well as internet rights and data protection organisations. Among the latter,
the non-governmental organisation Epicenter Works argued that the provision represented
a violation of the right to a fair procedure under Article 6 ECHR, the right to respect for
privacy under Article 8 ECHR and Article 7 CFR, as well as the right to data protection under
Article 8 CFR (Adensamer et al. 2018). It described the policy as ‘disproportionate and
excessive’ (ibid: 4) because the goal of establishing identity and travel routes could not
justify such an intense encroachment into people’s personal sphere. Specifically, it criticised
the fact that data could be processed without limitation in regard to its nature and
presumed content. Furthermore, it highlighted how immigration authorities would be
allowed to create a backup copy of the data without ensuring the individual’s right to delete
data that is obviously unrelated to the purpose of the measure.
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Not only does the SDE policy potentially violate several fundamental rights of liberal
democratic rule. The measure was also deemed ineffective and unsuitable in recent years.
For example, UNHCR noted in its statement that smartphones are often used by several
people during the long flight journey (UNHCR 2018). Thus, even if geodata would indicate
that the phone was moving through Hungary, for example, it cannot be concluded that this
movement is also related to a particular individual and that Hungarian authorities would
accept this as sufficient evidence. Bolhuis and van Wijk (2020) have also highlighted in their
study how public security services are often confronted with the challenge that digital
profiles on social media and elsewhere are used by several people, making it even more
difficult to associate information with a particular individual.
Despite heavy criticism of the bill, the federal government pushed its agenda forward
during the following months, passing the law with minor changes in July 2018. However,
an important objection of human rights and internet rights organisations prevailed: Section
(4) of para.39a of the BFA Proceedings Act on the use of smartphone data for the purpose
of criminal prosecution was taken out of the final amendment act. Civil rights groups had
argued that this provision circumvents the principle of proportionality that becomes
effective in criminal procedure rules and according to which a sanction must be in
proportion and in fair relation to the offense (Refugee Law Clinic der Universität Graz 2018).
Implementation issues
In September 2018, the legal package that included the SDE policy came into force.
However, authorities were soon confronted by implementation issues. As of March 2021,
the SDE policy has not been practiced in Austria. Several parliamentary inquiries by the
liberal opposition party NEOS (The New Austria and Liberal Forum) have revealed critical
administrative hurdles (the last parliamentary inquiry was 4865/J from 13 January 2021).
Most importantly, it has become apparent how the national Data Protection Law as well as
the European General Data Protection Regulation forced immigration authorities to
differentiate between various types of data in their administrative procedures–a process
that has not been completed two and a half years into the new legislation. As Bolhuis and
van Wijk (2020) have shown with examples of other European countries, data protection
can also be an issue in relation to the applicant’s consent. Here, the question arises to which
degree asylum seekers are truly able to give meaningful consent given the fact that they do
not have much bargaining power. Likewise, such provisions might clash with a legally
codified duty to cooperate with asylum procedures in some countries.
During the inquiry in Austria, the establishment of diverse procurement with regard to hard-
and software components for data extraction also arose as an issue. Creating backup copies
and extracting metadata in the process of SDE requires specialised software and staff. In
Germany and the Netherlands, for example, authorities use a computer programme that
has been created by forensic technology companies and which enables staff to extract
metadata within minutes (Meaker 2019). Establishing contracts and developing
organizational capacities can be a costly endeavour–another point of critique among civil
right groups who argued that the Austrian ministry poorly assessed the costs of SDE,
especially in the face of weak implementation results in Germany.
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Germany introduced SDE in 2017 and a parliamentary inquiry in 2018 offered early
indications of the efficacy of the new instrument. According to the Federal German
Immigration Office’s answer, within nine months, authorities had extracted data from digital
devices of almost 15.000 people who lacked identification documents. Among this group,
the data was accessed in about 5.000 cases (as mentioned, this is only possible in Germany
if no less intrusive measures are available), one-third of which supported information
provided by applicants, and two-thirds of which were declared as not relevant to establish
identity and origin. The evidence found on devices contradicted initial statements made by
applicants in only about 100 cases–a very small proportion considering that Germany had
230.000 asylum applications in the same time span (Thüer et al. 2018).
While these results were also highlighted in public statements opposing SDE, the empirical
basis for this article does not hold any information as to whether and how insights from
Germany are taken into consideration by the Austrian ministry.
Conclusion
In this article, I explored how SDE became considered a politically legitimate instrument to
tighten control over asylum seekers in Austria. I argued that the policy tool of SDE is a
materialisation of a politically constructed relationship of distrust between state
bureaucracy and asylum seekers. The case of Austria shows how the legitimisation of data-
based surveillance measures does not require the ascription of a specific threat scenario to
immigrant identities but can operate on a more fundamental level by denying any kind of
trustworthiness to asylum seekers’ self-made declaration on their identities. Clearly, at the
level of institutional politics, conservative and far right parties have been the major actors
in this project. As I showed, in Austria the idea of controlling smartphones in asylum
procedures emerged as early as 2015. Against the background of high levels of
immigration, it was driven by the far-right FPÖ, who embedded its arguments in a discourse
on asylum applicants’ deservingness of status and material resources. In 2018, after
entering government, the FPÖ went on to realize its plans, this time by taking the
deservingness discourse even further. It highlighted the measure as one of several
interventions to respond to alleged bogus identities. Suspicion over immigrants’ misuse of
student mobility schemes or the health care system are examples from other domains.
While this particular type of anti-immigration discourse resonated with the Austrian
electorate and made SDE a priority for the government’s policy agenda, the respective
right-wing parties faced heavy resistance from civil society throughout the legislative
process. Human rights and internet rights organisations held the government responsible
for its data protection obligations. For the time being, political opposition has managed to
prevent the use of SDE for the purpose of criminal prosecution procedures. Here, the
Austrian case showed possible policy advocacy coalitions between different civil society
groups who use their expertise in the fields of human rights and data protection to hold
governments accountable for their liberal democratic and constitutional obligations. Thus,
while the policy tool of SDE might have been politically legitimized through anti-
immigration discourses in the aftermath of the 2015 crisis, it remains to be seen how it will
evolve against the background of wider constitutional legitimacy issues.
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In the face of the vast expansion of European digital infrastructures for migration control in
recent years, it cannot be assumed that this national policy will be revoked in the near
future. In fact, it is more likely that we are witnessing an experimental phase, where security
and immigration authorities are battling to incorporate their desire for increased control
into data protection regimes and fundamental rights obligations. As early empirical
evidence has demonstrated, these experiments show little efficacy and do not appear
proportional in relation to the intrusion of privacy.
The Author
Ivan Josipovic is researcher, lecturer, and PhD candidate at the Institute for Political Science
of the University of Vienna. In his dissertation project, he studies the role of digital
infrastructures for migration governance in the EU. During his stay at the Austrian Academy
of Sciences, Ivan specialised on the study of European asylum and border politics through
his engagement in the EU Horizon 2020 project RESPOND-Multi-Level Governance of Mass
Migration. Currently, he is part of the research group IN:EX at the University of Vienna. Email:
ivan.josipovic@univie.ac.at
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Confronting the US Immigration Detention System in the
Biden Era
Zoe Martens
Abstract
This paper explores the rise of the United States immigration detention system and
subsequently evaluates the ability of two key policies under the Biden administration to
dismantle it. It examines three mutually reinforcing factors to explain the growth of US
immigration detention: the criminalisation of immigrants, the hardening of detention
policies, and the privatisation of immigration detention. These factors show that the
immigration detention system is not founded on empirical reality, but rather in the interests
of various actors with a stake in sustaining the system. It is critical to take this into account
to understand where the Biden administration stands in confronting this formidable system.
The paper analyses the potential of the administration’s proposed comprehensive
immigration reform, as illustrated in the US Citizenship Act of 2021, and criminal justice
reform, as exemplified in Executive Order 14006, to confront immigration detention.
Though both policies are positive steps toward curbing US reliance on detention and
incarceration, they do not adequately address the symbolic, political and financial
investments in the immigration detention system. Critical gaps remain that leave space for
the perpetuation of immigrant criminalisation and detention. Accordingly, the paper
concludes with two principal policy recommendations that would start to dismantle the
immigration detention apparatus.
Introduction
The 2022 United States Department of Homeland Security
6
(DHS) Budget-in-Brief commits
$1.8 billion for 32,500 immigrant detention beds, forming part of the US commitment to
‘[protect] our country, our people, and our way of life’ (DHS 2022: 3). This supposed
relationship between billions of dollars, tens of thousands of detention beds, and a way of
life that is distinctly ‘ours’ beckons further examination.
Upon investigating this relationship, contradictory patterns emerge. The explosive growth
in the number of immigrant detention beds and the budget necessary to sustain them stand
in sharp contrast to immigration trends. In recent years, the proportion of unauthorised
immigrants in the United States has been falling (Passel and Cohn 2018), and new arrivals
apprehended at the Southern border have increasingly been asylum seeking families
(Gramlich and Noe-Bustamante 2019). Despite these empirical realities, the US detention
6
The Department of Homeland Security merged 22 federal agencies into one department in 2002. DHS
oversees immigration-related agencies, including US Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS), US
Customs and Border Protection (CBP) and Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) (DHS 2020).
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system continues to grow, presenting a disjuncture ripe for analysis. How did the US arrive
here and what would it take to confront this growing and unjust system?
Though many breathed a sigh of relief after the end of Trump’s presidency, the critical
approach toward US immigration policy must not end before the country takes meaningful
steps toward justice for immigrants. The rhetorical, political, and financial principles that
have long underlain the US immigration system remain strong in Biden’s presidency.
On his first day in office, the President made his immigration stance clear, revoking various
anti-immigrant Executive Orders written by his predecessor
7
, and unveiling his landmark
plan for comprehensive immigration reform, the US Citizenship Act of 2021. In February
2021, House Representative Linda Sanchez and Senator Bob Menendez officially
introduced the Citizenship Act before the House and Senate, respectively (AILA 2021). This
Act seeks to establish a path to citizenship for unauthorised immigrants, address the root
causes of migration in Central America, manage the Southern border through smart
technology, and reform the immigrant visa system, among other provisions (United States
2021a).
Photo credits to Luis Ram, permission has been secured from the artist.
President Biden also introduced a racial justice agenda in response to the heightened
reckoning with racial injustice in the US, including Executive Order 14006 (United States
7
See President Biden’s Proclamation 10141 reversing the ‘Muslim Ban’ enacted under former President Trump
which had banned nationals from several Muslim-majority countries from entering the US and Executive Order
13993 reversing former President Trump’s order that expanded immigration enforcement priority to nearly all
unauthorised immigrants in the US interior.
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2021b), which responds to the privatisation of criminal incarceration that disproportionately
affects Black and brown communities. The Order prevents the Department of Justice (DOJ)
from renewing contracts with private prison companies in an effort to curb mass
incarceration by severing the industry’s ties with private companies.
Despite these positive steps marking a commitment to immigrant justice and racial equity,
these policies do not directly confront the immigration detention system, leaving critical
gaps that investors in the regime of immigration detention may permeate. Unlike the
Executive Orders the President revoked upon gaining office, the immigration detention
system did not come into existence within the past four years. Across decades, it has
reinvented itself, a consistent iteration of the same story.
This paper looks at the pillars that uphold the current immigration detention system to
understand the potential of President Biden’s policies to affect positive change. Drawing
from migration studies literature in the areas of crimmigration, securitisation, and detention
privatisation, the paper outlines three mutually reinforcing pillars of the detention system.
First, it examines the criminality of immigrants as a discursive strategy to control national
belonging and its relationship to incarceration and detention. Then, it turns to the ways that
these narratives harden into policy, institutionalising detention as a response to
immigration that political actors use to their benefit. Next, it addresses the interests of
private prison companies that sustain the immigration detention industry and promote
financial and political gain at the expense of immigrants’ human rights. Finally, it explores
the ability of two policies introduced by President Biden, the US Citizenship Act of 2021
and Executive Order 14006, to confront the US immigration detention system and the
injustice it perpetuates.
Criminality
In order to sustain the counterintuitive relationship between the current immigration reality
of asylum-seeking families and the rapid growth of the detention apparatus, significant
narrative work must be done to (re)shape public understanding of immigrants. Using a
narrative lens, ever-increasing detention beds may best be understood as part of a
politically expedient struggle against criminal outsiders, ‘symbolic assailants’ in the nation
(Jiang and Erez 2017: 1). The identification of these assailants reflects global hierarchies of
citizenship, in which members of devalued nations are redefined as criminals, thereby
justifying the denial of their rights and belonging in the nation (Aas 2013). As seen in the
DHS budget, ‘protecting our country, our people and our way of life’ from immigrants is a
powerful narrative frame, positioning immigrants as the enemy of the state against which
to wage a battle (DHS 2022).
This narrative of national belonging in the US context is not original, but rather takes many
cues from effective rhetorical strategies throughout US history. For instance, during the
1970s War on Drugs, depictions of criminal Black and brown men established a racialised
threat and provided an arena in which politicians vied to pronounce the harshest ‘tough on
crime’ stance to prosecute and incarcerate them (Moreno and Price 2018; Macías-Rojas
2018). The immigrant narrative recasts the racialised threat as the apparent ‘invasion’ of the
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border, a threat to white American hegemony and the American way of life (Jiang and Erez
2017). Immigration has certainly led to major demographic changes within the United
States, stoking fear of the nation’s eventual transformation to a majority-minority population
in which white Americans will be outnumbered (Frey 2018). The parallels between the
supposed internal threat of Black Americans in the War on Drugs and external threat of
immigrants from the Global South reveal the way that racialised narratives of criminality
work to delineate threatening outsiders from those who belong in the nation (Aas 2013).
US law increasingly considers acts of immigration illegal in response to this racialised threat,
demonstrating the fluid nature of criminality which shifts according to the political interests
of the state (Aas 2013). The frame of ‘crimmigration’ defines more and more acts of
immigration as criminal, effectively merging the administrative immigration process with
criminal regulations (Garcia Hernández 2019; Stumpf 2006). Shifting immigration toward
criminal regulation serves to justify the criminalisation of human mobility, just as the War on
Drugs sought to justify the criminalisation of Black Americans through redefining criminal
sentencing. In the 1980s, policymakers reframed the criminality of drug crimes by the race
they were associated with, mandating longer prison sentences for crack cocaine
possession, associated with Black Americans, compared to powder cocaine, the more
expensive substance used mostly by white Americans (ACLU 2006). US crimmigration
narratives borrow from these tried-and-true tactics, strategically redefining as criminal the
mobility of people originating South of the US border as part of a racialised struggle for
national belonging (Aas 2013).
Immigration detention may then be best understood not as a neutral solution to the
complex issue of forced migration across international borders, but rather as a strategy to
maintain the boundaries of national belonging by incarcerating the immigrant population
codified as criminal (Doty and Wheatley 2013). These policy responses were never natural,
but rather constructed to the benefit of certain actors. In both the War on Drugs and the
contemporary immigration arena, criminalisation has become a strategic opportunity for
political actors to incarcerate the unlawful and exclude them from the national space,
subsequently gaining political currency (Moreno and Price 2018). As political actors
become invested in this response, they work to sustain the narrative that upholds the system
of criminalisation. Rather than responding to empirical realities, this narration perpetuates
the control and punishment of ‘illegal’ outsiders (Doty and Wheatley 2013).
Hardening Policies
As political actors drew upon the legacy of internal control of Black and brown Americans
ascribed with criminal status to develop the control of immigrants seeking inclusion in the
nation, policies emerged to codify these strategies. Many academics point to 1996 as a
precedent-setting moment in the history of immigration policy when politically expedient
narratives of immigrant criminality hardened into policy (Coleman 2012; Juárez et al. 2018;
Kerwin 2018).
In 1996, President Clinton made a decisive move to align the Democratic party with the ‘law
and order’ rhetoric that Republicans had dominated in the War on Drugs, enacting the
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Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act (IIRIRA) (Kerwin 2018). IIRIRA
widened the scope of immigrant criminality by making once-administrative immigration
offenses criminal and expanding mandatory detention without individualised custody
determinations (Kerwin 2018). Further, IIRIRA increased immigration enforcement budgets
and expanded the actors involved in enforcement through the 287(g) program, which
introduced the ability of local law enforcement agencies to enforce immigration law by
entering into Memorandums of Agreement with Immigrations and Customs Enforcement
(ICE) (Coleman 2012; Juárez et al. 2018; Kerwin 2018; Macías-Rojas 2018).
The 287(g) program in particular expanded the reach of federal immigration policy into the
everyday lives of immigrants. This program deputised local law enforcement officers to
participate in the policing of national belonging through actions such as running
immigration status checks after misdemeanour traffic violations (Coleman 2012). 287(g)
multiplied the chances of immigrants interacting with immigration enforcement in their
communities. As exemplified in 287(g), IIRIRA and federal policies in its wake set the stage
for the development of a massive struggle against the criminal immigrant, one in which
detention was no longer tethered to judicial discretion over individual detention outcomes,
but rather subject to the whim of evolving definitions of criminality.
The hardening of federal policy institutionalised detention as the natural response to
immigration. The 2009 ‘bed quota’ squarely situated immigration detention as the
necessary response to these apparently criminal outsiders. The ‘bed quota’ refers to the
2009 Congressional directive that mandated the maintenance of 33,400 daily detention
beds (Sinha 2017). This ‘arbitrary’ quota institutionalised the political will to detain
immigrants, as politicians sought to fill the tens of thousands of detention beds that were
already funded by the DHS budget (Sinha 2017; Torrey 2015). The political nature of the
detention response is particularly clear when juxtaposing the 2009 bed quota with the post-
recession reality of a multiyear decline in the unauthorised immigrant population arriving
to the US (Sinha 2017). Tens of thousands of detention beds corresponded not to empirical
immigration realities, but rather the vested interests of politicians in maintaining an
immigration system premised on the control of criminal outsiders.
Most recently, the election and presidency of Trump exemplified the apparent political
expediency of the criminalisation of immigrants. Trump’s 2016 campaign speech
infamously referred to Mexican immigrants as rapists, drug dealers and criminals
(LoGiurato 2016). Once elected, he passed countless executive orders excluding and
criminalising immigrants, from the so-called ‘Muslim Ban’ prohibiting nationals from several
Muslim-majority countries from entering the US (United States 2017a) and Executive Order
13768 that expanded immigration enforcement priority to nearly all unauthorised
immigrants in the US interior (United States 2017b).
The Trump administration's 2018 ‘zero tolerance’ policy most recently reiterated the
categorical criminalisation of immigrants. This policy mandated criminal prosecution of
every immigrant crossing the border without authorisation, including asylum seekers and
people traveling with children (Kandel 2018; Kerwin 2018). The directive led to de facto
family separation due to judicial precedents limiting the detention of children in the US, as
well as limited family detention space (Kandel 2018). DHS asserted that some immigrant
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parents are aware of limited family detention space and ‘use their children as shields from
detention’ (Kandel 2018).
Trump’s zero tolerance policy further criminalised immigrants and asylum seekers by
claiming that the act of fleeing one’s home country with their family is actually a devious
plan to avoid the punishment the federal government has deemed proportionate. This new
understanding of deviance in the face of immigrant profiles shifting to asylum seeking
families reflects the way that the political interests of the US shape its definitions of
immigrant criminality (Aas 2013). The directive positioned the expansion of family
detention as a necessary measure to maintain the ability to detain immigrants who have
fled with their children, a strategic way to criminalise immigrant families while responding
to the public outcry over family separations.
Private Interests
Private interests, the third major player in the detention apparatus, help explain the
apparent consensus to detain children and families as the latest iteration of the detention
system. Profitable immigration detention contracts with the federal government mean
these companies have a significant stake in the detention systems’ continued growth.
Further, these private prison companies have become increasingly invested in immigration
detention as sentencing reforms across the US have cut prison populations, leaving ICE
contracts as the primary source of revenue (Cho et al. 2020; Moreno and Price 2018; Sinha
2017). As these companies gain more detention contracts, profits increase and their stake
in the system intensifies. As an illustration of the scope of this stake, the nation’s two biggest
private prison companies, GEO Group and CoreCivic, run eight of the ten largest detention
facilities and 72 percent of all immigration beds in the US (Bauer and Johnston 2019).
Private prison companies profit from the expansion of immigration detention, as seen in the
expansion of family detention under President Obama (Gilman and Romero 2018). Despite
a lack of evidence that the arrival of asylum seeking families and minors warranted
detention, GEO Group and CoreCivic won contracts to open two new family detention
centres, propelling the expansion of the family detention system from less than 100 family
beds to over 3,000 after their implementation (Gilman and Romero 2018). GEO revenues
increased by over $30 million after opening the Karnes County Family Detention Facility,
and CoreCivic credited the South Texas Family Residential Centre with $245 million in 2015
revenue (Gilman and Romero 2018).
Detention contracts and subsequent profits also work to the mutual benefit of government
agencies and actors invested in detention. Contracting out detention services allows for
rapid detention expansion, which ICE continually seeks as apprehensions, and the
increasing categories of immigrants who apparently necessitate detention, outpace the
speed of deportations (Bauer and Johnston 2019). These contracts also muddy the
distinction between public and private entities, deflecting accountability for the oft-
reported substandard conditions in US detention facilities (Doty and Wheatley 2013;
Hernandez 2019). Further, private prison companies funnel profits into lobbying efforts to
pass pro-detention legislation, perpetuating their detention market and supporting
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government actors who need detention capacity in order to execute their political
strategies of policing strict boundaries around national belonging (Moreno and Price
2018).
With this kind of profit margin and these political relationships on the line, private prison
companies use various tactics to incentivise detention and maximise revenue. A prominent
strategy is leveraging contract terms through occupancy guarantee clauses (Gilman and
Romero 2018; Sinha 2017). These clauses appear in contracts between private prison
companies and ICE, assuring that the government agency pays for the minimum quota the
prison companies set, despite the facility’s actual occupancy (Gilman and Romero 2018;
Sinha 2017). Reminiscent of the 2009 bed mandate, the occupancy guarantees incentivise
mandating detention categorically in order to fill beds. An oft-quoted exchange during a
2013 House Judiciary Committee hearing between Representative Henry Johnson and
former ICE director John Morton confirms the relationship between ICE contracts and bed
minimums; Morton verifies that ICE must pay for empty beds in many contracts and,
therefore, fills them to spend the money as Congress appropriated (Sinha 2017; Torrey
2015). In this way, private interests have largely guaranteed their profits, as well as the
perpetuation of detention policies that assure them.
These dynamics promote financial and political gain at the expense of immigrants’ human
rights. There is evidence that private companies in partnership with ICE maximise profit by
manipulating the length of detention stays and cutting operation costs at detainees’
expense. Gilman and Romero obtained data on the T. Don Hutto Residential Centre,
operated by Corecivic, revealing evidence of ICE using bond amounts to maintain the size
of the detained population (Gilman and Romero 2018)
8
. Private companies also cut costs
and manipulate earnings by using detainee labour through ICE’s ‘Voluntary Work Program’
(UCCR 2018). In this program, ICE pays detainee laborers $1 a day based on a 1950 law
9
, a
practice of concern to many, including the US Commission on Civil Rights (Bauer and
Johnston 2019; Hernández 2019; Kerwin 2018; UCCR 2018). Both public and private
detention facilities use detainee labour for essential operational tasks, but the Commission
expressed their concern regarding the ‘added pressure to coerce detainees’ to perform
labour in order to maximise profits at private facilities (UCCR 2018: 2). These strategies
reveal private prison companies’ deep commitment to the detention apparatus as an
earning strategy, often at the direct expense of immigrants’ human rights.
Confronting the Detention Legacy
This paper shows that the immigration detention system is rooted in a network of investors
that spans racial narrative creators, policy makers and private prison companies, each with
their own symbolic, political or material gain embedded in the system (Bauer and Johnston
8
This study obtained data regarding the reasons for release, length of detention stays and bond amounts for
custody decisions at the T. Don Hutto Residential Center through a FOIA request. The data shows that ICE
categorically applies custody decisions depending on the capacity of the facility. The data suggests high bond
amounts during times when fewer migrants are entering detention and lower bond amounts when book-ins are
higher.
9
U.S.C. 1555(d) allows the US government to pay non-citizen detainees for their labor (UCCR 2018).
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2019; Kerwin 2018; Moreno and Price 2018). Though many breathed a sigh of relief when
President Biden assumed office, a change in administration alone is not enough to confront
a system based not in immigration reality but rather in the interests of powerful actors with
a stake in its continuance.
The US Citizenship Act of 2021 was President Biden’s landmark immigration policy
proposal upon assuming office, and it is now officially before the US Congress (AILA 2021).
Among its many provisions, perhaps the most notable is the proposed path to citizenship
for the approximately 11 million unauthorised immigrants in the US (CMS 2021). Although
the Citizenship Act could provide a life-changing path to citizenship for many unauthorised
immigrants currently living in conditions of precarity, there is no guarantee the Act will
escape the criminalising ramifications that have traditionally accompanied US immigration
reforms, especially given the varied and vested investment in immigrant criminalisation that
this paper has explored.
Immigrant criminalisation has traditionally accompanied pathways to citizenship in US
immigration reform. For instance, the Citizenship Act’s immigration reform predecessor,
the 1986 Immigration Reform and Control Act (IRCA) linked the legalisation of eligible
unauthorised individuals with stronger immigration enforcement for the rest, as reflected
in increased detention and Customs and Border Protection budgets (Cooper and O’Neil
2005; Enchautegui 2014; Rosas 2015). The Citizenship Act now before Congress proposes
an eight-year path to citizenship for eligible unauthorised immigrants and even begins to
address family detention by calling for the increased use of Alternatives To Detention
(ATDs) (United States 2021a), but it remains to be seen if the Act can avoid the political
concession of legalisation for some with criminalisation for others. The Citizenship Act is on
precarious ground, as lawmakers have acknowledged the challenge they face in trying to
pass a large bill with such sweeping immigration reform provisions (Fabian and Dennis
2021).
Gaining bipartisan support for the Citizenship Act will prove trying without resorting to the
strategy of criminalising the unauthorised immigrants who are ineligible
10
for immigration
relief in order to make the regularisation of those eligible more politically viable. Although
the Citizenship Act currently contains far fewer criminalising provisions than its
predecessor, IRCA, Section 2302 proposes the use of smart technology to increase
surveillance of the US-Mexico border, ultimately maintaining the narrative of a border
overrun by criminal outsiders (United States 2021a). This border enforcement section is
likely to expand in the search for bipartisan support, as opposing lawmakers seek political
compromise by calling for increased immigration surveillance, enforcement and detention.
The Citizenship Act fails to directly take on the immigration detention system. It does not
offer a path to end mandatory detention, family detention, nor the use of private prisons
11
.
10
Section 245G of the US Citizenship Act of 2021 states that ineligible immigrants include those who are
ineligible under the US Immigration and Nationality Act Section 212 (8 U.S. Code § 1882) and any immigrant
with a felony conviction or three or more misdemeanor convictions (United States 2021a).
11
The Act addresses the use of detention in only three ways: Section 4101 expands the Family Case
Management Program as an alternative to detention, Section 4304 establishes a rebuttable presumption of
release from detention for certain victims of crime with pending immigration petitions, and 4305 states that the
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
72
This maintains the detention system as a valuable resource at the disposal of lawmakers,
government agencies, and private prison companies. Lawmakers who oppose the
Citizenship Act may leverage the detention system as part of their political compromise to
target and criminalise the portion of the unauthorised population that will be ineligible for
immigration relief. Further, ICE will continue to rely on immigration detention for their work.
These dynamics are already in motion. The agency recently released interim enforcement
guidance that perpetuates the criminalisation of immigrants and incentives for detention
(ICE 2021). ICE issued the guidance in response to President Biden’s Executive Order
13993 which revised US immigration priorities (United States 2021c). It ultimately justifies
the detention and deportation of broad categories of immigrants, such as those convicted
of an aggravated felony
12
(ICE 2021). As long as the Citizenship Act leaves the detention
system largely unscathed, interested actors will continue to use it to their advantage.
Private prison companies will also sustain the immigrant criminalisation and detention that
the Citizenship Act leaves intact. Given President Biden’s Executive Order 14006, these
companies are likely to expand the immigration detention system in search of contracts.
This order prevents the Department of Justice from renewing contracts with private prison
companies yet makes no mention of the Department of Homeland Security, the agency
under which ICE operates (United States 2021b). When private prison companies are
unable to renew their contracts with the Department of Justice, their profits will take a hit
and they will likely seek expansion in the immigration detention industry, pursuing ICE
contracts with new urgency. Private companies have already found immigration detention
to be a more resilient niche than criminal incarceration, the latter having felt the impact of
sentencing reforms which work to reduce prison populations and the demand for
incarceration (Cho et al. 2020; Moreno and Price 2018; Sinha 2017). President Biden even
recognised these companies’ ‘profit-based incentives to incarcerate’ in Executive Order
14006 but has yet to address the ease with which they can shift their focus from criminal
incarceration to the immigration detention system (White House 2021). These gaps in
President Biden’s treatment of immigration detention raise alarm, given the powerful
alliance of policymakers, government actors, and private companies bent on perpetuating
the system of immigration detention that reaps political and financial gain at the expense
of immigrant’s human rights.
Policy Recommendations
The US Citizenship Act of 2021 and Executive Order 14006 contain gaps susceptible to the
influence of detention investors, whether their stake in the system be rhetorical, political or
financial. By acknowledging these gaps in President Biden’s policies, this paper seeks to
highlight that the detention legacy that President Biden inherits is deeper and more
pervasive than the President’s policies currently account for. Policy alone cannot address
Secretary of Homeland Security shall establish programs that provide alternatives to detention (United States
2021a).
12
Aggravated felonies are not necessarily aggravated crimes, nor felonies, but rather, a term of art used to
categorise the criminal acts that Congress considers worthy of immigration consequences, such as theft and
non-appearance at a court date (AIC 2016).
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the entirety of the investments in the detention system, but it can start to address the
incentives for detention that grant policymakers and companies payoff at the expense of
immigrants’ human rights. The following policy recommendations would aid President
Biden and his administration in beginning to take on the detention system.
First, Congress should work to repeal all mandatory detention legislation that fuels
immigrant criminalisation and detention. As seen in IIRIRA among other policies, lawmakers
have mandated categorical applications of immigration detention at their whim. Given the
Citizenship Act’s potential to bend to political compromise in combination with continued
ICE enforcement guidance that criminalises immigrants, it is essential to remove mandatory
detention as an incarceration incentive. Congress must take a stand against criminalising
policies that mandate detention for broad categories of immigrants and pursue
individualised custody decisions that respect immigrants’ humanity.
Second, President Biden should immediately expand Executive Order 14006 that bans the
renewal of DOJ contracts with private prison companies to include DHS, as well as call for
the termination of current private prison contracts with DHS. Despite its good intentions,
this Executive Order as it stands actually could increase the privatisation of the immigration
detention system. The Order should not only ban the renewal of private prison contracts
with DHS, but also call for the timely termination of existing private prison contracts for
immigration detention, as advocacy groups have pointed out that these companies often
enter into decades long contracts with ICE (Franzblau 2021; DWN 2021).
Photo credits to Luis Ram, permission has been secured from the artist.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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Ensuring individualised custody decisions and refusing to allow private companies to profit
off immigrants’ incarceration are two policy steps that directly address long-standing
incentives to detain immigrants. One path toward these critical shifts is the New Way
Forward Act, recently reintroduced before US Congress (United States 2019). Among other
provisions, the Act would repeal mandatory immigration detention policies, ban the use of
private detention facilities and terminate existing private prison contracts within three years
of the bill’s introduction. Whether through the New Way Forward Act or other legislation, it
is critical to confront these political and financial incentives in order to move away from the
immigration detention system that benefits political and business actors at immigrants’
expense.
Conclusion
The veins of immigration detention run deep in the United States, and the pressures on the
US migration system will not soon let up, two realities that beckoned an exploration of the
potential of President Biden’s policies to confront the immigration detention system and
prioritise justice for immigrants. President Biden and Vice President Harris have expressed
their concern for the root causes of migration, from corruption to climate crises (Evans
2021), but have yet to identify the root causes of immigration detention that characterise
immigrants’ inhumane reception in the US as they flee these very conditions.
Though President Biden has taken steps to mark his administration as a sharp turn away
from his predecessor’s xenophobia, the US Citizenship Act of 2021 and Executive Order
14006 do not adequately confront the profound US investment in immigration detention.
The mutually reinforcing interests of policymakers and private prison companies, based in
narratives that criminalise immigrants, will continue to fortify one another in spite of these
two policies. Therefore, it is critical that the Biden administration identify and restrain the
incentives for immigration detention as the first step toward justice for immigrants. Only
then can US immigration policy start to move toward justice for immigrants.
The Author
Zoe Martens is a master’s student of Human Rights at the Humphrey School of Public Affairs
in Minnesota, passionate about resisting the criminalisation of immigration. She has
previously worked as a domestic violence advocate for immigrant survivors in Minnesota and
as a legal team member at a migrant shelter working with Central American asylum seekers
in Mexico. She is currently a research assistant at the Humphrey School, working on a project
about immigrant essential workers during the COVID-19 pandemic in the US.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
75
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Ethnographic Reflection on Exilic Narratives Outside
Closed Camps: The Case of Residual Liberian Refugees in
Nigeria
Tosin Samuel Durodola
Abstract
What happens when refugees’ status are terminated and camps are officially shut down?
How do residual refugees construct home and space outside closed camps? How do their
narratives of the journey to exile intersect with the agency deployed to transcend their
location of dispossession within a shared space of marginality? This paper offers an
ethnographic reflection on the post-refugee experience of residual Liberian refugees living
outside the closed Oru Refugee Camp, Ogun State, Nigeria. This paper reflects on how
their exilic narratives have given rise to the audacious desire to contest their position of
dislocation following their eviction from Oru refugee camp to a nearby uninhabitable
bushland area in 2012. In their exilic narratives, residual Liberian refugees are inclined to
attribute their resistance, resilience and transformative agency in exile to both their
experience of war and their exilic journey from Liberia, which has influenced their condition
of arrival in Nigeria, their subsequent adjustment and integration, and their ambulant
perception of home.
Introduction
‘Exilic narratives’ as a term affirms the way exiles’ journeys and experiences are transformed
into powerful narratives over time. Journeys are powerful life-changing events that
significantly affect those who experience them. When instigated by wars, these experiences
of displacement become etched into exilic narratives. In the case of residual Liberian
refugees in Nigeria, their formative experiences of migration include not only the recurring
cycles of displacement during the Liberian civil wars, but also their experiences during and
after the closure of the Oru Refugee Camp in Ogun State, Nigeria. These experiences have
been elaborated by residual Liberian refugees as meaningful narratives of suffering and
exile. Such experiences play pivotal roles in building an ‘exilic’ identity which can be used
to unify the emerging diaspora community together.
The Oru Refugee Camp was created in 1990 by the General Ibrahim Babangida
administration following the outbreak of the Liberian Civil War when over 1,000 Liberian
asylum seekers fled to Nigeria. About 5,000 Liberian refugees were registered in Nigeria at
the height of the Liberian Civil War of 1989 to 2003 (Reliefweb 2003). This new abode was
supposed to be a temporary stay pending the restoration of peace in Liberia but the failure
to achieve any of UNHCR’s three durable solutions—repatriation, integration, and
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resettlement—protracted their stay in Nigeria. The situation for Liberian exiles in Oru
refugee camp worsened when they lost their refugee status in 2012, thus resulting in the
official closure of the Oru camp and an abrupt end to all humanitarian activities and
international assistance. Several months after their refugee status ended, Liberian residuals
and other nationals were evicted from the campsite by neighbouring community members.
Following this, the Liberian exiles relocated to a nearby previously uninhabitable bushland
area where they have subsisted ever since in a continuous state of exile without
humanitarian support or state protection (Akinfenwa 2016).
Crowded section/buildings of the Liberian and Sierra Leonean residuals settlement in Oru-
Ijebu, Ogun State, Nigeria. Photo Credits: Tosin Durodola and Obasola Bamigbola.
This ethnographic study reveals that the present situation in the Oru residual refugee
settlement is rather different from the ones observed by previous scholars (Mokuolu &
Yarseah 2013). The refugees have become members of ‘residual caseloads’ whereby they
no longer can access the legal rights their refugee status entitles them to (Crisp 2016).
Moreover, the number of refugees and asylum seekers living in the camp had reduced
drastically to around 300 (according to the statistics made available by the refugee
association in Oru Camp in 2019). Unlike the situation observed by previous scholars, in
which many of the refugees in Oru camp were under the care of UNHCR and highly
dependent on humanitarian assistance, the author’s recent fieldwork shows that residual
Liberian refugees have not been able to access any form of humanitarian support since the
cessation of their refugee status.
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This paper reflects on the metaphoric and actual conditions of the exilic journey of residual
Liberian refugees in Oru. According to BenEzer & Zetter (2014), narratives of exilic journeys
help survivors re-evaluate and reconstruct their previous expectations of exile and the new
life which they hoped for, influence their interpretations of the conditions in which they
arrived in exile, and influence their subsequent adjustment and integration. Journeys of
contemporary exiles are the central subject of investigation because they powerfully shape
the making and unmaking of the status of the displaced from a legal citizen to an asylum
seeker to a refugee to stateless individual.
The narratives of residual Liberian refugees unpack the actual exilic process–the medium
that connects the two ends of their exile. Through their oral narratives, this paper unpacks
their experiences before setting out from the homeland, their reasons for fleeing, the
strategies and networks used to travel, and the physical and psychological suffering
experienced during the journey from Liberia to Nigeria. These exilic experiences intersect
with their everyday lives and have given rise to their transformative agency in exile, shaped
their aspirations and efforts to build quasi-permanent homes, and sustained their
audacious desire ‘to be’ or ‘to have’ resources in the space previously dominated by the
Oru host. In deconstructing these experiences, this paper relies on their subjective
narratives which have been shaped and preserved through trajectories and systems of
movement in time and space. The narratives of residual Liberian refugees provide an
alternative view to existing humanitarian narratives and offer an original contribution to
existing theories and approaches to refugees and resettlement in development studies.
Methodology
Prior to conducting fieldwork between July 2019 and December 2019, the author was
unable to identify the location of residual Liberian refugees in Oru town because of the
paucity of data on their status since the closure of the refugee camp by the Nigeria
government in 2012. The author’s contacts at the National Commission for Refugees,
Migrants and Internally Displaced Persons (NCFRMI), humanitarian and aid agencies, and
Ogun State government were unable to provide an exact description of their location due
to many years of disengagement of humanitarian services at the Oru Refugee Camp.
Investigative reports by two Nigerian newspapers—the Guardian and Punch newspapers—
eventually gave the author an insight into the prevailing realities in Oru refugee camp.
However, on arrival in Oru town in July 2019, it was difficult to identify the refugees’ exact
location even with the details in the national newspapers. Later, the author approached the
King’s palace and was given directions to the present location of the residual Liberian
refugees, a bushland area adjacent to the closed camp.
When the fieldwork began, the author approached the Chairman of the residual refugees’
community for permission to conduct interviews in the Oru residual refugee settlement.
After learning the purpose of the inquiry, the chairman identified residual refugees who
could provide valuable information. Qualitative data was collected through participant
observation, in-depth interviews, and focus group discussions conducted over six months
in 2019. Open-ended and semi-structured interviews were held with residual Liberian
refugees in Oru town, while observations were conducted at the church, mosque, Cassava-
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processing factory, restaurants, and other dilapidated sites in the residual Liberian refugee
settlement in Oru, Southwestern Nigeria. Focus group discussions were conducted with
female residual Liberian refugees to get a broader perspective on food-making practices
and cultural preservation in the residual refugee settlement. Additionally, a few young
residual Liberian refugees participated in a focus group discussion on the second-
generation perception of the intersection between Liberia and Nigeria. Informal questions
and observations were employed during visits to the farms, Okada businesses and the
Cassava-processing unit. In total, 29 participants were engaged in the study.
Front view of the Residual Liberian refugees’ settlement in Oru-Ijebu, Ogun State, Nigeria.
Photo credits: Tosin Durodola.
Findings
Spiritual Exile: Living with Fear in Monrovia
During ethnographic fieldwork, residual Liberian refugees in Oru, Southwestern Nigeria
described the myriad ways in which the Liberian civil wars marked their lives, social fabric,
and cycles of displacement. The civil wars directly threatened their lives, worsened their
living conditions, disrupted their livelihood, and broke the cord of unity and togetherness
amongst families. In the participants’ narratives, fear, rumours of attack, sporadic gunshots,
threats, loss, separation, and direct violent acts by warring factions forced them out of their
homes and turned them into travellers in a strange world.
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Fear of death became ubiquitous in Liberia due to the increase of armed confrontation
between the Taylor and Doe’s forces, their restrictions on village movement, and as
residents became the target of threats, massacres and other acts of terror. Halimatu
13
, a 55-
year old woman, conveyed the difficulties and pain in her daily life prior to displacement.
In her emotionally rich narrative, she described both the inexplicability of the situation she
lived in and her inability, even then, to make sense of how she and her husband and child
escaped Liberia unhurt despite belonging to the targeted groups during the civil war:
Samuel Doe, the President, was a Krahn man, so they (Charles Taylor’s force)
killed Krahn people. They were killing the Mandingos, Nigerians, Ghanaians,
and other nationalities. It did not matter if you were neutral or not, as long
they find that you belong to the opposing tribe, they would kill you. Even the
people that we grew up together were in possession of guns and they did
not care if we were friends. I did not feel safe and I had to escape. It was like
hell on earth.... My husband who is a Nigerian had to pretend to be Jamaican
to protect me and my child...
Furthermore, exile as presented in Halimatu’s narratives is not confined to the involuntary
physical displacement from her homeland of Liberia. Long before her physical exit from
Liberia to de-familiarised spaces, Halimatu and her family were living in an internal exile.
She lost her parents and siblings to the war and had to hide with her husband and child in
Monrovia. In fear, they hid in their house as rebels marched across streets at night, knocking
and waiting for residents to open or entering by force. All through the night, they would
hear the shootings, screams, the desperate and futile pleas of women to not take their
husbands and children away, listening in silence while confined in their own home. The
foregoing affirms that they were in exile while rooted in their homeland without being
physically displaced. Tsaaior (2011: 100) describes this condition as a ‘spiritual exile which
registers itself in terms of absence through presence’.
This experience of spiritual exile has been maintained outside the closed Oru Refugee
Camp as residual Liberian refugees perceive themselves as an exiled community (even
when they are eligible for local integration) with the nationalistic duty to preserve their
identity and safeguard their space. Due to their belief that home is central to their subjective
consciousness, participants spoke about the importance of preserving their culture and
language in order to maintain the longevity of the exile community in the diaspora. A male
respondent in his forties recounts:
We have a dialect choir in the church where our mummy and daddy sing in
Bassa, Krahn, Mandingo or other Liberian languages to keep us thinking
about home. That means if am not Mandingo and I am in the church, I can
also learn songs in other languages.
The above narration suggests that the attempt to preserve the culture of the homeland can
instigate nostalgic feelings and imagined moments of home. Although exile denotes
displacement or estrangement in the physical and spiritual sense, it can also be an unreal
place that is made real by the constant everyday efforts of exiles. Olaoluwa (2020) argues
13
All names in this article are pseudonymous to preserve the anonymity of the participants.
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that the trauma of homeland displacement is further complicated by exclusion in the place
of refuge which becomes doubly painful for the displaced and instigates a longing for
home. Hence, nostalgia can influence exiles to construct an imaginary link to their
homeland through cultural productions and practices. It is the sense of homelessness,
nostalgia, and marginalisation that creates the condition for the refugee to engage in
artistic production including songs and dance which re-forge a link to their culture of origin.
Fearlessness: Defiance of Death in Transit
The journey out of Monrovia occurred in most cases at night. This was done as a preventive
measure lest profiled ethnic groups be seen by people who would inform the rebels of their
identity. However, the desperation to leave the war zone sometimes precipitated the need
for road travellers to move incessantly, night and day, and as quickly as possible. In such a
scenario, these travellers often became the victims of harassment, torture, and massacre to
rebels mounting roadblocks in strategic zones. Halimatu recounts the experience with
rebels on her way out of Liberia:
On our way going, there were so many checkpoints. The rebels will ask for
the name of your tribe. If you say you are Mandingo or Krahn, they will kill
you. It was a tough moment for me because I could not speak any other
language in Liberia apart from Mandingo. I was afraid but my husband
assured me that he had a plan. So when we got to Palwal checkpoint, we
joined the queue and when it was almost our turn to be questioned about
our identity, my husband looked at me and shouted, ‘Ramotu, Get out of the
line!’. The rebels were shocked and wanted to know who had the courage to
give such an order. That was how all of them (rebels) left the barricade to
beat and torture my husband. It was during this moment that I crossed with
my two children to the other end of the barricade. My husband was later
released and he joined me on the road.
In Halimatu’s narration, the incident at the Palwal checkpoint formed what Cohn (2018)
describes as a compelling experience that sheds light on the broader dynamics which
characterise the struggle of refugees’ journey to exile. In these incidents permeated by
force and fear, refugees are compelled to confront a crossroads between settling for the
displacement that uprooted them from home or fighting for the dawn of movements
towards future emplacement (Lems 2014). For Halimatu’s husband, that moment
compelled him to audaciously help his wife and child cross the death zone into Ivory Coast.
This moment of strength and audacity invigorated Halimatu’s everyday life and deepened
her everyday survival strategies in the places of encampment. These survival stories are
crucial to reconstructing refugee experiences and understanding the traumatic
displacement that has formed core existential strategies of refugees upon arrival in
countries of asylum (Sakr 2018). This kind of experience on the move was in play when
residual Liberian refugees were evicted from the main Oru refugee camp site to a nearby
uninhabitable bushland area by the Oru community members. The Oru community, driven
by the desire to reclaim their land and property, adopted another mechanism to remove
the residual Liberian refugees completely from the town. This attempt was based on
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mistrust by the host community who perceived Liberian refugees as a population from a
violent country with experience marked by despondency, stubbornness, resilience, and
pride.
The resilience displayed by refugees in the face of fear and danger is not characterised by
planned and calculated actions, but rather improvisatory measures produced in congruity
with the world refugees cross (Munt 2012). Munt’s (2012) assertion is corroborated by the
methods deployed by the residual Liberian refugees to respond to the threat of expulsion
from Oru town. In response, they approached the King for intervention, a year after their
eviction from the main site of the refugee camp. The Oloru is the office of the king of Oru
town who provides spiritual lordship in its relationship with various districts and subjects
(both indigenes, visitors, and residents of Oru-Ijebu) (The Nation 2013). The decree of a
king is legally binding and cannot be revoked by his subjects and as observed by Lawal
(1977), the ‘adé ìlękę’ (beaded crown with a fringe over the face) represents political
authority and power drawn from the gods which the subjects must obey. Within this prism,
the Oloru of Oru-Ijebu intervened in the land issue and resettlement crisis through a
combination of dialogue with district heads, chieftains, and other actors. Thereafter, the
King gave a decree that the residual Liberian refugees should remain in the Oru community
and attempts by landowners to banish them from the bushland area should be halted.
Although the King lacks the constitutional power to resettle residual Liberian refugees, he
continued to provide them access to land, markets, labour force and sociocultural
privileges accrued to bonafide settlers in Oru-Ijebu (Akinfenwa 2016).
Thus, the rhetoric of survival, threats, and escape is a critical composition of refugees and
demonstrates an inextricable psychological and emotional link to the spaces of the past
where they were forced to leave behind (Olaoluwa 2017).
Brotherhood: Stormy Voyage to Ivory Coast
The Carvara River was a huge concern for displaced persons who were stuck at the border
of the Ivory Coast. It was worse when the journey occurred during the rainy season because
the rivers would overrun and the transit through the strong current would be highly
dangerous or unfeasible. Thus, Liberians were sometimes immobilised on a bank of the
river while waiting for the water to settle, often without shelter or food. In addition, they
were also at the risk of being discovered by rebels or massacred by warring factions. Myer,
a residual Liberian male refugee in his forties from the Kru tribe, narrates how their journey
became protracted when they arrived at the Carvara River:
We could not count the number of people traveling to Ivory Coast. We were
so many that it could be between 35,000 and 60,000 people. We had to wait
for canoes to arrive. The issue of paying to board a canoe was insignificant
because the crowd was too much…. People just had to volunteer to either
make canoes at the bank of the river or transport people with the canoes to
the other end of the Cavara River….The raining season time then was
between June and July. There was heavy rainfall and the river was filled and
overflowed so much that many people who attempted to cross it died.
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Myer’s narrative affirms the power and desperation of the residual Liberian refugees to seek
safety in neighbouring countries, and the readiness to forsake everything and risk it all,
‘when the canoes arrive’. Here, home is not represented via metaphors of kinship and
homeland, which have become undesirable. Instead, Liberian refugees’ journeys are
framed as a desperate search for a new home which requires careful navigation through
death zones. The experience at the Cavara River is mobilised to convey not just the
precariousness of the passage from one space to another, but also the brotherhood and
fearlessness that enabled refugees to build canoes and overcome poor sailing conditions.
Myer’s narrative of his exilic journey reveals what Pineteh (2017) describes as the traumatic,
distressing, and ritualistic passage that has transformed and marked the everyday lived
experiences of refugees upon arrival in places of asylum.
This sense of brotherhood and courage is reproduced outside the closed Oru refugee
camp to deal with present day challenges. During interviews, participants explained that
former Liberian refugees who are in academia, civil society and corporate business have
organised into a diaspora association named Organization of Liberian Communities in
Nigeria (OLICON) in the absence of international protection. However, in contrast with the
modus-operandi of the US-based Liberian diaspora (Osman 2012), OLICON negotiates the
resources in the host country in favour of only the exiles in the country of refuge, namely
Nigeria, rather than the homeland or elsewhere. Residual Liberian refugees rely on
OLICON since the departure of UNHCR to protect their interests and to provide civic
engagement, public diplomacy, and development assistance in Nigeria. The spirit of
brotherhood promoted through OLICON is informed by memories of their exilic
experiences and has helped reduce the devastating impact of UNHCR’s aid withdrawal
such as health risks, economic difficulties, risk of statelessness, and socio-cultural
differences in Nigeria. A respondent explains:
OLICON has been of great help, especially where it concerns on healthcare
and scholarships for our children. We contact our regional coordinator who
liaises with counterparts in Lagos and Oyo States to provide basic social and
financial interventions ... OLICON has helped with repatriations. Sometime
ago when the UN stopped their repatriation, OLICON met with the Liberian
government to help repatriate some of our people.
This audacious courage and conviction affirm residual Liberian refugees’ ability to confront
both the mental and physical challenges they faced when moving across locales.
Resilience: Dead Women Tell no Tales
Food was a major challenge along the tumultuous journey of many residual Liberian
refugees, and in several instances, displaced Liberian refugees died as a result of
malnutrition. For example, Halimatu complains that upon arrival at Sanniquellie, there was
no food available, which negatively affected her baby’s health because she could not
breastfeed him. Similarly, Mariama recalled that she was lucky to survive eating unripe
pawpaw in a nearby forest while some of her co-migrants died of hunger. Despite these
challenges, many Liberian refugees described how they overcame their precarious
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conditions and limited ability to access food. For example, prior to their departure from
Monrovia, Rebecca recalled that she and her little daughter shut their doors out of fear and
could not go out to search for food because rebels were raiding, raping, and shooting
sporadically. After surviving on leftover foodstuffs for an extended period, Rebecca
summoned the courage to walk to the nearby street to get food for herself and her
daughter. She recalls how her popularity in the neighbourhood helped her get the
necessary support to survive:
I was able to move around to get food. My tribe was not under attack because
they had a special tribe they were attacking and also they were looking for
government workers then. People know me, so what could they do to me?
They call me Mama Scade. My nickname helped to an extent and I was a
popular figure so it was difficult for someone to just attack me. So when they
saw me on the street, they called me by my nickname and they allowed me
to just go and get my food. This situation persisted for over a month.
These narratives of extraordinary audacity in the face of hostile geographies were
subsequently mobilised to empower refugees’ defiance of adversity in places of
encampment (Sakr 2018). In line with Sakr’s (2018) argument, Liberian refugee women
imbued their passage and movement with poignant significance that required their
alertness and fearlessness to overcome. Rebecca’s narratives, for example, were invoked to
show how refugees’ acute awareness and alertness begets both their tendency to
cautiously scrutinise their environments for danger and threats as well as their strategic
deployment of audacious tactics in response. Thus, the plethora of experiences during the
exilic journey from Liberia redefined the resilience of Liberian refugees as a community in
exile.
Despite the myriad economic challenges they face, residual Liberian refugees have
achieved outstanding success at both subsistence and commercial levels. Residual Liberian
refugees subscribe to the use of local equipment to manually produce garri due to
constraints around accessing mechanised tools for processing in the former refugee camp.
They now possess a small-scale cassava processing factory in their settlement where they
compete with the cassava processors in Oru town, neighbouring cities, and even as far as
Ibadan. It is important to note that Liberian refugee women predominantly are responsible
for the activities of cassava processing into garri including frying and market sales. In order
to attract more customers, increase their market share, and make a profit, Liberian cassava
processors sell garri at cheaper rates compared to the standard local market prices. A
female respondent during a focus group discussion explained:
We buy raw cassava from our farmers here [refugee farmers in the
settlement] on credit and process it here. When we sell the products, we
make profit and pay the farmers back. We sell for small profit because if we
sell compared to the standard price, they [Oru community members] will not
buy from us. The small profit comes fast and we even employ some of the
Oru women to peel, patch and grind the cassava.
This desire to overcome adversity in unfamiliar locales affirms that the experience of
tumultuous displacement can give rise to acuity, increased awareness of the urgency to
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survive in spaces of marginality, exclusion, and adversity (Olaoluwa 2019). This sharp
awareness of historical peril and remembrance of victory empowers refugees to turn the
exilic experience into an ‘agency of advantage’ over the challenges of hostility and
marginality in places of encampment (Pineteh 2017).
Survival: Disembarkation in Nigeria
As the journey to Nigeria was unpremeditated for the majority of residual Liberian refugees,
successfully reaching Nigeria depended largely on their ability to access affordable means
of transportation. In some cases, this meant that residual refugees who had planned to
reach Nigeria had to stop their journey in the Ivory Coast due to a lack of means to travel
any farther. For many Liberian refugees, the decision to flee to Nigeria was based on both
practical considerations as well as a general sense of trust that they would be supported on
arrival financially, physically and emotionally. As Paye, a 49-year old man, explains:
There was communication between me and others [Red Cross]. We knew
that our people [Liberians] came to Oru refugee camp in 1990. So when we
got to the UN office in Lagos, we were directed to join our fellow nationals in
the refugee camp in Ogun State. When I got to the camp, I identified my
countrymen and I was happy to reunite with them.
The memories of the precarious journeys of suffering and hope through countries like Togo
and Benin, where Liberian refugees were threatened and massacred, were recollected to
support refugees’ self-reliance and resilience in their country of arrival. The memories of
harassment and cruelty during the exilic journey from Liberia emboldened the application
of various tactics by Liberian refugees to manoeuvre and tackle hostilities and
estrangement in different locales and geographies.
Narratives describing the trajectory of refugees’ journey strengthened their ability to
confront future obstacles (Pineteh 2017). For some residual Liberian refugees, these
experiences of suffering and hope have compelled them to work within the informal
economy of Oru town and amplified the energies and efforts geared towards reviving old
socio-economic structures. The ‘Babylon’, for instance, symbolises the epicentre of
commercial and social activities ‘when the camp was still camp’; that is, prior to the closure
of the Oru refugee camp. This structure, Babylon, has been metaphorically revived in the
form of a mini-restaurant, stall and bar. Both the residual refugees and the host community
are frequent visitors to this commercial centre, where they consume Liberian dishes,
purchase non-food items, and relax. A female respondent narrates:
This place [residual Liberian refugees’ restaurant] is different from the
indigenous food centres that make stew and rice every day. Here, there is
new soup every day. You can consume soup made with pumpkin leaf
yesterday, potato green today and cassava leaves tomorrow. The way we
prepare our food at home in our country [Liberia] is the same way we do
here. This is different from the Oru town indigenes who prepare almost the
same stew and veggies in their restaurants.
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The above testimonies affirm that the host suppliers and refugee owners of these
businesses have benefited significantly from the revival of some of the old Liberian
refugees’ socio-economic structures. This situation supports Omata’s (2018) argument that
displaced persons seek their own economic space in the wider host economy in such a way
that does not necessarily conflict with indigenes. At present, the residual Liberian refugee
settlement has transformed into a mini-commercial hub where agricultural and trading
activities are thriving. For instance, the stalls and restaurants situated in the settlement
receive visitors from neighbouring cities who patronise the owners (residual Liberian
refugees) of such commodities and food.
The journey of forced migrants, like the experiences of the Liberian refugees, is fragmented
and marked by traversing unknown and perilous locales to secure safety with no
predetermined point of disembarkation. It is this trajectory of exile and diasporisation that
empowers and better prepares refugees to deal with hostility, marginality and silencing in
countries of asylum (Olaoluwa 2017).
Lack of Integration and Place-Making: Construction of Home outside Oru Refugee Camp
Findings from this study reveal that the failure of local integration and abandonment of
failed resettlement applications are major reasons why many residual Liberian refugees still
live in a bushland area close to the former refugee camp in Oru town. According to residual
Liberian refugees, UNHCR failed to uphold its obligations in the Multipartite Agreement
signed between the Government of the Republic of Liberia, Sierra Leone, Federal Republic
of Nigeria, Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS) and UNHCR by not
providing Liberian refugees with suitable support for relocation after the closure of the Oru
camp by the Nigerian government in 2012. Respondents reported that the stipends that
UNHCR agreed to pay the residual refugees were subsequently slashed and that the
inadequate financial support exposed them to chronic vulnerability:
I am 44 years old. All those who chose local integration received N75,000
without housing. What we desired did not happen. We hoped for a better
life after the camp was shut down. I acquired a knowledge of textile and batik
designs. I attempted to do something with the fund but I did not achieve
anything. I fell ill and spent the money on treatment.
Following UNHCR’s failure to fulfil its duty to locally integrate residual Liberian refugees
with the host community members and the Ogun state, Liberian refugees were evicted by
the host community members from the main Oru refugee site to a nearby uninhabitable
bushland area. Despite pleas by the residual Liberian refugees, the host community
members refused their demands to continue using the former refugee campsite as a place
of shelter after its closure by the Nigerian government.
During the interviews, participants revealed that they nonetheless worked to transform the
uninhabitable bushland into a ‘home’. As explained by Elizabeth:
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We were homeless and began to look out for another home where we can
find a better living ... Home means comfort, freedom and control over our
own lives.
Participants described ‘home’ as a site of lived reality and personal memory which plays an
active role in facilitating identity formation, socialisation, economic activity, and cultural
linkages. This perception evoked their resilience strategies to re-imagine a meaningful
home — despite the challenges of their present-day situation— and contest the socio-
economic and political space in Oru town. One of their main resilience strategies was to
preserve their cultural identity, which served to both reinforce their link to their homeland
of Liberia and influence the people of Oru town. Through songs and dances composed by
the Oru refugee church choir comprising the elderly who spoke in various indigenous
languages including Bassa, Krahn, and Mandingo, the Liberian youths and host community
members learned the dialect, history and values inscribed in different Liberian tribes.
Participants believe that home is central to their subjective consciousness and that the
preservation of their culture and language in songs is important to sustaining the longevity
of the exile community in the diaspora.
Transformative Agency: Contestation of Socio-cultural, Economic and Political Space of Oru
During focus group discussions, participants revealed that Liberian residuals have not only
kept their identity intact for over three decades, but they also share their cultural practices
with the host Oru community at festivals and cultural activities. This is captured by Aminata,
a 45-year-old woman:
We interact with all the cultures in the town when the King tells us to come
for Ojude Oba festival in the town. We have a cultural group that performs
all our dances. Since we have different ethnic groups in Liberia, the cultural
group learn and perform a mixture of everything. When we perform at Ojude
Oba in Oru, other people love our costume and dance and they ask us how
we do it. We also learn how they do their dance, songs and costume.
Through the annual celebration of the Liberia Independence Day and Flag Day with other
cultural groups, Liberian residuals expose the host community members to their culture
and history. Their industrious spirit and the distinct culture displayed during the Liberia
Independence Day and Flag Day have gained them recognition in local festivals,
particularly Ojude Oba where they display their artistry and music in front of the King. These
cultural events and celebrations have become a venue for cultural contact, social relations
and friendships, and have drawn Liberians and other nationals including the Oru host into
a cohesive community. The quest for recognition as a resilient cultural community in the
face of marginality has seen residual Liberian refugees continue to promote their culture
and identity with the host community even after the closure of the refugee camp in 2012.
In this context, they can enact their cultural identity to assert themselves in the cultural space
of the host community.
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Liberian residuals have also deployed their economic resourcefulness to secure increasing
influence in the areas of food security. They have transformed the new settlement
(previously bushy location) into a hub of diverse economic activity—farming,
entrepreneurship, trade, transportation, and food business. By gaining economic power,
Liberian residuals are able to maintain their distinctive identity and resist assimilation:
There are women with tomato, pepper and vegetable gardens. Men also
own farmlands where they plant cassava, corn and sugarcane in this
settlement. Some people own large fish ponds and are into animal farming
like goat rearing and poultry. We make money from these agricultural
businesses. (Sheriff, male, 38 years old)
Participants explain that they transformed the arable land in the new settlement to produce
and supply tomatoes, corn, sugarcane, vegetables, potatoes, bananas and cassava
products to the local markets. Here, they sought to compete with local farmers by offering
their products at a cheaper price, thereby gaining access to more markets, and influencing
the economy of neighbouring towns and cities such as Ago- Iwoye, Ijebu-Igbo, Ijebu-Ode
and Ibadan in the Southwestern region and Nigeria.
Liberian residuals now possess a small-scale Cassava processing factory, where they
employ members of the host community to work and earn wages. The versatility of cassava
means that it can be processed into a wide variety of products such as garri, starch, fufu,
high-quality flour, tapioca and cassava chips for animal consumption (Kehinde & Aboaba
2016). They also navigate marketing constraints with the support of trans-local and diaspora
networks to connect their end products to local markets and consumers in neighbouring
towns and cities.
To further penetrate the informal economic sector of Oru town, Liberian residuals deploy
their exilic experience and resilience to organise themselves into the transportation sector,
particularly Okada, a popular motorcycle in Oru, for income and improved socio-economic
activities by providing low-cost transport for residents and farm produce to markets
(Durodola 2020). The struggle for recognition in the transportation sector is tied to the
question of power, which speaks to the privileges and control of resources that the Oru host
community previously enjoyed exclusively but is now desired as a form of recognition and
power by the residual Liberian refugees:
Many of us belong to political parties and attend political meetings. Here, we
vote based on campaign promises, the candidate’s capacity and possibility
of protecting our interests and demands. (Rebecca, female, 67 years old)
The statement above reflects that by registering to vote, Liberian residuals have assumed
powerful agency to make political demands and shape the governance system of Ogun
State. The foregoing also begets a political argument on whether it is safe to still refer to
them as Liberians since only qualified Nigerian citizens are registered to vote. Nonetheless,
rather than passively accept the existing political culture, Liberian residuals have
transformed into a politically active community (through voter’s registration and
membership with political parties) recognised during elections to be counted and
empowered to vote in Oru town, Ogun State and Nigeria at large. The foregoing
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demonstrates that residual Liberian refugees desire something more concrete and
asserting—political power to protect their interest and sustain their gains in Oru town.
This quest for political power also led to the formation of a diaspora association named
Organization of Liberian Communities in Nigeria (OLICON), comprising former Liberian
refugees who are in academia, civil society and corporate business. OLICON is organised
along different types of hierarchical structures that play various roles on behalf of its the
thirteen (13) active states (Eastern region: Anambra, Bayelsa, Delta, Enugu, Imo and Rivers
States; the Northern region: Abuja, Niger, Kaduna, and Plateau States; and the Western
region: Lagos, Ogun and Oyo States) in the country. Following the departure of UNHCR,
Liberian residuals rely on OLICON to protect their interests and to provide civic
engagement, public diplomacy, and development assistance in Nigeria.
Conclusion
From participants’ narratives, residual Liberian refugees were inclined to attribute their
resistance and resilience in the new, de-familiarised host nation of Nigeria to their
experiences of war and loss in Liberia and the development of survival strategies and their
ability to deal with suffering and pains during their journeys to exile. These narratives, which
combine several experiences, have become predominant among the Liberian community
in Oru town and have given rise to the construction of a common Liberian identity.
This reflection concludes that the perceived powerlessness of displaced persons is
unfounded, as the displaced audaciously enact their memories of exilic journeys and socio-
cultural and economic agency which are then mobilised to contest the privileges and
control of the indigenous population.
The Author
Tosin Samuel Durodola recently received an M.A in African Studies (Diaspora and
Transnational Studies) with distinction from the University of Ibadan, Nigeria. His thesis
focused on the exilic journey and post-refugee experience of residual Liberian refugees in
Nigeria. Tosin has done extensive collection, analysis, and dissemination of qualitative data
on forced migration, diaspora, and refugee camps. He is a Research Fellow of the French
Institute for Research in Africa (IFRA-Nigeria). Tosin is contributing a chapter to a
forthcoming edited volume ‘The Palgrave Handbook of Global Social Change' - Major
Reference Work (2021).
Acknowledgements
This article is developed from the ethnographic reflection on my Master’s thesis ‘Narratives
of the Journey to Exile and the Transformative Agency of Residual Liberian Refugees in Oru,
Southwestern Nigeria’ at the unit for Diaspora and Transnational Studies, University of
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Ibadan, Nigeria and under the supervision of Dr Senayon Olaoluwa. My gratitude goes to
Dr Edward Olowookere, Egghead Odewale, Sola Salako-Ajulo, and Akin Rotimi who
provided logistical support. I wish to thank my colleagues for their insightful comments and
suggestions: Henrietta Eshalomi, Feyi Ijimakinwa, Oluwasegun Ajetunmobi, Ugochukwu
Richard, Adetutu Adedoyin, Kehinde Ayodeji, Ogun Sayo, Usman Rukayat, Ada Odukoya
and my parents- Pastor Eben and Bola Durodola. Finally, I wish to thank the Liberian and
Sierra Leonean Residuals in Oru-Ijebu for their hospitality, Obasola Bamigbola for his
support on anthropological film-making, and the editorial team of Oxford Monitor of
Forced Migration for the review. This research was funded by the First Lady of Ekiti State
and Co-founder of African Women’s Development Fund (AWDF), H.E Erelu Bisi Adeleye-
Fayemi.
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The Impact of COVID-19 on ex-Gazan Palestinian Refugees
in Jerash Camp, Jordan
Cevdet Acu
Abstract
Palestinian refugees have been living in Jordan for several decades, but they do not all have
the same legal status. Displaced Palestinians originating from the Gaza Strip during the Six-
Day War in 1967, known as ex-Gazans, are subjected to additional legal restrictions which
limit their rights, unlike other Palestinians in Jordan. Ex-Gazans face barriers reaching basic
services, including access to public employment, healthcare services, and financial support
due to their legal status in Jordan. While ex-Gazans were already struggling to access basic
services, the COVID-19 global health crisis broke out. This pandemic has led to a dramatic
loss of human life across the world. COVID-19 also poses a significant threat to individuals’
livelihood due to its related measures, including nationwide lockdowns, closure of
businesses and social distancing. Based on semi-structured interviews with ex-Gazan
Palestinian refugees, this paper examines the impact of COVID-19 and its preventive
restrictions on ex-Gazans’ livelihood in the Jerash camp in Jordan. The research findings
indicate that the vulnerability of ex-Gazans refugees who live in the camp increased
significantly during the COVID-19 crisis due to their pre-existing social and economic
vulnerability.
Introduction
Jordan is home to the largest number of Palestinian refugees in the world. According to the
United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA
2021) data, 2,206,736 registered Palestinians reside in the country; approximately 39% of
all registered Palestinian refugees as of August 2021. There have been two mass
displacements of Palestinians to the country. The first group of Palestinians arrived in
Jordan after the Nakba (‘catastrophe’ in Arabic) of the 1948 Arab-Israeli war (Morris 2008).
UNRWA (2021) defines people displaced in these events as refugees, and they and their
descendants have since been given Jordanian citizenship. The second mass displacement
occurred in the Gaza Strip following the 1967 Six-Day War (Segev 2007). These Palestinians
(ex-Gazans) have not received Jordanian citizenship; the Jordanian government recognizes
them as foreign residents (Pérez 2021; Bastaki 2020). In addition, ex-Gazans are not allowed
to apply for naturalisation even though they have lived in Jordan for more than five
decades. Therefore, ex-Gazans received temporary passports valid for two or five years
while most other Palestinian refugees were naturalised in Jordan (see Feldman 2012; Pérez
2018; Hammad 2018).
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This lack of citizenship leads to significant additional barriers for ex-Gazans. Unlike
Palestinian citizens of Jordan, ex-Gazan refugees face restrictions in setting up businesses,
enrolling in state schools, accessing public sector jobs and healthcare services (Kvittingen
et al. 2019). Moreover, ex-Gazan refugees cannot work in nineteen different professions
such as engineering, accounting, medicine, nursing, journalism, and law (UNHCR 2017).
They are also not allowed to join professional associations/unions due to restrictions on
their legal status. Therefore, ex-Gazan Palestinians are excluded from rights and services;
they are burdened by not being given the same rights as other displaced Palestinians in
Jordan. Their legal vulnerability creates fragile working and living conditions as ex-Gazans
are consistently poorer than other Palestinian refugees in Jordan (Pérez 2021; El-Abed
2006). For instance, research conducted with 976 ex-Gazan households in the Jerash
refugee camp indicates that more than two-thirds of the participants did not have sufficient
income to meet their daily life expenses (Abdo et al. 2020). In addition, the unemployment
rate in the Jerash camp was 39%, while the average among Palestinians in Jordan was only
14% before the COVID-19 crisis (Hammad 2018). While they were already living in these
precarious conditions, the COVID-19 pandemic broke out.
Jordan has implemented some of the world’s strictest measures, including nationwide
curfews and closure of business, to stop the spread of COVID-19. This has led to social and
economic disruptions across Jordan (World Bank 2020). Several studies point out that
refugees who live in communal facilities such as camps and camp-like settings have faced
additional challenges during the COVID-19 crisis (Islam et al. 2020; Mutambara et al. 2021;
Subbaraman 2020). The ex-Gazans in Jordan are a minority group of Palestinian refugees
that rarely feature in academic literature, and little is known about the impact of the COVID-
19 crisis on this minority group. Therefore, this paper aims to contribute to the literature by
exploring how the COVID-19 outbreak has affected ex-Gazan refugees’ living and working
conditions in the Jerash camp by relying on semi-structured interviews with the camp
residents.
The main question of the research is: how have preventive COVID-19 measures impacted
ex-Gazans’ living and working conditions in the Jerash refugee camp in Jordan? This case
study selection enables a better understanding of the challenges faced by the marginalised
population, ex-Gazans, as there are limited studies about the living and working conditions
of this minority group.
This paper contains four sections. The first section of the article explains how the Jerash
refugee camp has transformed from a transient settlement to an underdeveloped city in
Jordan. It also states the contextual details about ex-Gazan Palestinians’ living conditions
in the camp. In the second section, the research methodology and data collection are
explained. The third section explores the impact of COVID-19 and related restrictions on
ex-Gazan refugees based on semi-structured interviews with ex-Gazans in the Jerash camp.
Finally, the last section concludes with what can be done to reduce the negative impact of
the global health crisis for ex-Gazans in Jordan.
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A City within a City: Jerash Refugee Camp
Refugee camps are typically an immediate response to humanitarian emergencies,
including internal or external conflict, war, and natural disasters (Aburamadan et al. 2020;
Turner 2016). They are often designed to be transient shelters for displaced people.
However, ex-Gazan refugees have been living in the Jerash camp for more than five
decades. The camp was established in 1968 for 11,500 Palestinian refugees who fled from
the Gaza Strip, but in 2021 it continues to host tens of thousands of Palestinians (UNRWA
2021a). The camp began as a collection of tents to provide shelters to displaced people,
but they were replaced with homes and shops made of concrete blocks over time (see
Images 1 and 2). It no longer resembles a typical refugee camp - there are no walls or fences
around it, and one does not need official permission to enter.
Jerash camp is unique as almost all its residents are originally from the Gaza Strip; it is locally
known as the Gaza camp. UNICEF (2020) data indicates that around 90% of the registered
camp residents are ex-Gazans who have no citizenship. Instead, they hold two or five-year
temporary Jordanian passports, which serve as an identification and travel document that
allows them to leave and re-enter the country. These passports must be renewed regularly,
but many research participants complained that they could not afford to renew their
passports. Rodeen
14
, one of the camp residents who has a college degree, stated:
We need to pay 100 Jordanian Dinar [approximately £100, as of May 2021]
to renew the passport for two years and 200 Jordanian Dinar for five years.
Not all people renew it regularly because many people cannot afford it. For
instance, until now, I do not have a passport. I need 200 Jordanian Dinar to
have one for two years because it is the first time I am applying for it. (12
January 2021)
Abdo et al.’s (2020) found that 81.4% of the employed participants in the Jerash refugee
camp live under the national poverty line of 814 Jordanian Dinar per year. In addition,
Jerash camp was one of the last refugee camps without an underground sewage system;
Tiltnes and Zhang (2013) found that more than 98% of households in Jerash camp were not
connected to sewage systems. Household greywater and other kinds of domestic
wastewater used to flow through open channels along almost every road in Jerash camp
until 2017 (SDC 2021). Furthermore, accommodations in the camp are very close to each
other. It is the fifth-most densely populated refugee camp in Jordan, housing around
32,000 registered Palestinian refugees in an area of only 0.75 square kilometres (UNRWA
2021b). It is nearly impossible to follow COVID-19 preventive measures such as self-
isolation and social distancing in such environments. As a result, thousands of ex-Gazan
refugees in the Jerash camp are at increased risk of COVID-19 due to poor living and
overcrowded issues. Mohammed, a 43-year-old camp resident, reported:
I was born in this camp… The camp infrastructure has almost remained
unchanged in the last ten years, even though the number of residents
14
All names in this article are pseudonymous used to protect participants’ identities.
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increased significantly because nobody [policymakers] cares about it. (23
July 2020).
Mohammad’s statement suggests the lack of financial investment in the camp infrastructure.
Houses are often run-down with poor living conditions. More than 65% of roofs contain
rusted asbestos, which has not been renovated since its construction (Hammad 2018).
Image 1: A street of Jerash camp, taken by the author, August 2020
The Jerash refugee camp has transformed from an emergency response to a permanent
shelter under the Jerash governorate in Jordan. Almost all research participants (18 out of
20) complained about the lack of investment regarding the camp infrastructure and living
conditions, which provide a fragile environment for residents during the COVID-19 crisis.
Even though UNRWA provides a wide range of services such as healthcare, education, and
financial assistance, Jerash camp is the poorest Palestinian refugee camp in Jordan (Abdo
et al. 2020; Pérez 2018). Therefore, ex-Gazans’ vulnerability is more likely to increase during
the COVID-19 crisis due to their pre-existing social and economic vulnerability.
Research Methodology
The methodological approach was a qualitative case study, relying on data generated
through twenty semi-structured in-depth interviews conducted between May 2020 and
January 2021 with ex-Gazan refugees who live in the Jerash refugee camp in Jordan. To
prepare for the interviews, I made some connections with local and international non-
governmental organisation (NGOs) staff who work in Jordan. I contacted them by email and
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with the help of several researchers who did similar fieldwork in Jordan previously. They
facilitated my contact with three Palestinian refugees who live in Jerash camp. These
research participants put me in touch with further interviewees. The rest of the interviews
were arranged by snowball sampling (Geddes et al. 2018). The sample contains 8 women,
12 men. I had an opportunity to conduct five interviews face-to-face in the Jerash refugee
camp in August and September 2020. Four interviews were completed via mobile phone,
while the other eleven interviews were conducted via Zoom and Skype due to the
nationwide lockdowns and travel restrictions during the COVID-19 crisis in Jordan.
At the time of the interviews, all research participants were ex-Gazan refugees registered
with UNRWA. Seventeen research participants were born and raised in Jerash camp, while
the remaining three were born in the Gaza Strip and displaced to Jordan after the 1967
Arab-Israeli war. The interviewees were aged from 20 to 67 at the time of the interviews. Six
respondents graduated from a college (two-year undergraduate degree). Nine participants
held a high school degree, and the remaining five had completed primary education.
Interviews were conducted in both English and Arabic. If the research participants spoke
English, the interviews were held in English. If English was not applicable for interviews, I
employed a professional translator, who translated during the interview from English to
Arabic and vice versa. The translator was not allowed to take any notes or make any
recordings during the interviews for ethical reasons. Before the interview commenced, each
participant gave oral consent and was guaranteed anonymity. Moreover, all the participants
were informed about their right to refuse participation and withdraw from the study at any
time. They were also informed that the data would be used only by the researcher for
scientific purposes. The interviews took between twenty-one minutes to one and a half
hours. Finally, all names have been changed to protect participants’ identities and for their
security.
Interviewees began by introducing themselves. The first questions dealt with individual
characteristics, including age, education, year of arrival in Jordan, marital status, and
foreign language ability. Next, all participants were asked about the main challenges they
faced as a result of COVID-19 and its preventive restrictions. Finally, they were asked about
their opinions on mitigating problems arising from precarious living conditions in the
camp.
Ex-Gazan Palestinian Refugees in Limbo during the COVID-19 Crisis
In response to the rapid global spread of COVID-19, the Jordanian government announced
the sudden closure of its borders, educational institutions (nurseries, kindergartens,
schools, and universities) and almost all non-essential businesses following the first
reported cases in March 2020. In addition, the government declared a state of emergency
as a part of a series of restrictions to control COVID-19 on 17 March 2020 (HRW 2020). After
four days of total lockdown, restrictions were somewhat eased, allowing access to grocery
stores and bakeries. However, a curfew persisted from 6 pm to 10 am from mid-March to
early May 2020. Finally, the Jordanian government started to allow people to reopen their
businesses. However, all borders and airports remained closed until mid-August 2020. In
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the first week of October 2020, more than 10,000 COVID-19 cases were registered in
Jordan, nearly double the total number of cases since the pandemic began in the country
(MoH 2021). Following this significant increase in COVID-19 cases, the Jordanian
government decided to implement a one-day nationwide curfew every Friday until the end
of 2020 (Jordan Times 2020). These restrictions brought additional social and economic
hardship for ex-Gazans as they were already living in poor conditions before the COVID-19
crisis.
Precarious Employment and Living Conditions
Due to restrictions on their legal status, ex-Gazan refugees were mainly working in seasonal
and irregular jobs without any social and economic protection before the COVID-19 crisis
in Jordan (Kvittingen et al. 2019; Pérez 2018). Moreover, almost all research participants
report that ex-Gazans are mostly employed in daily paid work due to a lack of stable jobs
inside and outside the camp. Arab Renaissance for Democracy and Development (2020), a
civil society organisation in Amman, found that more than 80% of ex-Gazans in the Jerash
refugee camp work as day labourers. Thus, many ex-Gazans lost their primary source of
employment income due to COVID-19 and the accompanying preventative measures.
Ibrahim, a 57-year-old camp resident who became unemployed due to COVID-19
measures, said:
I was working in a restaurant before the corona crisis. The government closed
all sectors [from mid-March to the first week of May 2020], and I lost my job
during that time. The restaurant owner told me that they do not need me
during this crisis. I don’t know how I will find a new job now. It seems that we
[Palestinian refugees in Jerash] will die from hunger before this virus kills us.
(29 June 2020).
Ibrahim’s statement suggests that the unemployment rate of ex-Gazans in the Jerash
refugee camp are likely to increase given the disruption of businesses and movement
restrictions during the COVID-19 crisis. Most research participants share Ibrahim’s concern
due to decreased or loss of income during the COVID-19 crisis. In addition, those who work
in the Jerash refugee camp typically do not have a formal employment contract, which
means they are subject to insecure working conditions. For instance, Abdallah, a 32-year-
old camp resident, explained this challenge:
Many people in the camp work in manual labour jobs, and most people earn
small amounts of money to meet only basic needs. They do not have any
savings; they do not have any social security either… Many people could not
pay their rent during these coronavirus restrictions, as they did not have any
financial support from any organisation. (17 July 2020).
Abdullah’s statement indicates that many ex-Gazans are struggling to meet their basic
needs such as food and shelter as they do not have sufficient income to meet their daily
living expenses during the global health crisis in Jordan. Moreover, the research findings
suggest that preventive COVID-19 restrictions have affected women’s already
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disadvantaged position in the labour market more than that of their male counterparts.
Among my own interviewees, 60% of women reported they had lost their job, while only
25% of men had. Although this sample is too small to allow for generalisations, these
findings are consistent with a UNRWA (2020a) report showing that almost half (49.6%) of
Palestinians indicated that their work was disrupted by COVID-19, with a significant
difference between women (75%) and men (37%).
Image 2: City centre of Jerash camp, taken by the author, September 2020.
The Deterioration of Ex-Gazan’s Well-Being and Mental Health
Ex-Gazans also face challenges in accessing health care services in Jordan. 88% of ex-
Gazans in the Jerash camp have no health insurance; this is the highest ratio among
Palestinian refugees in Jordan (UNRWA 2021a). There are only two health centres for nearly
32,000 people in the camp. One of them is provided by the UNRWA and is free for camp
residents. A private agency operates the other health centre, and camp residents have to
pay for its services. The clinics which provide healthcare services in the camp mostly do not
have the required medical staff. Due to the uncertainties of the COVID-19 crisis, several
camp residents (5) explained that they suffer from mental health problems, such as
depression and anxiety. However, none of them visited these clinics to receive treatment
due to a lack of medical staff. To illustrate, Aisha, 28, who was born and raised in the camp,
said:
I have never used the health centres’ facilities in the camp. Honestly, during
this corona issue, I was planning to go there to get some psychological
support to overcome my anxiety, but I have not gone. It would be just wasting
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time to go there because I know that they do not have enough expert doctors
in the camp. (17 September 2020).
Furthermore, studies indicate that people who have severe chronic health problems are at
a relatively high risk of developing dangerous symptoms of COVID-19 (Clark et al. 2020;
Emami et al. 2020). Kyittingen et al. (2019) report that 66% of ex-Gazans over 50 years old
had a chronic health problem before the global health crisis. They are therefore more likely
to require hospitalisation and admission to an intensive care unit as a result of COVID-19.
This may lead to serious problems given that the number of health clinics and medical staff
are relatively poor in Jerash camp.
Rates of new COVID-19 cases in Jordan rose to among the highest in the world in
November 2020 (Safi 2020). This unprecedented increase challenged refugees’ mental
health, as several research participants (5) mentioned that COVID-19 and its measures
impacted their well-being. Fadel, 59, explained:
I lost my job when the Jordanian government announced the curfew in
March [2020]. I have been looking for a new job for a long time, but I have
not found it yet… No one is helping my family and me. I sometimes feel that
we are left alone during this corona crisis. This desperation reminds me of
the day when we were forced to leave our homeland. (5 December 2020).
The uncertainty of the COVID-19 crisis and the lack of healthcare services are likely to
deteriorate ex-Gazans’ well-being unless the Jordanian government and related
humanitarian organisations provide additional social and financial assistance for the camp
residents.
Financial Challenges and Structural Inequality
Another negative impact of the COVID-19 crisis on ex-Gazans has been on the availability
of funding to implement development projects. Two of the research participants
mentioned that they worked on projects to empower fellow refugees to support themselves
financially. One of the projects was about providing social and economic assistance for
older adults in Jerash camp. The project founder, Zaynab, 48, explained:
Many older adults do not have regular income in the camp. I just thought I
could arrange events to provide some cash assistance for older people, but
I could not find any financial support. Donors mainly fund the projects if they
are related to the corona crisis these days. I do not know how I will find funds
for my project. (30 August 2020).
Zaynab’s project was in the early phase, and she could not start to implement it due to a
lack of funding. Another project concerned hydroponic farming, a method of growing
plants in water containers with little soil. This project is continuing but lacks financial
support. Omar, one of the camp residents and the project manager, explained:
I am the founder of a project which helps people grow vegetables in their
homes. I aim to empower our people [ex-Gazans] economically because they
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mostly rely on others… I have been trying to increase the number of people
who work on this project by looking for new financial support. Our current
fund will finish in September 2020. Because of the coronavirus crisis, I could
not find the new funds yet to continue to employ additional people for our
project. This makes me very sad. (27 May 2020).
There has been little economic support from the Jordanian government agencies for ex-
Gazans during this global health crisis (Jordan Times 2020a). UNRWA provided a one-time
cash payment of 100 Jordanian Dinar per family (approximately £100) to support ex-Gazans
to reduce the burden left by the COVID-19 crisis (UNRWA 2020). Zaynab explained her
concern about the lack of financial support during the global health crisis:
I have never felt that I am part of society in Jordan. We [Palestinians] are
lonely people in this camp and this country as there is no organisation to
provide us with financial support. I only pray to Allah to end this corona crisis.
There is nothing else I can do right now. (30 August 2020).
The lack of social and economic support made ex-Gazans more isolated from the rest of
the population during the global health crisis, as several research participants explained
that they do not feel part of Jordanian society. In addition, almost all research participants
(18) explained that existing problems, such as the lack of employment opportunities,
insufficient healthcare services, and lack of financial support, have worsened during the
COVID-19 crisis in the Jerash refugee camp. The precarious working and living conditions
of Ex-Gazans make coping with the unintended consequences of preventive COVID-19
measures even more challenging. Moreover, they were left to fend for themselves during
the global health crisis in Jordan.
The COVID-19 crisis has brought much attention to the existing inequalities among
individuals and communities, despite the ‘we are all in this together’ sentiment used by
some non-government organisations (NGOs) and politicians since the beginning of the
pandemic to emphasise that this new virus and its consequences threaten everyone (WHO
2020; UNHCR 2020; Conway 2020). For instance, Oxfam’s (2021) report indicates
that between the 18th of March and the 31st of December 2020, the ten wealthiest people
in the world increased their fortunes by $540 billion, while hundreds of thousands of
people, including refugees, lost their jobs as a result of the COVID-19 crisis. These two
contrasting examples show that the global health crisis has not impacted everyone
negatively. It may be true that the crisis affects many people across the world, but people
experience this crisis and its outcomes in different ways (Sobande 2020).
Conclusion
The research findings indicate that COVID-19 and its preventive measures, including
nationwide lockdowns, closure of business and social distancing, increased ex-Gazans’
vulnerability as they were already living in poor conditions before the global health crisis in
Jordan. The findings provide an understanding of the common needs of ex-Gazan refugees
during the global health crisis and beyond.
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The COVID-19 crisis continues to pose a substantial threat to thousands of ex-Gazans’ lives
and to the working conditions of those residing in the camp, as this crisis has not ended yet
as of August 2021. New variants of the virus have continued to emerge across the globe
(Rondinone et al. 2021). The Jordanian government may impose additional preventive
measures to deal with the new variants of the virus in the future, which may increase ex-
Gazans’ vulnerability.
The Jordanian government should reform its refugee policy to allow ex-Gazan refugees
greater access to the labour market, healthcare, and social protection to promote their
welfare and well-being. Universal human rights should be provided to all people,
regardless of citizenship status, and this is more important than ever during the COVID-19
crisis. Therefore, ex-Gazan Palestinian refugees who have been living in Jordan for more
than five decades should be treated equally as the citizens of the country.
The Jordanian government and related humanitarian organisations should provide
financial support for those who struggle to meet their basic needs such as food, shelter,
and healthcare during the global health crisis. Moreover, Jordan should not be left alone
in fighting against the COVID-19 crisis, as it is impossible to deal with all the consequences
of this crisis without global financial support. As a result, unless the steps recommended
above are taken, the impact of the COVID-19 crisis may continue to fall most severely on
those who are least able to defend themselves against it, including ex-Gazan refugees in
Jordan.
The Author
Cevdet Acu is a PhD candidate at the University of Exeter. He is interested in refugee
economies, labour market integration of refugees, and economic development. He
investigates the impact of Syrian refugees on the labour market in the developing country
context.
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The Asylum Trap: The Authors of Asif’s Story
Sinead Walsh
Abstract
This article seeks to explore an anthropological inquiry into the conditions which create and
proliferate inhumane reception systems within the global asylum paradigm. In particular,
through the author’s first-hand experience of working within an Irish regulative reception
framework, considered reflections are made to uncover both the tangible and intangible
complexities of the public discourse which can offer an explanation as to why inhumane
reception systems exist globally. Furthermore, the role of the actors involved in reception
systems in contributing to these social factors and capitalising from the misconceived
public discourse is criticised. Following this, the need for systemic change is identified: from
short-sighted reception mechanisms to better informed pursual of wide-spread normative
change.
Introduction
I feel as though my problems are building and building. Like a glass of water that has begun
to overflow. I have not seen my daughter in 8 years. (Asylum seeker in consultation with
Author, identity protected, 2018).
I could see tears of sorrow and anxiety welling in Asif
15
’s eyes from where he sat across from
me in the small walk-in clinic of the Irish NGO I was working in. They escaped down his
cheeks as he continued to list his mounting worries to me. I quietly placed down my pen
and glanced at the other legal officer sitting next to me, looking for a suggestion on how to
proceed with this consultation.
Like nearly every other applicant for international protection that I sat with, it was quickly
apparent that the primary cause of Asif’s issues was his experience of the Irish emergency
reception accommodation system as opposed to the details of his application for asylum. I
observed this perturbing trend repeat itself in consultation after consultation. The more
time our clients were forced to wait for an answer to their application, the more the central
issues of their cases became overshadowed by the struggles they faced in their daily lives
in reception centres.
‘This is the tenth reception centre I have been transferred to in Ireland and I
don’t know why I keep being moved. This time they gave me ten minutes
notice.’ ‘I cannot protect my child from seeing the violent sexual incidents in
our room.’ ‘My family shares a crowded room with three other families.’
‘There are bed-bugs in our beds.’ ‘The food centre is a great distance from
15
Pseudonymous to protect anonymity.
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my room, and I must carry my baby in the rain to reach it.’ ‘I am worried that
my children are becoming malnourished.’ ‘I cannot sleep at night.’ (Various
Asylum seekers in consultation with Author, identities protected, 2018).
Rather than providing legal advice on asylum cases, I became increasingly compelled to
advise asylum seekers on accommodation complaint procedures, social assistance appeals
and even referrals to domestic violence NGOs. Even more frequent were the letters after
letters of requests for case updates that I drafted in a desperate resort to the Department
of Justice of the Irish Government. Facing a system that seemed fundamentally corrupt, the
purpose and procedures of the legal framework of refugee protection had faded into the
background.
Asif’s case, and indeed the many others like his, evoke the question of how Irish reception
systems supposedly designed as instruments of aid end up being the cause of pain and
suffering for asylum seekers. Why do migrants retaliate against the structures designed to
help them—a notable example being the recent fire in Moria refugee camp which, it is
suspected, was started by its inhabitants themselves, desperate for a reason to escape? To
answer these questions, this article argues that it is necessary to explore the paradoxes and
ambivalence of the broader discourse on migrants. Furthermore, this article argues that this
discourse is exploited by various actors to facilitate inhumane internal pragmatisms of
specific reception systems.
The Wider Discourse on Reception and Migrants: Vulnerability as a Consequence of
Ambiguous and Erroneous Definitions
The emergency reception centres that Asif, and many others like him, become stuck in are
paradoxical insofar as they render aid that is purported to be ‘temporary’ into a more
permanent character in reality. In order to understand how this has become normalised and
accepted within the public discourse, one must first understand how temporality is
produced by the ‘social imaginary’. As Craig Calhoun (2013) explains in his lecture, the
socially imagined idea of an ‘emergency’ generates new perceptions of migrants/refugees
within the humanitarian sector. This socially imagined ‘emergency’ gives rise to the
collective sense of capacity to respond to migrants’ needs and intervene into lives that
might otherwise be viewed as tragic narratives governed by fate (Taylor 2003).
Furthermore, the process of declaring an ‘emergency’ produces a sense of urgency which
often operates at the expense of long-term considerations, as emergencies are set apart
from ordinary processes of normal societies. Hence, in countries such as Ireland, refugees
and migrants are only believed to be entitled to the provision of ‘basic needs,’ even if these
are often deeply inadequate. Therefore, the social imaginary is a powerful agent in shaping
the shared perception that reception systems do not need to prioritise liveability because
they are temporary and exceptional structures.
However, the public discourse simultaneously produces a powerful understanding of
reception systems as necessarily permanent and inevitable. This sense of inevitability is
formed through the narrow portrayal of refugee situations as the product of faraway
disasters as opposed to intertwined global political conflicts that involve local, national, and
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transnational structural factors (Farmer 1996). Yet, in the public discourse these factors are
often dismissed and unacknowledged. In Ireland, for example, migrants’ countries of origin
are often reductively labelled as ‘dangerous’ without sufficient consideration for the
structural factors that produce situations of persecution. As Abouyoub (2012) contends,
even where the most visible causative factors of persecution are acknowledged by
developed countries, they are often over-simplified and do not account for multiple causes
that can contribute to them, as is the case in the Sudanese conflict.
The public discourse of refugee situations as permanent also arises from the repetition of
linear patterns of migration in broadcasted narratives of migrants. Calhoun (2013) asserts
that the media is particularly influential in propagating these patterns by repeatedly
presenting forcibly displaced persons as a series of anonymous individuals without
identification marks. By denying them their subjectivity, the media depicts all persons who
are forcibly displaced with a sense of shared identity which transcends location and time.
In this sense, they sustain the belief of a permanent imagined ‘community’ of migrants
despite the disparities between different migrant populations. For example, within Europe
the term ‘refugee’ has been applied to both post-World War II displaced Europeans and
individuals fleeing present-day complex crises outside of Europe, grouping them together
despite there clearly being few common characteristics or experiences between these two
groups of people (Baumann 1996). Additionally, it is important to recognise that actors
involved in reception systems contribute to this creation of a unified migrant/refugee
identity. Since reception centres purporting to aid migrants are rooted in the western
perception that the world is divided into nation states where one must or must not belong,
they reinforce the public discourse that portrays the defining characteristic of migrants as
their position of never-belonging (Malkki 1995; Gomez-Temesio 2018). Moreover,
response mechanisms such as the Irish reception centres reproduce and rely on the
problematic western understanding of their mandate as ‘life-saving.’ The idea of ‘life’ in this
context is restricted to the western notion of personhood and therefore neglects the
preservation of the social and political lives of the people they assist. Consequently, Irish
reception centres fail to recognise target beneficiaries as individuals with dignity, autonomy
and capacity to act for themselves.
Notably, Farmer also highlights how the unequal distribution of local, national and
transnational power across societies contributes to sustaining the permanence of reception
centres. In Europe, for example, the ongoing politics of marginality and exclusion of
migrants persistently reduces the capacity of migrants to be recognised as equals capable
of progressing away from reception systems. Cabot (2015) shows how the ‘Dublin III’
Regulations create ‘prison borders’ for migrants, thus allowing more powerful European
states, such as Ireland, to maintain their political and economic power by externalising their
reception control policies. Due to their political interest in maintaining their status as an EU
member state, less powerful EU states abide by this unequal burden and operate reception
systems that are increasingly overpopulated and inhumane. As the mainstream public
discourse of border externalisation fails to hold powerful EU states accountable for these
arrangements, it can be held complicit for furthering the illusion that refugee situations and
poor-quality reception systems are inevitable.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
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The prolonged confinement of asylum seekers in Irish reception centres can also be linked
to the contradictory abstraction of migrants being both victims and threats at once. This
discourse is particularly evident in the politics of the border and reception operations,
where liberal advances of promoting human rights operate in tandem with preventative
security measures which seek deterrence and control of migration (Andersson 2017). As
Andersson (2017) argues, although these objectives appear to be in opposition, they are
actually interlinked and work together to proliferate prisonlike borders conditions.
Similarly, in Irish reception accommodation centres, initiatives of care operate to provide
further grounds for reinforcing measures of control. For example, in 2018 the Irish
government passed a law that claimed to advance asylum seekers’ human rights by
allowing them a right to employment. However, the Irish government also imposed
restrictions on accessing this right by limiting it to asylum seekers who have lived in
reception centres for a minimum period of nine months. Moreover, it also imposed
restrictions on the type of work and the amount of income asylum seekers can obtain. In
addition, once asylum seekers begin to obtain an income, their claims for social welfare can
be rejected and they are compelled to contribute financially towards their confinement in
reception centres. Therefore, this ostensibly human rights-based initiative instead primarily
operates as a policy which legitimises the Irish government’s desire to expedite case
processing times. Additionally, it also reinforces the marginalisation of asylum seekers as a
lower class in society, giving more grounds for discriminatory notions of asylum seekers as
threats that are necessary to control.
This analysis demonstrates that in order to understand why migrants like Asif become
trapped in reception systems, it is not enough to simply accept that asylum cases take
extensive time to process. Rather, it is necessary to recognise the interaction of individual
migrants with the broader discourse of the reception state(s), actors and the public at large
as an ever-changing process which encompasses explicit political interests in maintaining
and prolonging reception mechanisms. The ambivalence of depicting migrants like Asif as
both a victim and a threat has led to the proliferation of simultaneously temporary and
permanent reception facilities through which contrasting political agendas can be
advanced. Consequently, the endless frustration of Asif with his reception centre and the
attacks on the camp in Moira should come as no surprise. However, it is insufficient to only
explain the inadequacy of reception systems as a product of a paradoxical public discourse,
as over time various actors have begun to obtain more tangible benefits from the asylum
reception system.
Individual Interests and Reception Systems: The Profiteers of the Cycle of Asylum
As the wider discourse on migration has reinforced the necessity of establishing permanent
refugee emergency response mechanisms, it follows that individual actors have sought to
profit from their existence. As reception systems are incorporated more and more into
mainstream business models, the number of actors with vested interests in keeping
individuals like Asif locked in reception systems has increased more than ever before. This
is particularly salient in Ireland, as most of the Irish reception centres which Asif was placed
into are run by for-profit businesses. In fact, of the eighty reception centres that operated
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in Ireland in 2020, only seven were owned by the state. These businesses earn a profit by
being paid by the state to house asylum seekers like Asif (Heskin 2020). Notably, although
such business practices are consistently downplayed in the public eye, the limited data that
is available showed that one of the largest for-profit companies, Millstreet Equestrian
Services, who run six direct provision centres, recorded a profit of €2.36 million in 2018
(RTE 2020). This clearly demonstrates the high level of dependency on the continuation of
reception centres that such businesses have developed. In some instances, further interests
in maintaining reception centres have arisen from relationships of reciprocity between
these businesses and the state which has proven to be lucrative for both parties. For
example, Mosney Holiday PLC is the biggest earner of profit obtained directly from
providing reception accommodation and in 2017 its owners donated €6,500 of its
€139,577,808 profit to the conservative Irish political party, Fianna Fáil (Moore and Hosford
2020).
However, even if the provision and operation of Ireland’s reception centres were run by
non-profit NGOs and the Irish state in accordance with established humanitarian
frameworks, reservations would still need to be made to safeguard against the
reoccurrence of the same problematic outcomes. Though humanitarians portray
themselves as neutral and altruistic, they have become more and more interlaced with
capitalist interests. Calhoun (2013) provides the example of the existence of trade fairs in
Dubai which are purposely built to produce and sell products needed for humanitarian
emergency response projects. Such practices reflect the humanitarian sector’s misguided
prioritisation on improving the quality and efficiency of resources for response projects as
opposed to directly addressing the needs of the beneficiaries and the structural causes of
emergencies. Moreover, the increasing professionalization of humanitarian work has failed
to effectuate positive long-term changes in resolving the structural causes of forced
displacement. Although it is evident that the 2013 Za’atari camps in Jordan are managed
much more professionally in terms of the services, structure and coordination of the actors
present than the 1994 camps in the DRC for Rwandan refugees, these improvements have
done little to address the structural forces that entrench people like Asif in reception
systems. Humanitarians must be more aware and responsive to the paradoxes of the
existing public discourse in order to successfully achieve long-term normative change
through advocacy. If not, they will be complicit in perpetuating adopting flawed strategies
which focus exclusively on improving the immediate conditions of reception centre
residents at the expense of achieving genuine long-term solutions.
Additionally, should the reception centres provided to Asif become interlinked with private,
smaller-scale humanitarian projects, safeguards against the same outcomes would also
need to be implemented. Private, smaller-scale approaches to humanitarian projects have
become increasingly popular in refugee crises response and can allow for operations to be
more remote from the political motivations manifested in global response efforts. However,
they also reinforce the same contradictory double bind of care and control that pervades
the wider public discourse. For example, while it may seem that the market approach
adopted by a solar company in Goudebou refugee camp in northern Burkina Faso exhibits
care for refugees by interacting with them as ordinary consumers, in reality these
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
113
interactions are much more
controlling in reality as they exploit
refugees’ vulnerability and
confinement which prevent them
from having the same choices as
ordinary consumers.
Conclusion
Asif’s story, like many others, is one
in which his suffering under the
reception centre system
overshadows his previous
persecution which forms the basis
for his asylum claim. However, as I
dejectedly suggested the limited
administrative procedures available
to him for registering his complaints,
it became clear that these would
never be enough. As I watched him
leave the consultation office,
disheartened but thankful, I began
to ascertain that there was more to his story than met the eye. How could I explain to Asif
that his suffering in Ireland was fundamentally linked to the ill-founded public discourse on
the issue of reception centres and the resulting inhumanity of the system? Moreover, how
could I relay to him that this deeply entrenched link was unlikely to change as it currently
stands?
The interaction of victims like Asif with the broader discourse of the reception state(s),
actors and the wider public has revealed socially created paradoxes which erroneously
define the narratives of asylum seekers like him. This discourse has facilitated space for
misconstrued perceptions to be manipulated in order to serve a multitude of interests of
various actors in Ireland. Without awareness and normative change in discourse, Asif’s story
is likely to be repeated.
The Author
Sinead Walsh is a master’s student of International Humanitarian Action (NOHA) and holds
a bachelor’s degree in Law. She has extensive experience in the area of refugee reception
systems and asylum law at the various levels of national NGO, state-appointed legal aid and
international regulatory mechanisms. She is currently engaged with several humanitarian
assistance projects provided for asylum-seekers in Hal Far Open Centre, Malta.
OxMo Vol. 10., No. 1
114
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The Crises Behind Crises: Reformulating Humanitarianism to
Address Why People Flee
Sinead Walsh
To Ripon Molla
Abstract
This article considers the capacity of the humanitarian sector to respond to the modern-day
crises that are the root causes of forced migration. It seeks to fill the lacuna in contemporary
migration discourse, which often solely focuses on the effectiveness of response
mechanisms to forced migration after it has occurred and is therefore characterized by its
reactive and ad-hoc nature. In order to eradicate this trend, a broader focus on the root
causes of forced migration needs to be considered. Through considering both the
theoretical bases and tangible structures of the sector, set against the history and locations
of the situations where crises take place, this article demonstrates how the sector’s
approaches have become outdated. This article argues that reform will be needed at a
normative level to create a system of preventative action that is multi-principled beyond the
classical humanitarian principles of humanity, impartiality, independence, and neutrality. To
mitigate operational concerns, additional principles focusing more pragmatically on
protection, localisation and individual human rights should be given more weight in the
sector. Such normative changes would also set the foundation for better coordination
through inclusivity, more sustainable funding agreements and more effective research. This
article will further analyse how particular changes are needed to reform humanitarian
principles and to reorganise humanitarian actors and institutions. These necessary changes
will be explored through the case of climate change as an example of a contemporary root
cause of displacement.
Introduction: The Changing Context of Humanitarianism
The humanitarian system can broadly be defined as encompassing all actors, from local to
national and transnational, who operate under the mandate of providing aid to ameliorate
crises of human suffering wherever they occur. Academics have argued that the
humanitarian system’s inability to respond to the root causes of migration crises can be
explained by its historically-situated creation (Davey et al. 2013). Modern humanitarian
approaches were largely developed in the context of colonial inter-state relations where
the distinction between aid initiatives and colonial agendas seeking to maintain power and
control of weaker states was often blurred (Davey et al. 2013). The need to respond to the
aftermath of both World Wars also continued to shape the institutional nature of the sector
over time. For example, under the Treaty of Versailles, the League of Nations established
UNHCR. Additionally, the first transnational NGO, Save the Children Fund, was created in
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response to WWII (Davey et al. 2013). Historical shifts in geopolitics also influenced the
evolution of features which are notable today (Davey et al. 2013). Indeed, contemporary
calls for ‘development’ originating from a heightened focus on the ‘third-world’ during the
Cold War, as leaders asserted the equality of their needs and the ‘second-world’, was off-
limits to Western organisations (Davey et al. 2013).
However, following the fall of the Iron Curtain to the present, unprecedented ‘complex
emergencies’ have emerged, in which humanitarian needs arise from a multitude of crises
occurring at once. These complex emergencies often form many contemporary patterns of
migration. For example, individuals can become displaced as a result of intersecting factors
such as climate change, conflict-based persecution, economic destitution, and even state
failure. As a result, an estimated 79.5 million individuals have been forcibly displaced
globally, the largest figure to date (UNHCR 2020).
Unlike in the past, the exact causes of such emergencies are not readily identifiable,
creating difficulties for humanitarians to pinpoint early indicators. The intensifying risks
inherent in interventions also pose an obstacle to prevention, as observed in the reluctance
of humanitarian engagement in the 1990s and as exemplified by the withdrawal of US
troops from Somalia and UN mission labelled ‘self-protection force’ in Yugoslavia (Davey et
al. 2013).
This article argues that the continued application of outdated frameworks to these
contemporary challenges are ineffective and significant reforms across the entire sector are
needed. In particular, this article will analyse the need for reform with respect to the
principles, actors, contexts and sectors/activities within the humanitarian paradigm.
Principles of Humanitarianism
It has been argued that an effective humanitarian response to contemporary complex crises
is less easily reconciled with the ideas of Henry Dunant, who is noted as the first proponent
of the humanitarian system (see for example, Alexander 2015). Following the human
suffering he had witnessed during the Battle of Solferino in WWII, Dunant conceived of the
International Red Cross and Red Crescent Movement (ICRC) as the first neutral,
international humanitarian network that would operate solely for the purposes of delivering
humanitarian aid to human suffering wherever it was found (Hillhorst 2018).
The ‘Dunantist spirit’ formed the basis of the framework later developed during the 1993
World Conference on Human Rights in Vienna, which conceptualised humanitarian action
in terms of four key principles: humanity, impartiality, independence, and neutrality. Firstly,
the humanity principle entails that humanitarian actors protect lives and alleviate human
suffering wherever it is found. Secondly, the impartiality principle regulates the delivery of
humanitarian aid based solely on need without discrimination. Thirdly, the independence
principle necessitates that aid is kept separate from instruments of government policy. Last,
neutrality demands that humanitarian actors refrain from taking sides in conflicts or
controversies. These founding principles can come into conflict with certain humanitarian
practices today, such as the automatic application of UN sanctions that target specific state
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governments in order to safeguard certain populations from harm, which arguably
undermines the commitment to neutrality (Giumelli 2020). Systematic overhaul is therefore
needed in order to navigate traditional idealisations of these principles and harmonise
them with the necessary operation of modern humanitarian practices.
However, the formulation of new humanitarian principles can still be conducive to bring
about effective responses while maintaining an appropriate guiding framework for the
humanitarian system. For example, the UNHCR and others have recognised that protection
principles are needed to minimize the risks involved in delivering aid in the dangerous
context of crises leading to forced displacement (Haider 2013). Specifically, the UN Global
Protection Cluster was designed to mainstream the interests of protection in all
humanitarian endeavours. This initiative recognised the need to expand the humanitarian
framework beyond the four founding principles to include ‘Safety and Dignity’, ‘Meaningful
Access’, ‘Accountability’ and ‘Participation and Empowerment’ as universally applicable
principles. Additionally, Spiegel (2017) endorses the operationalization of protection
principles to modernise the system and maintains that the Inter-Agency Standing
Committee (IASC) definition needs to be interpreted inclusively, pragmatically, and non-
intrusively.
Another example stems from the growing awareness of ‘localization’ as an increasingly
pertinent element for ensuring effective contemporary responses and one which should
arguably be reflected in the core humanitarian principles (Donini 2020). To ensure that local
actors are granted legitimacy as essential actors that form part of the international
humanitarian system in their own right, Slim (2020) asserts that departing from the principle
of neutrality is necessary. Neutrality is not operationally feasible for many relief
organisations as it can entail using extensive resources to engage across a conflict in order
to serve all parties involved. Similarly, the principle of independence should not be
imposed on all actors as some may depend on government support to operate.
Alternatively, prioritizing other principles from the ICRC—for example, empowerment and
dignity—could enable the required response for aid to more effectively reach displaced
populations (ICRC 1994).
Although the humanitarian framework initially purposefully adapted a principles-based
approach rooted in humanity, impartiality, independence, and neutrality, they are proving
outdated. Modern responses could benefit from the creation of an alternative, rights-based
approach. This would empower civilian populations forced to flee and help to create
relationships with greater accountability between affected persons, their governments, and
humanitarian actors (Haider 2013). In order to make this framework a reality, a relaxation of
the traditional view of the traditional principles of humanitarianism are required.
Actors and Institutions
Systematic competence has also been hindered by the inability of humanitarian actors to
unite around a single model for responding to present-day crises. This is not to say that
none exist. The Sphere initiative created a set of codified humanitarian standards now
widely used by humanitarian actors. Sphere standards apply to all situations of
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humanitarian need, where there is an emergency demand for water supply, sanitation and
hygiene promotion, food security and/or nutrition, as it sets the minimum quantifiable
standards to be met in such situations (Sphere 2018). However, its fundamental flaw is that
its authority is not binding (Stroup 2012).
Various migration crises have sparked an increase in the number and types of NGOs in
operation. In recent years, there has been an increase in the number of humanitarian
organisations working in the field to approximately 6,000, with 95% of them being NGOs
(Egger and Schopper, forthcoming). However, the specific cultural contexts of NGOs can
also hamper their efforts to create a coordinated global response. For example, existing
research remains biased towards western NGOs, a product of the intense NGO creation
following WWII (Egger and Schopper, forthcoming). Stroup (2012) provides numerous
instances of this. CARE USA, for example, is reluctant to engage in extensive advocacy
campaigns for fear of being too political because they rely on government funding. CARE
France, by contrast, is seen as being ‘outspoken,’ something indigenous to French NGO
culture (Stroup 2012). Considering that national origins can define an NGO’s approach to
key issues such as fundraising, professionalization, advocacy, and government interaction,
the lack of data on this element of NGOs restricts effective coordination between
humanitarian actors in the wider system, and those in need of relief (Stroup 2012).
At the domestic level, contemporary rejections of multilateralism in favour of state
sovereignty weaken the capacity to coordinate. A notable example is the US withdrawal
from WHO in 2020. At the inter-governmental level, a succession of institutional
rearrangements has remained largely unsuccessful. Notably, the UN was not designed to
respond to complex crises; its predecessor, the League of Nations, considered this to be
the role of the ICRC and national governments, and the UN itself was initially only
concerned with development (Crisp 2018). The trajectory of its evolution demonstrates
insufficient attempts to centralise coordinated responses. The criticism and revocation of
the UNDRO and OECA, and the response to the Gulf crises and creation of the Department
of Humanitarian Affairs (DHA) under UN Resolution 46/182 are pertinent examples of this.
Moreover, despite intractable crises and the inadequacy of IASC’s former ‘collaborative
approach’ to help IDPs in Darfur, the UNHCR maintains that major reform is not required
(Crisp 2018). Instead, it implemented the ‘cluster approach,’ which requires UN agencies to
agree to a division of labour, with a specific agency assigned to oversee certain tasks in any
humanitarian response. However, much evidence of disconnected and duplicative UN
planning remains (Zamore 2019). Moreover, it is likely that competition among agencies
and resistance to centralized control will continue (Crisp 2018). Instead of rearranging the
existing system which has led to the aforementioned failures, a systematic overhaul is
needed. Upholding practices of UN centralisation and bureaucracy must not be prioritised
over efficiently responding to crises
A Case Study in Context: Climate Change
The complexity of contemporary crises is further compounded by global challenges such
as climate change and pandemics. However, the humanitarian system often is ill-equipped
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to handle these emergent problems, which are increasing in urgency. This section focuses
on the relationship between the humanitarian system and climate change (NASA 2020),
given the increasing number and scale of natural disasters (EM-DAT 2020). These
phenomena have fostered some recognition of the imperative to consider how
environmental issues may affect armed conflicts, such as at the 1998 World Conference on
the Changing Atmosphere: Implications for Security in Toronto.
Notably, climate change alleviation has also been inextricably linked to development (IPCC
2018). It has been established that resource scarcity owing to adverse environmental
conditions can lead to negative social effects, decreased economic productivity and the
expulsion of migrants. These conditions in turn give rise to weakened states with increased
susceptibility to ethnic conflicts, coups d’etat, and material deprivation (Homer-Dixon
1994). Numerous IPCC reports warn that more regions across the globe will become
environmentally inhospitable and economically stressed (IPCC 2018).
In Darfur, statistics illustrate that, historically, conflicts between tribal groups can be
attributed to deforestation from drought. Drought triggered ecological migration towards
southern Darfur, where resources became scarcer, and tensions ensued (Abouyoub 2012).
It also created more nomads in Darfur and forced them to try and settle in areas of the land
owned by the ‘fur,’ the ethnic group comprising the settled population in Darfur. Over time,
more nomads preferred sedentary life, exacerbating competition. Although the UN has
accepted climate change as the root cause of the conflict, its discussion almost invariably
only focuses on the regional military and politics (Ki-moon 2007). The mainstream western
media and the warring parties themselves have painted the conflict as being caused by
racial and ethnic issues, simplifying it into a binary of Arabs versus African natives,
overlooking the fact that Arabs are as native to Sudan as Africans (Abouyoub 2012).
Similarly, across the Sahel, violence between pastoralists and farmers has escalated, driven
by socio-economic factors, and competition for land, water, and political power
(International Crises Group 2020). Nevertheless, this has generated less attention than
other security challenges such as the presence of Boko Haram, which is responsible for less
regional deaths than Nigerian climate conflicts.
Perturbingly, the future consequences of climate change will likely go beyond the extent of
our knowledge of the issue at present and is, thus, inherently difficult to predict and prepare
for. Therefore, the effects of climate change need to be seriously engaged in international
debates and should not be solely limited to a cost-benefits discourse. Climate change
needs to be recognised as a cause of conflict from the outset.
Intersection of Humanitarian Paradigms
Intersectional needs arise from complex and protracted humanitarian crises (Hövelmann
2020). Indeed, this is highly pertinent for ensuring aid provision to forcibly displaced
populations and addressing longer-term needs, such as rebuilding societies and/or the
resettling migrants externally. The Triple Nexus, derived from the UN’s ‘New Way of
Working’ (NWoW), seeks to address fundamental challenges experienced by its
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predecessors in forming consistent and dependable transitions between humanitarianism
and development. The old models included: a bifurcated aid structure, separated donor
funding, and disparate modus operandi and mandates. Novel features of the Triple Nexus
include avoiding the compartmentalisation of needs and considering ongoing structural
shifts when operationalizing and establishing ‘collective outcomes.’
Certain case studies show evidence of the Triple Nexus successfully influencing reinforced
local systems/solution and strengthening humanitarian-development-peace coordination
(Zamore 2019). However, the following challenges indicate that Triple Nexus remains unfit
for its stated purpose.
Firstly, equivocation surrounds what the Triple Nexus entails pragmatically. Considering it
was formulated within UN frameworks, policy debates are perceived as very broad and ‘UN-
driven,’ limiting diversity in the dialogue. This has obstructed implementation, as evidenced
by limited engagement in the Triple Nexus by other humanitarian organisations and actors.
In particular, some have reservations about its compatibility with the classic humanitarian
principles, for example where the risks of compromising independence and neutrality
emerge due to the requirement to promote peace in their mandates. Moreover, such risk
of indirectly politicising actors or using state-led frameworks could create access and
security issues, as aid agencies could be perceived as having political agendas or as
supporters of one side in a conflict or controversy.
Furthermore, it remains an open question as to whether the Triple Nexus entails adopting
a triple mandate, where all humanitarian actors would be required to change their purpose
to include humanitarianism, development, and peace as their raison d’être. This is
concerning for organisations such as MSF, whose ethos focuses on instantaneous delivery,
sometimes operating at the expense of longer-term, wider objectives. Rewriting classical
and short-term oriented humanitarianism into a more resilient, rights-based
humanitarianism is necessary to overcome such issues, but a variety of stakeholders need
to be included in reforms.
Secondly, most local governments remain unable to incorporate affected populations into
public systems. Governments that do have the requisite resources or capacity pay the price
politically. Often, they are forced to reduce the benefits extended towards their citizens to
meet the needs of non-citizen populations on their territory instead (Zamore 2019). While
Spiegel (2017) contends that integrating affected persons can resolve inequality that puts
refugees and IDPs at particular and long-term risk, it remains impractical for some contexts
and therefore falls short of being a universal solution. Moreover, perceptions of the Triple
Nexus vary considerably amongst different states. For example, Sudan integrates mandates
of humanitarian action with development and peace. On the contrary, Mali decouples
humanitarian action from other objectives to remain neutral in its humanitarian delivery.
Outside of states’ efforts, donors and aid agencies continue to resist the idea of channeling
support through country systems’ local NGOs. It is unclear how state governments can be
held responsible for populations on their territory, and Triple Nexus does not provide any
clear strategies for this problem.
Thirdly, the peace paradigm within the Triple Nexus is a contemporary addition to the pre-
existing Dual Nexus but it remains unclear in theory and in practice. The World Bank (2018)
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endorsed its inclusion as a response to increasing violence. However, no common
definition, nor indication of how peace should be operationalized exists, creating
uncertainty around the possibility of material change. Moreover, civil society actors tend to
understand peace narrowly as community-level reconciliation, whereas states tend to
interpret peace broadly as involving security, counterterrorism, and stabilisation
(Hövelmann 2020). It is ambiguous which interpretation the Triple Nexus endorses, leading
to divergence between discursive progresses within peace agreements and discourses in
the broader field. For example, the Colombian Peace Agreement focuses on eliminating
violence without any explicit references to the concepts of indirect attacks, structural
violence, or a ‘culture of violence’ commonly considered imperative in peace studies
(Valenzuela 2019).
Finally, considering that the financial requirements to meet the needs of the Triple Nexus
have doubled since 2010--owing to the increasing complexity and prevalence of crises
globally--it is highly likely that funding issues predating the Triple Nexus will continue.
Moreover, the bifurcation of funding streams for humanitarian action and development
obstructs complementary interventions. Where actors obtain single-funding instruments
that, for example, provide funds for one specific humanitarian action intervention, it remains
unclear if they are able to adapt to multi-year, reframing purposes that are geared at
ensuring development.
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Conclusion
This article has argued that the humanitarian system is no longer capable of responding
effectively to the root causes of migration in today’s world. Simply altering mandates is not
enough. Rather, normative humanitarian mindsets must be remodelled to promote the
requisite operational changes. This overhaul would lead to a new system where, firstly,
Western powers and international central bodies such as the UN would recognise their role
as supporting, rather than controlling, state and local actors in the provision of aid in
complex crises. This would allow beneficiaries to have a voice in how they receive
humanitarian aid. Secondly, donors would support actors’ incentives for long-term
cooperation over short-term competition for resources/visibility. Thirdly, all humanitarian
actors would be able to enter developmental or solidarist spheres without compromising
their identities and humanitarian principles (Overseas Development Institute 2016). This
reformulation is necessary to prevent the proliferation of humanitarian aid that is solely
reactive and ad-hoc in application and does not provide long-term solutions.
The Author
Sinead Walsh is a master’s student of International Humanitarian Action (NOHA) and holds
a bachelor’s degree in law. She has extensive experience in the area of refugee reception
systems and asylum law at the various levels of national NGO, state-appointed legal aid and
international regulatory mechanisms. She is currently engaged with several humanitarian
assistance projects provided for asylum-seekers in Hal Far Open Centre, Malta.
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POLICY SECTION
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Dreamers vs. Immigrants: The Impact of Framing on
Dreamers and Irregular Migrants
Emma Labovitz
Abstract
In the summer of 2012, President Obama announced an executive order titled Deferred
Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA). This legislation offered irregular migrants brought to
the US as children a way to stay in the country legally, albeit not permanently. Five years
later, the Trump Administration rescinded the program. As the framing of target groups is
a central part of policy making and resource allocation (Schneider and Ingram 1993), this
paper sought to understand this policy and its subsequent shift through an exploration of
the framing of DACA by each administration. While previous studies have explored framing
of DACA recipients under the Obama Administration (Barbero 2019; Keyes 2013; Lauby
2016), no study has explored the discrepancy in frames between the Obama and Trump
Administrations. To fill this gap, this study conducted a content analysis of policy
documents from both administrations. Consistent with existing research, this study found
that the Obama Administration countered the existing citizenship regime by asserting a
subgroup of irregular migrants, Dreamers, were deserving of (liminal) legality because of
their hard-working nature, innocence and Americanness (Barbaro 2019; Chacón aet al.
2018; Pallares 2014). However, this study found that the Trump Administration diverged
from this rhetoric, rarely focusing on Dreamers' deservingness, but rather focusing on the
policy itself, obscuring the benefactors. Trump's dehumanising frames allowed him to
rescind DACA, threatening Dreamers' physical and psychological well being. However, the
risk of displacement extends beyond Dreamers to irregular migrants more generally. This
is a result of each administration’s decision to frame Dreamers as separate from other
irregular migrants, further marginalising those excluded from the exceptionalism of DACA.
As President Biden embarks on a new administration filled with the promise of immigration
overhaul, it is imperative to understand how frames are used within the policy process to
ensure all migrants, not just those deemed ‘good’, are included.
Introduction
Standing in the rose garden backed by the façade of the White House, President Obama
enacted the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), providing temporary relief
from deportation and work authorisation for eligible irregular immigrants who were
brought to the US as children. In his announcement he proclaimed:
These are young people who study in our schools, they play in our
neighbourhoods, they're friends with our kids, they pledge allegiance to our
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flag. They are Americans in their heart, in their minds, in every single way but
on paper (Obama 2012).
His speech emphasised the inherent ‘Americanness’ of DACA recipients, a group also
commonly referred to as Dreamers. This framing was intentional, a pervasive rhetorical
strategy in Obama's presidency and the broader Dreamer movement.
Honig (2001) stated immigrants in the US exist within a binary of the good immigrant who
gives (back) and the bad immigrant who takes. Historically, in the US, irregular migrants
have been framed as 'bad'; however, Dreamers' palatable attributes (youthfulness and
cultural assimilation) produced a strong enough counternarrative to assert Dreamers'
deservingness (Nicholls et al. 2016). This differentiation was no accident, but the result of a
'niche opening,' or an opportunity for Dreamers to assert deservingness of legalisation
because of their possession of the 'right' cultural (assimilation), economic (hardworking)
and legal characteristics (Nicholls 2013). From this, the notion of the 'perfect Dreamer' was
espoused (Lauby 2016).
The ‘perfect Dreamer’s’ deservingness is based upon their ‘Americanness’ and shared
culture, their innocence as they were brought to the US as children, and their hardworking
nature (Abrams 2016; dae la Torre and Germano 2014; Keyes 2013; Nicholls 2014; Nicholls
et al. 2016; Pallares 2014). These attributes resonate well with American values (Lauby
2016) and easily fit within neoliberal expectations of Dreamers as boosting the global
competitiveness of the US (Pallares 2014).
This framing was a central element to the Obama Administration’s initiation and defence of
DACA (Barbaro 2019; Chacón aet al. 2018; Pallares 2014). Obama emphasised:
DACA, the program that we put in place for young people who are brought
here who otherwise are good citizens, are studying, working, joining our
military… they’re Americans in their heart even if they don’t have the right
piece of paper (Obama 2014).
However, even though President Obama pushed against the hegemonic discourse that all
irregular migrants are threats and burdens (Chavez 2013), the Administration's decision to
focus on Dreamers' palatable attributes improved Dreamers' image at the expense of those
excluded (Nicholls 2013; Yukich 2013). This dichotomy reinforced the notion that many
noncitizens outside the boundaries of 'good' migrants remain undeserving.
While the framing of DACA recipients under the Obama Administration has been readily
assessed (Barbero 2019; Keyes 2013; Lauby 2016; Nicholls 2013; Yukich 2013), studies
have not explored the framing of DACA recipients under the Trump Administration. As the
framing of target groups is a central part of policy making and resource allocation
(Schneider and Ingram 1993), examining the framing of DACA under each administration
will help shed light on the subsequent shifts in policy and the implications this could have
for migrants' wellbeing.
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Photo credits to Anna Rawls, permission has been secured from the artist.
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The Trump Administration’s Framing of DACA
The campaign and election of Donald Trump ruptured the dominant narrative around
Dreamers. At a campaign rally, he promised to immediately terminate DACA, emphasising
Dreamers’ ‘illegality’ rather than ‘Americanness’ (Rose 2017). However, once he entered
office, he seemed to change his mind, promising recipients that he would, ‘work something
out’ (Kim 2016), a promise he recanted that year with the rescinding of DACA.
To understand this differing rhetoric, I used Atlas.ti and Excel to manually conduct a content
analysis of relevant policy documents from the White House, the Department of Homeland
Security (DHS), and the US Immigration and Citizenship Services (USCIS) for the Obama and
Trump presidencies. These organisations were selected as they are the departments
responsible for creating and enforcing DACA. Relevant articles were identified through
searching each department's website and archives using policy-specific keywords (*DACA,
*Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals).
The initial collection of documents from the Obama and Trump era began with the White
House archives. The Obama archives revealed 139 documents (*DACA) and 102
documents (*Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) and, within the Trump archives, 131
(*DACA) and 14 documents (*Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals). On USCIS website,
374 documents (*DACA) and 291 (*Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) were found.
DHS produced 12 documents from the Obama Administration and 13 from the Trump
Administration. Once false positives, duplicates, and documents which did not have
concrete discussions regarding DACA were removed, the search produced 51 articles from
the Obama Administration and 94 articles from the Trump Administration. Documents
included were blogs, fact sheets, speeches, policy documents, press briefings,
memorandums, and speeches from cabinet members. The wide range of documents were
used to understand the policy and the conversations that each White House produced
around DACA.
The content analysis was guided by Newton's (2005; 2008) target group construction of
immigrants, which built upon Schneider and Ingram's (1993) work. Newton looked at the
frames of specific migrant communities and how politicians tend to frame migrants as either
deserving or undeserving. Further informing the coding were studies which detailed the
political framing of DACA recipients, such as Lauby's (2016) 'perfect Dreamer,' Keyes'
(2013) allusion to the worthiness and blamelessness of Dreamers and Barbero's (2019)
emphasis on the good versus bad migrant binary. In accordance with this dichotomy,
coding was initially broken into deserving and undeserving categories, while sub-themes
were identified through an inductive approach (Appendix A). While coding the Trump era
documents, another category was added, which found the frames did not focus on whether
DACA recipients were deserving or not, but rather on DACA as a policy.
Unlike President Obama, who repeatedly asserted DACA recipients’ deservingness, Trump
only emphasised this in 9% of his Administration’s statements. Conversely, 38% of articles
used an explicitly negative framing of the security threats or the economic burden DACA
recipients posed, a major shift from the Obama Administration which avoided this entirely.
However, the most notable distinction is that while the Obama Administration repeatedly
addressed those impacted by the policy, emphasising the humanity of the beneficiaries,
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130
85% of the documents from the Trump Administration focused on DACA as a policy rather
than a collection of individuals. Dreamers were no longer a friend of your child or a student
at the local college, but a policy component of Trump's immigration overhaul. "Any
legislation on DACA must secure the border with a wall …. give our immigration officers
the resources they need to stop illegal immigration …. [and] end chain migration" (Trump
2018). Within Trump's rhetoric, the Dreamers themselves became abstract ideas, a political
bargaining piece for the Trump Administration. Instead of pursuing DACA legislation
independently because they were deserving of beneficial policies, the existence of DACA
was conditional to Trump’s demands for a wall and visa reform.
Implications of Framing on DACA and Dreamers' Wellbeing
This framing has consequences for policy and for migrants. Newton (2005; 2008)
demonstrated the importance of counter-narratives that emphasise irregular migrants'
humanity and positive economic impact to challenge existing citizenship regimes and
norms in the policymaking process. For DACA recipients, this was generally the rule under
President Obama, facilitating a shift in the citizenship paradigm and the creation of DACA.
However, under President Trump these attributes were consistently omitted, and his policy-
focused framing of DACA diluted the individual recipient’s humanity. This engendered a
return to the previous citizenship regime and the subsequent rescinding of DACA.
The repercussions of this go beyond policy. The rescinding of DACA and lack of a
permanent solution places Dreamers in political limbo, threatening their legal belonging in
a country that, for many, is the only home they know. This othering is exacerbated by the
larger racialised immigration debate in the US that leaves immigrants of colour and
Americans who look Latino/a largely excluded (Flores-Gonzales 2017). And while the
Trump Administration fed into the physical and psychological displacement of DACA
recipients, both Administrations' decisions to focus on Dreamers as exceptional and
divergent from 'normal illegal immigrants' pits sons and daughters against their mothers
and fathers and further marginalises irregular migrants of colour.
As the US embarks on a new presidency, much remains to be seen about the Biden
Administration’s immigration policies. At the start of his term, President Biden submitted a
legislative proposal that creates a pathway to citizenship for all undocumented residents
currently in the US (White House 2021), a departure from the exclusionary rhetoric and
policies of his predecessors. With cautious optimism, this more inclusive rhetoric could
challenge the existing citizenship regime, allowing for the passage of legislation that
protects not only the 'exceptional', but also all who have come to the US.
The Author
Emma Labovitz is in her first year at UNC-Chapel Hill, in North Carolina, pursuing an MA/PhD
in Sociology. This past year, through Fulbright, she completed her MPA at Erasmus
University Rotterdam (EUR) with a focus in the Governance of Migration and Diversity. At
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131
EUR, her thesis examined how shifts in the framing of DACA recipients under the Obama
and Trump administrations impacted recipients’ perception of themselves and belonging.
Within her PhD, she plans to continue to build upon her interest in migration, by focusing
on how those who do not migrate are impacted by the migration cycle in Nepal.
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Appendix A
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Under the Hong Kong’s National Security Law: How Can
Western Democratic Countries Support Politically
Persecuted, Exiled Anti-Beijing Dissidents?
Jason Hung
Abstract
Since Beijing has implemented the National Security Law (NSL) in Hong Kong, ample pro-
democracy activists, rioters and demonstrators who had participated in mass socio-political
movements have been arrested or sentenced to imprisonment. In order to flee from
Beijing’s political persecution, Hongkongers engaging in civil disobedience have been
lodging asylum in western democratic countries including – but not limited to – the UK and
Australia. In this article, the author is focusing on the UK, but the discussion must be placed
in a broader geographical context of other developed social democracies like Australia and
New Zealand who receive Hongkonger asylum seekers. The article’s attention to certain
immigration policies and barriers that Hongkongers experience in the UK may well prove
instructive on this wider scale. By assessing forms of humanitarian assistance offered to
politically persecuted Hong Kong citizens by the UK, the author argues that an emphasis
on both linguistic and mental health support is particularly urgent. These two kinds of
support are exclusively addressed due to political asylum seekers’ need of satisfactory
English proficiency to pass the immigration screening interview and the Hong Kong
population’s experience of heightened mental health crises under their exposure to recent
socio-political and public health challenges. The author further argues maximising support
for these issues to as many political asylum seekers from Hong Kong as possible would
signal the host countries’ intolerance of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP)’s
unhumanitarian practices. To expound these arguments, the essay first analyses the major
linguistic and mental health challenges faced by political asylum seekers from Hong Kong,
before assessing how host countries may deliver relevant support to those seeking political
asylum.
Genesis of the Hong Kong’s National Security Law and Exiled Dissidents
The Hong Kong government proposed the extradition bill, formally known as the Fugitive
Offenders and Mutual Legal Assistance in Criminal Matters Legislation (Amendment) Bill
2019, in February 2019, a proposal designed to arrange the transfer of fugitives from Hong
Kong to mainland China. The proposed bill inflamed Hong Kong citizens, resulting in the
outbreak of the socio-political unrest in Hong Kong primarily from mid-2019 to mid-2020
(Reuters 2020). In response to the then ever-escalating rioting within the city where rioters
expressively fighting for their democratic rights sparked wider international attention,
Beijing implemented the National Security Law (NSL) in Hong Kong on 30 June 2020. This
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legislation would result in the imposition of penalties of up to life in prison for offences such
as secession, subversion, terrorism and foreign collusion (Mahtani 2020). Under the
contemporary socio-political and socio-legal climate in Hong Kong, an increasing number
of dissidents have been exiling to flee from Beijing’s political persecution.
Photo credits to Alex Leung from The Gryphon (Creative common license for non-
commercial use).
One example is that of Nathan Law Kwun-chung, the then youngest lawmaker in Hong Kong
and named one of the 100 most influential figures in the world by TIME Magazine in 2020,
fled from Hong Kong to London prior to the implementation of the NSL to avoid political
persecution (Mok 2020). He has applied for political asylum in the UK (Ng 2020). In addition,
Simon Cheng Man-kit, a former British consulate staff in Hong Kong, best-known for being
tortured by Chinese authorities after a business trip in mainland China, was granted political
asylum in the UK. Cheng has co-founded Haven Assistance, an initiative that has helped no
fewer than 150 exiled, politically persecuted Hong Kong citizens relocate to the UK (Wong
2020). Activists in exile, including Simon Cheng, Ray Wong, Brian Leung and Lam Wing-
kee, have launched Haven Assistance (Twitter: @AssistanceHaven) – an information-sharing
and free consulting platform – in June 2020 to help Hongkongers who have also been
facing political prosecution and seeking asylum. This essay partly draws on experiences
recounted from Haven Assistance to understand how asylum seekers from Hong Kong can
be better supported in the UK. A growing number of Hong Kong citizens participating in
the 2019-20 socio-political unrest, along with other pro-democracy demonstrations and
assemblies, have been seeking asylum in western democratic countries. In the wake of the
increased police violence it is plausible that we will see larger waves of politicised forced
migration. The following sections address the major urgent humanitarian assistance host
countries should offer to politically persecuted Hong Kong citizens.
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Linguistic Support
Hong Kong political asylum seekers have been encountering a range of linguistically-
relevant difficulties when resettling in the UK. Some of the political asylum seekers Haven
Assistance are supporting do not speak English at all (Mahtani 2020). For those who can
speak English, they have been facing linguistic barriers, especially due to their lack of
familiarity with the local English accent and the process of familiarising themselves with the
different cultural environments of western host countries (ibid). Although Hong Kong is
labelled as Asia’s international city, very rarely do local Hong Kong Chinese people enjoy
the opportunity to study, work or live with native English speakers (Tsui 2007; Kuen 2012).
They do not necessarily understand slang or accents widely used by native English
speakers, as well as strong regional accents that they may never have encountered before
(ibid).
Despite these clear and complex difficulties faced by political asylum seekers, the response
of the UK Government has thus far been ineffective. It is therefore essential for the UK to
financially assist humanitarian groups like Haven Assistance to hire staff who are familiar
with Chinese, English and/or other European languages. This will assist those of Hong Kong
origins throughout the complicated political asylum claiming application process.
Assistance includes the introduction of the asylum screening procedures to Hongkongers
and arrangement of workshops for them to prepare for the asylum interviews. Thus far, the
UK Government has failed to actively support exiled dissidents from Hong Kong. One of
the few, little efforts carried out by the UK Government was that the Home Office conducted
public consultation on asylum policy by 6 May 2021 where Hong Kong citizens were
welcomed to express their personal opinions. Public consultation is a regulatory process by
which the public's input on matters affecting them is sought. The primary goal is to improve
the efficiency, transparency and public involvement in large-scale projects or laws and
policies (Hongkongers in Britain 2020). Existing literature argues that refugees in the UK
face substantial barriers to employment, in part, due to their language proficiency and lack
of knowledge about the UK labour market (Archer et al. 2005). Hong Kong political asylum
seekers that are confronted with inadequate levels of linguistic support, prompting the lack
of occupational competence and familiarity of job applications, may end up living under
destitution or significant economic difficulties, even when they are granted refugee status.
Moreover, between 1 April and 30 September 2018, in the UK, 100 asylum seekers were
undergoing the screening interview. A total of 17 of them were interviewed without an
interpreter, where 11 identified English as their non-native language. Astonishingly, the
Home Office staff could only use alternative means of translation like Google Translate, if
an interpreter was not available (Bolt 2020: 59).
Due to financial shortages faced by these humanitarian groups, the UK should subsidise,
partially or in full, the operational costs of these groups. This would enable the Home Office
to employ sufficient bilingual or multilingual translators to translate relevant documents
needed for asylum applications from English or other European languages to Chinese, and,
part-time or full-time, teachers to conduct English-learning workshops on a regular basis.
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Mental Health Support
Experiencing socio-political unrest for over a year, confronting police brutality, being
stripped of their entitlement to civil liberties, encountering political persecution and
lodging an asylum in foreign, unfamiliar countries are significant stressors that can lead to
the development of mental health problems ("What Experts Say" 2020; Virupaksha et al.
2014). Additional literature argues Hongkongers experience a mental health emergency,
where their stress, anxiety and depression levels have increased significantly amid the
COVID-19 pandemic (Zhao et al. 2020). Some political asylum seekers Haven Assistance is
helping have been suffering from trauma caused by the socio-political unrest (Wong 2020).
Broader research conducted within Hong Kong reveals the mental health impacts of the
socio-political unrest on its residents: during 2019 alone 22 percent of Hong Kong residents
aged 18 or above experienced major depression or suspected post-traumatic stress
disorder (PTSD) (Lancet Press Office 2020). It is in this context that political asylum seekers
are arriving from Hong Kong to host countries, suggesting attention and support for their
mental health is a much-needed component of the integration process.
It is necessary for host countries to subsidise relevant humanitarian organisations to hire
psychologists who can screen for the mental wellbeing of political asylum seekers from
Hong Kong. The Home Office has been delivering significantly limited funding to
humanitarian organisations which primarily provide services to forced migrants, a
disposition that needs to be addressed in order to ensure the minimum standards of
satisfactory mental wellbeing of Hong Kong forced migrants. For example, the Home Office
only granted the European Union’s Asylum, Migration and Integration Fund (AMIF) worth
£2.6 million to support 3,500 refugees in urgent needs for vital services, followed by
withdrawing millions of pounds of funding in the event of a no-deal Brexit (Refugee Council
2019). In the UK, only a limited number of humanitarian organisations offer mental health
support to refugees and asylum seekers. Refugee Council provides one-to-one counselling
and health and wellbeing workshops to forced migrants (Refugee Council n.d.). Family
Refugee Support Project arranges weekly family counselling sessions hosted by specialist
counsellors for refugee families (University of East London n.d.). Both these types of
counselling sessions could be applied to the individuals and families arriving to the UK from
Hong Kong (Bloomberg 2021; Cheshire 2021). It is needed for individuals fleeing from
Hong Kong to gain access to mental health support in order to maintain their wellbeing to
a satisfactory degree, especially when they face the additional linguistic barriers already
discussed (Unterreiner 2015).
As many political asylum seekers have left Hong Kong hastily, they were unable to secure
any work or investment visas prior to their departures (Mahtani 2020). Also, many of them
cut ties with their Hong Kong-based families to ensure the political safety of their beloved
(Lam and Lau 2020). These political asylum seekers are therefore lacking financial reserves
and resources to receive mental health services. The host countries should issue healthcare
vouchers to relevant humanitarian groups, enabling the latter to distribute those vouchers
to political asylum seekers from Hong Kong. This approach has already been used with
success in Germany, where forced migrants are given healthcare vouchers in case they
need to receive any forms of necessary healthcare support within the country (Wenner et
al. 2019). Such a suggested policy can assist more political asylum seekers who may be
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suffering from forms of trauma due to their experience of political persecution but also lack
the financial means to secure the necessary support. This support holds the potential to
ease their stress levels and help them navigate the trauma of their past as well as the new
and unfamiliar surroundings they currently find themselves in.
Conclusions
The perilous fight of Hong Kong citizens for democratic rights aligns with the values of
western democracies. These countries should therefore do more to provide humanitarian
support for these asylum seekers, in effect signalling their intolerance for the CCP’s
unhumanitarian practices. There are of course broader external dynamics affecting the UK
government’s approach to asylum seekers. In the midst of the public health uncertainty
caused by the COVID-19 pandemic many western countries may be discouraged from
allowing the influx of Hong Kong political asylum seekers, especially when numerous
mutated variants of COVID-19 have recently been found in the city. Moreover, in the UK,
the Home Secretary's New Plan for Immigration, announced on 24 March 2021, has
curtailed the amount of opportunities for persecuted individuals to seek asylum in the UK
for the purpose of minimising illegal routes to asylum and discouraging criminal smuggling
within the country (The Secretary of State for the Home Department 2021). However, due
to the urgency faced by Hongkongers seeking political asylum, these dynamics should not
prevent the UK government, and other host western countries from taking action. They
should continue welcoming politically persecuted, exiled Hong Kong dissidents while
applying strict COVID-19 and asylum application screenings.
The Author
Jason Hung is a PhD candidate in Sociology at the University of Cambridge. He pens his
columns at Hong Kong-based ‘South China Morning Post’ and Washington D.C.-based ‘The
Diplomat’. He held research attachments at Stanford University (2019), King’s College
London (2018-19) and University of California, Berkeley (2018).
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OxMo Vol 10, No. 1
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Business and Human Rights: The Case of Japan
Kimiko Kuga
Abstract
Over the last three decades, civil society groups and the international community have
criticised Japan’s Technical Internship and Training Programme (TITP) as a backdoor to
invite cheap migrant labourers as interns, arguing that these interns are at risk of modern
slavery. Media coverage has been highlighting the maltreatment of these interns, especially
Vietnamese ones, who have been in a miserable plight under the COVID-19 pandemic. In
response, the government introduced some remedies such as loosening restrictions on
TITP interns and setting up a grant fund for them. However, these remedies for solving the
fundamental problems in the internship programme are questionable. In this brief article, I
argue for the need to establish and strengthen the policy idea of immigrant inclusion
because the government’s indifference to achieving immigrant inclusion has caused labour
exploitation and discrimination against migrant labourers.
Article
The COVID-19 pandemic has starkly revealed how much our lives have relied on
(inter)national supply chains, their logistics and their labourers. These labourers, especially
immigrants, are now exposed to additional risks caused by the pandemic. The case of
Japan, where the immigration flow is tightly controlled and the use of the term imin
(immigrants) is regarded as taboo (Roberts 2018), highlights the need to strengthen
support measures of inclusion for those labourers who come from Southeast Asian
countries to work in Japanese Small and Medium-sized Enterprises (SMEs).
Japan’s Technical Internship and Training Programme (TITP) began in 1993 as an
‘international contribution’ by inviting unskilled Asian labourers to work as interns in Japan
in order to provide them with vocational training within its development policy based on
bilateral agreements with Southeast Asian countries. Around 99.7 percent of Japanese
industries consist of SMEs, which gives an impression of how important these workers are
to Japan’s economy, especially given the country’s aging society (Ministry of Economy,
Trade and Industry 2019). These interns are now critical workforces in SMEs but are not
permitted to change their jobs. While upholding the standpoint of TITP as an international
contribution, but not as an immigration channel, the government further revised the
Immigration Control and Refugee Recognition Act in December 2018 to establish a new
channel called the Special Skilled Workers (Tokutei Gino) programme. In this programme,
TITP interns in 14 industrial sectors, such as construction and elderly care, can apply for this
visa after they complete a maximum five-year internship. If the post-interns complete the
first Special Skilled Workers (Tokutei Gino No.1) programme, they can then upgrade their
visas (Tokutei Gino No.2) and are finally permitted to invite their family to live in Japan
OxMo Vol 10, No. 1
143
(Immigration Services Agency of Japan 2021). However, only those who work for
construction and shipbuilding industries with Tokutei Gino No.1 are currently permitted to
upgrade to Tokutei Gino No.2. This visa sets no limit on the period of stay; if they renew
their Tokutei Gino No.2 visas occasionally, these visa holders can permanently stay and
work in Japan. As of the beginning of 2020, the number of foreign interns has exceeded
410,000, half of whom are Vietnamese (Horigome 2020). These revisions will facilitate de
facto long-term immigration and settlement to occur, which has attracted public interest in
immigrant inclusion.
The Japanese government’s measures of inviting cheap labourers have, however, failed in
many ways, one of which being the maltreatment of these interns. These interns are
supposed to take language lessons as part of their vocational training, but some of them
never received such education. Some of their private lives are also restricted, for example,
by imposing a curfew and banning any relationship with Japanese citizens. They must live
in the accommodation provided by their employers, regardless of whether they are
mentally and physically abused by them. Such maltreatment of these interns has been
criticised over the last three decades as a type of modern slavery by international and
domestic civil society groups (US Department of State 2007-2020; UN Office of the High
Commissioner for Human Rights 2014).
In response to these criticisms, the government introduced the Act on Proper Technical
Intern Training and Protection of Technical Intern Trainees, which came into effect in
November 2017 (Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare 2016), but the employers of these
interns often do not inform them of their rights and privileges under this Japanese labour
law. In fact, the exploitative situations described in these criticisms have also been
exacerbated by the pandemic, as the combination of business closures, employers’ inability
to employ foreign labourers, and the travel ban have left some of these labourers in limbo
when they became unemployed in Japan (The Japan Times 2020). Even though they would
like to return to their home countries, the pandemic has made it difficult for them to do so
(Hirayama 2020). As a consequence of the combination of inflexibility in changing jobs and
difficulties in returning home, the number of interns who went missing drastically increased
over the last five years (Immigration Services Agency of Japan 2019) —the data for 2020 is
not yet available, but it might reveal an even greater increase, given the pandemic’s
exacerbation of these difficulties. Indeed, the pandemic has exposed a critical weakness in
the government’s structure of supporting migrant labourers.
To amend such situations, the government has introduced a couple of remedies. First, in
April 2020, it officially announced that it would allow the interns to change their employers
and even to work in different industries. To do so, those interns who would like to work in
different industrial sectors to survive under the pandemic should apply for a visa category
called Designated Stay (Tokutei Katsudo) (Immigration Services Agency of Japan 2020a).
By using this remedy, some of the interns who became unemployed can still work in Japan
while being stuck there. Second, the government also introduced a grant fund to support
these interns who became unemployed due to the pandemic. Third, while revising
domestic policies to help these interns, the government also established a National Action
Plan in October 2020 to implement the UN Guiding Principles on Business and Human
OxMo Vol 10, No. 1
144
Rights (Inter-Ministerial Committee 2020) as a response to international criticisms against
TITP.
A rainwater-tank for foreign interns next to their accommodation. They have only access to
water from this tank. Photo taken by author, Tokushima prefecture, Japan.
OxMo Vol 10, No. 1
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However, such remedies are ineffective in closing the existing gaps between reality and
desirable policy outcomes. First of all, although it was an exceptional solution, the local
immigration bureau had already permitted interns to change their employers within the
same industrial sectors if they face exploitative situations (Solidarity Network with Migrants
Japan 2016). Hence, this remedy for these interns is nothing new. Second, applying for a
Designated Stay visa is also problematic because these interns need to find new employers
who will support their visa applications. If the new employers will not support their
applications, they cannot apply for this visa. There is a support centre for those who are
having trouble in their application, but it is difficult to avail of this service partially because
of the language barriers. Third, for a similar reason, the government’s grant payment policy
to deal with the COVID-19-related recession has also not reached all the interns (Tran 2020).
Regarding the establishment of the National Action Plan, more time is needed to carefully
evaluate its outcome. However, this could end up as being a mere gesture to respond to
the latest Human Trafficking Report published by the US State Department (2020), which
ranked Japan as Tier 1 in 2019 but Tier 2 in 2020 owing to the government’s neglect of
these interns’ maltreatment (The Inter-Ministerial Committee 2020).
Interns working in a rural garment factory. Photo taken by author, Tokushima
Prefecture, Japan.
OxMo Vol 10, No. 1
146
To close these gaps, the government needs a clearer vision of immigrant inclusion of these
TITP labourers and their future family reunions. As mentioned earlier, the government has
expanded this programme as a stepping stone to accept more blue-collar workers and their
families through the latest Special Skilled Workers programme. Even so, however, the
government and labour-starved industries still see these interns as disposable labour,
rather than members of communities and precious human resources. As a starting point to
rectify the problems detailed so far, the government should establish an inclusion policy
framework of foreign residents to strengthen the initiatives of family reunions and support.
The idea and framework of immigrant inclusion would be used to guide further concrete
policies that would address the problems identified in this article. In this regard, the newly
revised intercultural cohesion (tabunka kyosei) plan of September 2020 emphasises that
foreign residents should participate more actively in local communities (Ministry of Internal
Affairs and Communications 2020), but much more needs to be done. The implementation
of this plan is dependent on local authorities and economic sectors, and the lack of a
national oversight body prevents coherence across different prefectures and cities
(Yamawaki and White 2020). Needless to say, language education for all foreign residents,
including the future interns’ families, is essential for these new residents to be fully
integrated into local communities. As one step further, it is also important to educate
Japanese employers and local communities to have them treat labourers as decent
economic contributors who can also enjoy their rights and welfare in ways similar to other
Japanese workers. Without such a nationwide inclusion policy, ‘disposable labour’ cannot
become sustainable workforces who are fundamental for SMEs’ business continuity.
In short, the COVID-19 pandemic has revealed the plight of TITP interns in Japan who have
been seen as modern slaves or forced labour for a long time. Their sad plight was partially
caused by the failure of Japan’s immigration policy that has avoided admitting TITP interns
as labourers and setting a clear vision of their inclusion. Rather than introducing some
remedies such as loosening some restrictions on TITP or providing a grant fund under the
pandemic, much broader discussions on shaping a clear policy framework of immigrant
inclusion are needed if Japan is serious about accepting more migrant labourers and their
families in the near future.
The Author
Dr. Kimiko Kuga earned a D.Phil in Politics at the Department of Politics and International
Relations, University of Oxford. She currently works as a civic education assistant for UNDP.
The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect
those of UNDP and my role there.
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OxMo Vol 10, No. 1
149
Palestinian Refugees and COVID-19: Navigating through
Lebanon's Multi-layered Crisis
Jasmin Lilian Diab
Background
Humanitarian aid organizations working in the Middle East have often had to navigate
fragility and conflict to uphold their operations. In times of COVID-19 particularly, these
operations have struggled to maintain their impact in the face of increasing financial
constraints, restrictions on mobility, political developments and the endangerment of the
wellbeing of aid workers and affected populations. For the 5.7 million registered Palestinian
refugees residing in the region (UNRWA 2021a) life before the pandemic was already
challenging due to dire living conditions in camps, the influx of additional Palestinian
Refugees from Syria, as well as the economic burdens associated with being restricted to
only specific working options in many host countries (Diab 2021).
In Lebanon the situation is further compounded by the 4th July explosion in its capital and
a major economic crisis. Close to 500,000 Palestinian refugees in Lebanon are registered
with the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA 2021a)
16
. In this essay I hope to
shed light on Palestinian refugees as they navigate this multilayered crisis in Lebanon.
The Lebanese Context
For years now, there has been a demonstrated lack of comprehensive refugee policy from
the Lebanese government, exhibited by a laissez-faire and post-hoc approach to both
Palestinian and Syrian refugees residing in the country. To justify the manner through which
Lebanon manages its two largest populations of refugees, Lebanon often alludes to the fact
it is not a signatory to the 1951 Refugee Convention and insists it is meeting standards in
International Law by ensuring that the non-refoulement principle is upheld (Human Rights
Watch 2017). While it remains difficult to determine the exact figure, close to 500,000
Palestinian refugees in Lebanon are registered with the United Nations Relief and Works
Agency (UNRWA 2021b),
The majority of Palestinians in Lebanon do not receive regular financial assistance from
UNRWA (UNRWA 2021c). Exceptionally, an estimated 62,000 individuals who are
designated as ‘extremely vulnerable’ (namely Palestinian Refugees who fled the Syrian
Conflict and are now twice displaced) receive the equivalent of USD 130 per year (Kherfi et
al. 2018). Additionally, 30,000 Palestinians who fled Syria’s war also receive support in the
form of cash transfers (UNRWA 2014). In Lebanon, the effect of COVID-19, coupled with the
16
Lebanon's refusal to develop and adopt a comprehensive refugee policy is mainly a result of the Palestinian
refugee crisis; as most Palestinians remain in Lebanon indefinitely and have established camps across the
country that largely operate autonomously without allowing for government intervention in their internal affairs
(International Crisis Group 2009).
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150
country’s economic downfall and its political unrest, has led to major reductions in donor
funding and limitations in capacity within the health system to meet the needs of Palestinian
refugee populations (Azhari 2021). While these obstacles have been temporarily overcome
and managed by the informal health sector and non-governmental organisations, the need
for governmental agencies and international stakeholders to assist in these areas,
specifically in response to COVID-19, remains critical (LIHF 2020)
17
.
Moreover, because the majority of Palestinian refugees in Lebanon are legally restricted
from working in all sectors, and because they tend to depend on daily work/hourly
payments received at the end of each day to secure an income (rather than receiving a
monthly salary at the end of the month), they are more vulnerable to shocks. The triple-fold
crisis in Lebanon (political, economic and health crises) has additionally restricted their
ability to attain a ‘steady’ income. Despite the high hopes built around the August 2010
legal amendments towards improving the conditions of Palestinian refugees, no
observable impact has so far been seen from those amendments on their working status
(ILO et al. 2012).
Lebanon's Caretaker Health Minister, Dr. Hamad Hassan, has insisted that the needs of the
Palestinian refugees remains the ‘shared responsibility’ of both Lebanon and international
stakeholders responding to the pandemic, though the role of Lebanon has never been
defined in this regard beyond its maintenance of the non-refoulement principle, and its
acceptance to provide Palestinians in Lebanon with passports, known as ‘wathikas’, to
facilitate their movement and travel (Home Office 2018). Lebanon continues to depend
heavily on the support of international UN agencies when it comes to supporting refugee
communities in its territories during and beyond the COVID-19 pandemic (Human Rights
Watch 2020).
As Lebanon grapples through a pandemic, recovers from an explosion in its capital that
took the lives of more than 200 people (Human Rights Watch 2021), and endures the worst
economic crisis the country has seen since the Civil War (Sanders 2020), Palestinian
refugees’ needs in Lebanon have not constituted a state priority. They have instead always
relied on UNRWA's hospitals and medical centres for healthcare, as hospitals across the
country continue to prioritise the needs of citizens with minor exceptions (UNRWA 2021c).
COVID-19 Realities for Palestinian Refugees in Lebanon
Residents of informal camps and settlements in Lebanon have been obliged to remain in
their homes (Diab 2020), while only one person per camp (typically the individual
nominated by other refugees to act as the settlement’s negotiator and decision-maker) is
17
As foreigners, the Palestinian refugees are subject to the Ministerial Decree 17561/64 that organizes the
participation of foreigners in the Lebanese labour market. This Ministerial Decree contains three rules that
restrict the employment of Palestinians: the requirement to obtain a work permit prior to employment, the
national preference, and the principle of reciprocity of treatment in Lebanon, a condition impossible to meet
for Palestinians given the inexistence of a Palestinian State in the legal sense. The legal amendment approved
by the Lebanese Parliament (Article 59 of the Labour Law and Article 9 of the Social Security Law dated 17
August 2010) excludes the Palestinian refugees born in Lebanon and officially registered in the records of the
Ministry of Interior from the prohibitions of working in manual and clerical jobs, while maintaining the
requirement to obtain a work permit.
OxMo Vol 10, No. 1
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authorized to go out to collect supplies for the camp’s inhabitants. Exceptions are indeed
made for humanitarian staff of UN Agencies and other NGOs only when deemed necessary
(UNRWA 2021c). Aware of the dangers involved in leaving their homes, the Palestinian
refugee community has been ready to respect confinement as much as necessary, out of
fear of the new Coronavirus and concern for their health and that of others. However, they
are also stressing that they need access to aid, food and other health services, which would
allow them to survive and further avoid contamination. The majority of refugees do not have
regular access to basic water, sanitation, hygiene services or infrastructure (Fouad et al.
2021). This increases refugees' risk of exposure to infectious and preventable diseases, as
well as other health issues. These vulnerabilities are further exacerbated by their inability to
socially distance within settlements, their inability to work amid mobility restrictions, and
their children’s inability to receive adequate schooling during lockdowns (Fouad et al.
2021).
Open access image retrieved from Pexels (Creative common license for non-commercial
use).
When it comes to refugee rights in Lebanon, emerging concerns amid COVID-19 primarily
revolve around access to the Coronavirus vaccine. By mid-February, 540,000 individuals
had registered for vaccines in the whole of Lebanon, of whom just 6,200 were Palestinians,
as per government data (Azhari 2021). Al-Shifaa Association for Medical and Human
Services, which manages seven dispensaries catering to the Palestinian refugee camps in
the north and south of Lebanon, has expressed concern over the increase in the number of
OxMo Vol 10, No. 1
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infected individuals in Palestinian camps, particularly south of the country (Abdallah 2021).
As of February, 2021, the cumulative number of cases among Palestinian refugees was
estimated at 5,872 (including 1,059 active cases, 133 hospitalized cases and 195 fatalities)
with a 3.3% fatality rate that is much higher than the 1% fatality rate among Lebanese
citizens (Abdallah 2021). Although Palestinians are reportedly being vaccinated through
cooperation and coordination between UNRWA and the Lebanese Ministry of Public Health
(UNRWA 2021d), Human Rights Watch (HRW) reports that refugees and migrants are left
out of the country’s vaccine rollout. In April 2021, HRW reported that ‘only 3,638
Palestinians and 1,159 Syrians have been vaccinated, though 19,962 Palestinian refugees
and health workers and 6,701 Syrian refugees are eligible in the first phase of the vaccine
rollout’. Precautionary measures and social distancing remains an ongoing obstacle while
the entire refugee community waits for their turn to get vaccinated (Diab 2020). According
to Al-Shifaa Association, vaccination of medical staff and individuals above the age of
seventy-five has begun in south Lebanon at the Saida Governmental Hospital (Abdallah
2021), but additional cases of COVID-19 have been recorded among aid workers in the Ain
al-Hilweh camp (Abdallah 2021).
Recommendations
As hospitals across Lebanon reach their maximum capacity, it is now more important than
ever to administer the vaccine at a steady pace to curb the spread of new cases. Grassroots
organisations continue to work to support UNRWA's work by supplying oxygen to the
houses of patients with mild and moderate coronavirus infections (Abdallah 2021). Since
the Beirut Blast on August 4, 2020, hospitals in Ain al-Hilweh camp have additionally
worked closely with the Green Crescent and the Palestinian Civil Defense to offer necessary
health care and medical services to COVID-19 patients – a matter that complements
UNRWA's work on the ground strongly (MERIP 2020).
In Lebanon, the fate of Palestinian refugees throughout the pandemic must remain a
priority for both UNRWA and the UN system as a whole. Throughout the course of this
pandemic, UNRWA must proceed with issuing emergency appeals to address this
community's immediate needs as well as emergency relief projects to ensure the provision
of Palestinian refugees' basic needs – particularly those suffering from these complex crises.
UNRWA needs to persist with insisting that donors include Palestinian refugees in national
emergency response plans for Lebanon. In addition to these short-term solutions,
economic and social safety nets must be created in coordination with designated UN
agencies and the Lebanese government. While the possibility of the Lebanese government
adopting a responsible and transparent policy towards Palestinian refugees remains
uncertain, Lebanon must at least ensure that refugees are included in the urgent
humanitarian aid that Lebanon has been receiving (largely since the Beirut Blast) in close
coordination with UNRWA, international organisations and other UN agencies operating
on the ground without discrimination.
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The Author
Jasmin is a Canadian-Lebanese researcher, writer, editor, reviewer, instructor and consultant
in the areas of Migration, Gender and Conflict Studies. She is an Assistant Professor of
Migration Studies at the Lebanese American University, a Senior Consultant on Refugee and
Gender Studies at Cambridge Consulting Services, a Research Affiliate at the Centre for
Refugee Studies at York University, and a Junior Fellow and Program Lead at the 'War,
Conflict and Global Migration' Think Tank of the Global Research Network.
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<https://www.unrwa.org/palestine-refugees > (Accessed 8 March 2021).
_______(2021c) UNRWA Appeals for US$1.5 Billion to Support Palestine Refugees in 2021
(online). Available from: <https://www.unrwa.org/newsroom/press-releases/unrwa-
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appeals-us15-billion-support-palestine-refugees-2021 > (Created 11 February 2021,
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Palestine Refugees. UNRWA. Available from: https://www.unrwa.org/newsroom/press-
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12 June 2021).
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La Nouvelle Politique Migratoire au Maroc en Faveur des
Subsahariens entre Succès et Échecs
Soumia Bouhdoud
Résumé
Le Maroc représente un carrefour migratoire pour les subsahariens venus d’Afrique
Centrale et des pays de l’Ouest et du Sahel, vu sa position géostratégique qui se situe à
l’extrémité de l’occident. Ce dernier est réputé d’avoir réconforté sa politique de
l’immigration et de l’asile au Moyen–Orient et en Afrique du Nord (MENA). Par conséquent,
le royaume a mis en œuvre Plusieurs partenariats et coopérations avec ses voisins
européens et africains en faveur d’admission des migrants sur son territoire, devenant ainsi
un pays d’accueil pour les migrants subsahariens forcés.
Ainsi, le Maroc a adopté une nouvelle politique migratoire qui favorise la régularisation de
la situation des migrants. Plusieurs stratégies et programmes ont été mis en place, afin de
réussir la gestion et le contrôle du phénomène migratoire, accroître l’intégration des
migrants, leur permettant d’acquérir tous leurs droits humains, sociaux et juridiques.
Cette étude a pour but de mettre au point les succès et échecs de la nouvelle politique
migratoire, en se rapprochant de plus près des réalités alarmantes des conditions de vie
des migrants subsahariens sur le territoire marocain.
Introduction
En 2020, les pays Nord africains ont accueilli environ 7,6 millions de migrants fuyants les
guerres, les conflits politiques, le changement climatique, la pauvreté… (UN DESA, 2020).
Cependant, le Maroc reste le point d’attraction principal de transit, puisqu’il est limitrophe
de l’Europe.
Certes, l’Europe a établi des politiques de restriction drastiques envers la migration
clandestine. En 2017, le nombre des migrants a passé de 22 414, à 58 525 en 2018, et a
reculé jusqu’à 25 731 en 2019 (OIM, 2019). De ce fait, l’installation de ces derniers sur le
territoire marocain devient inévitablement durable, en changeant son rôle graduellement,
d’un lieu de transit à un pays d’accueil.
A savoir que la majorité de ces candidats sont des jeunes hommes et femmes en âge
d’activité (Fouzi et al., 2016), et leur nombre ne cesse de s’accroître suite à l’accélération
des flux migratoires ces dernières années. De ce fait, le royaume marocain a mis en place
une nouvelle politique migratoire qui se balance entre admission et expulsion.
Une Politique Astucieuse pour le Respect de l’Humanité
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La question migratoire est devenue un enjeu emblématique des relations euro-
méditerranéennes, où les partenariats établis favorisent une gestion collective rationnelle
de la migration, dans le respect des droits de l’homme. Dans cette logique, le royaume a
mis en exécution des lois juridiques qui assouplissent l’accueil des migrants, comme la loi
n°02-03 établie en 2003 qui prend en charge la sécurité pour régir l’entrée et la présence
des étrangers sur le sol marocain, et la loi n°57-11 qui autorise la participation des migrants
réguliers aux élections communales.
En effet, le Maroc a été le premier pays méditerranéen qui a signé un partenariat pour la
mobilité migratoire avec l’Union Européenne en 2013. A cet égard, une aide financière lui
a été fournie pour la gestion des frontières et la promotion d’une ‘approche globale de la
migration et de la mobilité ’ (Commission Européenne, 2014).
Dans la même année, la Stratégie Nationale d’Immigration et d’Asile (SNIA) élaborée par
le Roi Mohammed VI a été considérée comme une nouvelle démarche qui traite la
problématique migratoire dans une approche humaniste et globale, permettant de cibler
les objectifs du développement durable.
En 2014, la nouvelle politique migratoire a été mise en œuvre en sa première phase. Plus
de 23 096 migrants, pour la plupart originaires d’Afrique subsaharienne, mais aussi de la
Syrie en situation irrégulière ont obtenu leur statut juridique (MDCMREAM, 2017).Ces
derniers avaient bénéficié du droit au travail, et de l’accès aux services sociaux. Une
deuxième phase a été lancée en 2017, en accordant des permis de séjour à 24 367
personnes (MDCMREAM, 2017). Les enregistrements des migrants clandestins ont été
suspendus au début de la crise sanitaire de Covid-19, mais ont été repris à partir du 31 août
2020 par l’UNHCR. De plus, l’OIM a établi le cadre de gouvernance des migrations (MIGOF)
qui vise à réussir ‘une politique de migration bien gérée’ dans les domaines clés des
politiques publiques (IOM, 2017).
Au cours de la même année, le Maroc a signé un accord de Coopération Sud-Sud avec les
pays africains dans plusieurs domaines, en se focalisant sur la problématique migratoire
afin de faire de la migration un choix et non une nécessité.
En 2018, le pacte de Marrakech, organisé par la coordination des Nations Unies a été
considéré comme un ‘Pacte mondial pour des migrations sûres, ordonnées et régulières’.
Ce dernier a renforcé la coopération et les partenariats mondiaux, dans un esprit de
solidarité entre les pays d’origine, de transit et de destination. Son objectif est d’accélérer
l’élaboration du programme de développement durable à l’horizon 2030, lutter contre les
réseaux des passeurs et la traite des êtres humains, ainsi qu’à la protection internationale
des réfugiés.
La Nouvelle Politique Migratoire: Inclusion ou Exclusion?
Assurer une bonne gouvernance de la nouvelle politique migratoire au niveau régional,
mais aussi accroître l’intégration globale des migrants et réfugiés au Maroc, nécessite une
forte implication de l’UNHCR et l’OIM dans l’ensemble des programmes de la SNIA, en
collaboration avec de multiples partenaires locaux et internationaux : organisations non
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gouvernementales, associations, société civile, etc. L’appui desdits acteurs a été consacré
aux services de base tels que l’accès aux soins, l’éducation, la formation, l’hébergement
d’urgence et de protection, l’assistance psychosociale, l’aide au retour volontaire et à la
réintégration socio-économique.
Par exemple, les enfants migrants, quel que soit leurs situations ont le droit d’accès au
système d’éducation nationale. Dans le domaine de la santé, les immigrés réguliers sont
intégrés dans le programme de couverture médicale pour les plus démunis (RAMED) au
même titre que les marocains, tandis que 4755 de migrants ont profité des services de
santé entre janvier et août 2020 (UNHCR). Pour ce qui est de l’insertion professionnelle, au
moins 200 migrants régularisés se sont accompagnés dans leurs processus de formation
professionnelle, l’accès à l’emploi salarié ou à l’auto-emploi en 2017 (eeas.europa.eu,
1018). Par ailleurs, l’application de la loi n°112-12 sur les coopératives, a offert aux migrants
et réfugiés l’opportunité d’avoir le statut d’auto-entrepreneur.
Mais il y a lieu de signaler que ces aides humanitaires sont minimes, si l’on considère que
le nombre des subsahariens résidants au Maroc a atteint 80 000 personnes selon les
estimations, dont 30 000 en situation clandestine (Rboub, 2018). A noter que les migrants
continuent toujours à s’orienter vers le Maroc, risquent leurs vies dans un voyage périlleux
à la recherche d’une nouvelle vie plus confortable. Mais lorsqu’ils atteignent le territoire
marocain, la plupart des subsahariens se retrouvent sans emploi, ni abri. Ils sont menacés
par la précarité, la vulnérabilité et l’exclusion.
Selon une enquête réalisée auprès des migrants installés dans la ville de Kénitra, qui est
proche de la capitale Rabat où se regroupe la majorité des organisations de l’aide
humanitaire, la plupart des migrants ont officialisé leurs statuts de deamdneurs d’asile à
cette dernière, mais sont toujours confrontés au chômage
18
.
En absence même du travail informel sans contrat, offert soit aux immigrés réguliers ou
irréguliers (gardiens de voitures, serveurs aux cafés, maçons, femmes de ménages…), ces
derniers s’adressent à la mendicité comme source de revenu. A noter que les subsahariens
partagent des petits appartements dans des quartiers vulnérables, où les bailleurs refusent
de leur octroyer le contrat de bail, chose qui aggrave leurs conditions de vie sociale et
juridique.
En outre, l’année 2018 semble avoir été désenchantée pour un grand nombre d’immigrés,
lorsque la procédure de renouvellement des titres de séjour semble être largement
compliquée au Maroc. Les nouvelles mesures sont devenues plus exigeantes en matière
de la présentation du contrat de travail, de bail, de carte de sécurité sociale, et des relevés
bancaires.
Face à ces instructions pénibles, les immigrés réguliers qui travaillent dans le secteur
informel ou en tant que petits commerçants, sans couverture sociale deviennent incapables
de renouveler leur titre de séjour à cause de la nouvelle procédure rigoureuse. De plus, la
crise sanitaire de Covid-19 leur a exposé au chômage et à l’expulsion après la fermeture
18
Enquête personnelle en 2021.
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des lieux de travail. Ils se retrouvent donc confrontés à la mendicité comme pour leurs
homologues clandestins.
En se déplaçant dans les quartiers les plus populaires de la ville de Kénitra, les migrants
subsahariens se débrouillent le jour de jour en faisant la manche pour subvenir aux moyens
de subsistance. Un migrant camerounais avoue : ‘nous avons perdu beaucoup de nos amis
dans le désert, et d’autres dans la mer, alors que nous, nous sommes bloqués ici, pas de
travail, ni de domicile fixe, on gagne notre pain à travers la mendicité ’
19
.
Conclusion
Le Maroc représente un pôle d’attraction de la migration clandestine. S’il devient un pays
d’accueil, la nouvelle politique migratoire n’arrive pas à assurer une véritable régularisation
à cette nouvelle catégorie de population, y compris sa protection et sa sécurité. A savoir
que le nombre des migrants ne cesse de s’accroître, par le biais des réseaux sociaux qui
permettent la communication entre eux.
19
Interview personnel avec un migrant subsaharien sans-papiers.
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En conséquence, les stratégies et programmes de la SNIA mis en exécution depuis
quelques années, ne garantissent pas une intégration globale à tous les migrants
subsahariens qui s’installent au Maroc, ne leur permettant pas donc d’acquérir tous leurs
droits humains et sociaux. En effet, ce n’est qu’une partie minime qui a eu la chance de
profiter des aides et prestations fournies par le gouvernement, les organisations
intergouvernementales, les ONG et les associations de solidarité.
Selon les témoignages des enquêtés, les conditions de vie au Maroc ne réalisent pas leurs
objectifs (manque d’emploi stable, de logement confortable, de vie saine et descente …),
les migrants subsahariens envisagent ainsi de poursuivre leur périple vers l’Europe.
The Author
Soumia Bouhoud est une doctorante en sociologie sur le thème de la migration
internationale à l'Université Mohammed Ben Abdellah de Fès, au Maroc. Son travail actuel
s'intitule "Approche sociologique sur la migration subsaharienne sur le territoire marocain
entre relations internationales et réalité". Elle est titulaire d'un master en sociologie du
développement local, ainsi qu’une licence en sociologie rurale. Elle est active dans les
organisations locales travaillant avec les populations migrantes.
Bibliographie
ANON (2018) Promouvoir l’intégration des migrants au Maroc-Programme d’appui au
partenariat pour la mobilité EU- Maroc, eeas.europa.eu
BAROS, L. et al. (2002) « L’immigration irrégulière subsaharienne à travers et vers le
Maroc », Cahier de Migrations Internationales, Bureau International du travail, Genève,
(accédé janvier 2002).
COMMISSION EUROPEENNE (2014) Rapport de la Commission au Parlement Européen
et au Conseil, au Comité Economique et Social Européen et au Comité des Régions,
Rapport sur la mise en ouvre de l’approche globale de la question des migrations et la
mobilité 2012-2013.
CONNOR, P. (2018) International Migration from Sub-Saharan Africa has grown
dramatically since 2010, Pew Research Center.
DESROCHES, D. (2008) Mise au point sociologique sur l’intégration et la désintégration
sociale/ Qu’est ce que l’intégration ? de Dominique Schnapper. Gallimard, « Folio actuel »,
Immigration, justice et diversité culturelle, n°222, (accédé septembre 2008).
FOUZI et al. Les Migrants Subsahariens au Maroc, Enjeux d’une Migration de Résidence,
Konrad Adenauer, Stiftung, 2016.
GADEM (2018) Coûts et blessures, Rapport sur les opérations de forces de l’ordre menées
dans le nord du Maroc entre juillet et septembre.
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HAUT COMMISSARIAT AU PLAN (2018-2019, 2020) La migration internationale au Maroc,
Résultats de l’enquête nationale sur la migration internationale.
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MOUNA, K. et al. (2017) L’immigration au Maroc : Les défis de l’intégration, Heinrich Boll
Stiftung, Afrique du Nord Rabat, Coll. RSSI.
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résidence, Fondation Konrad Adenaver Stiftung, Ed. Université Internationale de Rabat.
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POLITIQUE NATIONALE D’IMMIGRATION ET D’ASILE (2018) Rapport.
RBOUB, A. (2018) « Enquête L’Economiste-Sunergia/Migrants subsahariens : des résultats
surprenant », Leconomiste, Ed n°5234, (accédé 21 mars2018). Disponible sur :
http://leconomiste.com/article/1071152-enquete-l-economiste-sunergia-pourquoi-les-
plus-jeunes-ne-se-sentent-pas-africains
TARDIS, M. (2018) Les partenariats entre l’Union européenne et les pays africains sur les
migrations, un enjeu commun, des intérêts contradictoires, Institut français des relations
internationales, Notes de l’Ifri, Paris, (accédé mars 2018).
TARDIS, M. (2019) Le pacte de Marrakech. Vers une gouvernance mondiale des
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OxMo Vol 10, No. 1
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FIELD SECTION
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Cyclone Nargis and Displacement: Sensing the Places
Chung-Ah Baek
Abstract
This paper seeks to map the lived experiences of those displaced by climate change,
focusing on the embodiment of landscapes. Places such as land and temporary shelters are
the site of embodied memory, creating intersubjective spheres between insiders and
outsiders. I take Myanmar’s devastating Cyclone Nargis in 2008 as a case study. Drawing
on observations from fieldwork in Myanmar, this paper shows that the researcher’s and
cyclone survivors’ perceptions and sensory experiences of landscapes are critical to
understanding the survivors’ everyday lives and producing knowledge about their
experiences of the cyclone.
Introduction
Displacement and migration induced by climate change have gained increasing attention.
In 2019, the Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre (IDMC 2020) recorded the
displacement of 24.9 million people associated with natural disasters across 140 countries.
South Asia, East Asia and the Pacific were the most affected regions. Despite the growing
literature on climate change, displacement and migration, we know little about how people
experience and narrate natural disasters and displacement over a longer period of time.
Cyclone Nargis, the worst natural disaster in Asia since 1991 (UNEP 2009: 4), struck
Myanmar in early May 2008, resulting in nearly 140,000 lives lost (UNDRR 2009) and
approximately 2.4 million people affected (Lateef 2009). While millions of people obtained
shelter in monasteries, churches and schools, others remained without shelter
(Suwanvanichkij et al. 2009). Much of the research, including NGO reports and newspaper
articles, focused on the immediate circumstances of those displaced by the cyclone and on
the official response. Yet, there is limited understanding of those with lived experiences of
the cyclone. I analyse the disaster and its impact, including displacement as a long-term
process. I argue that we can gain a new perspective on the present through landscapes that
reflect past events, including how displaced people experience landscapes and how
insiders and outsiders engage with landscapes.
In August 2019, I visited Talokekone village, one of the villages that was severely damaged
by Cyclone Nargis. There, I conducted interviews with the villagers who experienced the
cyclone. I found that survivors’ narratives were often initiated by their perceptions of places.
This paper thus sheds light on the meaning of places when recounting the experience of
the cyclone and displacement. It aims to show the interplay between the interviewees and
the researcher through these places.
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Photo taken by the author from a boat on the way to go to Talokekone village.
Landscapes: A Bridge to the Present and the Researcher
Drawing on Lefebvre’s (1991) concept of space, landscapes can be seen as a social product
that incorporates the aspects of physical, ideal and experiential. We can
phenomenologically observe, perceive and sense landscapes through our bodies and
therefore they have a significant influence on our thoughts (Tilley 2010: 26). Here,
landscapes are something more than just a physical form. People interpret their world and
express their values through landscapes that form part of their lives (Tilley and Cameron-
Daum 2017). Landscapes provide individual and social practices that inform the
construction of lives and identities (Tilley 2010), and the experience of landscapes can also
create narratives and stories.
Cyclone Nargis had a devastating impact on homes, infrastructure, agricultural lands and
fishing grounds. Survivors’ perceptions of such landscapes play an essential role in creating
the narratives of post-cyclone experiences. Survivors’ houses had existed, trees had existed
and animals had existed. Recognising physical loss enables them to perceive the disaster.
However, physical landscapes do not stand alone. Physical lands, for example, affect culture
and culture, in turn, influences the perception and meaning of the lands.
Many people in the Ayeyarwady Region, where the damage was the most severe, engage
in agriculture. In particular, in Talokekone village, farming and fishing cultures flourished.
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To the villagers, land and water are valuable. Their values play an important role in the
villagers’ everyday lives and contribute to a sense of identity and well-being. However, the
cyclone has changed the land and water, leading to soil salinity, and therefore it has also
changed their culture, livelihoods and identities. Those who used to farm or fish for their
livelihoods have difficulty planting and fishing due to salty water. Indeed, the smell and
taste of the land and water have been different since the cyclone. The salty land and water
are connected to the memory of the disaster, and it has materially changed their lives.
Landscapes are sites of embodied memory, and they offer existential grounds for
experiences of the cyclone. As a researcher, my cultural background and general
knowledge limit my understanding of the landscape and the cyclone. Yet, the physicality
and materiality of landscapes act as grounds for comprehending the experience of the
cyclone and displacement. When I visited Talokekone village, I was able to fathom the
severity of the cyclone and comprehend the hardship and pain of the villagers. I grasped
the difficulty of sustaining farming and fishing as their primary livelihoods considering how
wet and muddy the land is. Soil salinity due to Cyclone Nargis continues and it has affected
the villagers’ main livelihood activities prior to the cyclone. Their lives and stories are
embedded in the wet, muddy land. This very real terrain enables outsiders to grasp the
effects of the cyclone, appreciating the fragmentation of the villagers’ everyday lives.
Seeing most of their wooden houses had collapsed, walking on the muddy land, feeling
the damp and smelling the salt in the air helped me picture the situation during the cyclone
and consider how their lives are still affected. It was extraordinary given that 11 years had
passed.
Places such as shelters also have the potential to explicate the physical, embodied and
sensory dimensions of the cyclone and displacement experience. During my fieldwork,
some of the interviews took place in the church where the survivors stayed for around 20
days because their houses were destroyed. I found that the church holds meaning for them.
Not only was it a haven during the cyclone, but it was a place that created solidarity when
they were displaced. Waiting in the darkness of the church, where nothing could be seen,
heard or done, strengthened the survivors’ bonds. Speaking with the villagers in the church
helped me imagine the situation and interpret their stories. While recounting the first day
of the cyclone, one interviewee said coconut trees fell onto the roof of the church, making
holes in it. Inside the church, the repaired roof is a legacy of the cyclone that continues to
remind the survivors of it even today.
The sight, smell and sound of the landscape is associated with memories, and survivors’
memories revolve around their narratives. The church and impoverished soil recorded the
impact of the cyclone in the past, and in the present, they influence the survivors’ lives and
continue to recreate the stories of the past. Not only the physical and material features of
the land and the church, but also their sensorial qualities—how they are perceived and
sensed through the body (Tilley and Cameron-Daum 2017)—enabled me to enter
imaginatively into the story of the cyclone and displacement. That is, the landscapes can
create a bridge between the past and the present, and between the insiders and outsiders
through their mutual interaction occurring within and around the landscapes.
My experience of Talokekone village was subjective, beyond the generalisation of survivors’
experiences. I encourage readers to think of the stories in a specific place, at a specific time.
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In towns such as Labutta, which was also severely affected, many houses were rebuilt and
the ground was not entirely muddy. Experiences vary according to places and the places
alter through time. The way we understand places depends on how we engage with them.
For instance, the routes taken to reach a place and its surroundings construct our
perceptual experiences (Tilley 2010: 27), and these elements affect the narratives shared.
Survivors’ stories are intimately connected to the landscape itself. They emphasise the
importance of perceiving and sensing places and highlight the cyclone’s extraordinariness.
As a researcher, walking through the lands, touching them and smelling them, and sitting
inside the church, provided a deeper insight into the stories of the cyclone and
displacement. Admittedly, we received information from the media and reports, including
the intensity of the cyclone, such as the number of the displaced and dead, or images and
videos of damage. However, this information creates a sense of distance since such views
are often sensorily deprived. Looking at how the cyclone was perceived and experienced
by survivors, and focusing on how survivors remember it through their perceptions, fosters
understanding of their lived experiences of the cyclone and displacement.
Conclusion
Landscapes are an important part of remembering and recounting the cyclone. They offer
the researcher valuable opportunities to engage with participants and reach a more
nuanced understanding of the experience of the cyclone, connecting to survivors’ daily
lives. In the field, I learned not only about the practice of using the land and church as a
place to meet and chat with others about elemental aspects of their everyday lives, but also
about their experiences with this extraordinary event and their displacement. My findings
demonstrate that the focus on physical and material as well as sensory aspects of places
can reveal a range of environmental, social and cultural perspectives. Landscapes can
provide useful context through which to better understand insiders’ and outsiders’
experiences and their interactions. Participants’ and the researcher’s perceptions of
landscapes may be different, but their engagement with landscapes provides a richer
understanding of lived experiences and meanings associated with a particular place and
event. As landscapes increasingly respond to climate change and affect livelihoods, the
approach to landscapes is key to protecting vulnerable populations and building resilience.
The Author
Chung-Ah Baek is a PhD candidate in Politics and International Studies at the University of
Warwick. Her research focuses on climate-induced displacement, migration and resilience
in Myanmar, in terms of everydayness through the lens of gender. Previously, she worked on
international trade, corporate social responsibility and sustainability.
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The Islanders and the Outlanders: The Case of Lesvos
Marilena Anastasopoulou
Abstract
This work arises from my doctoral research entitled ‘Coming to Terms with Forced
Migration: An Intergenerational Study of Asia Minor Refugee Memory in Greece’, which
involves extensive empirical research through the lens of oral history in order to understand
the intergenerational transmission of memories and identities of forced displacement and
the way people with these memories and identities think about subsequent migrations. This
paper addresses two fundamental research questions: how do memory and identity inform
and construct each other? How do people with memories and identities of displacement
think about subsequent migration? In answering these questions, I will unpack diverse
attitudes towards contemporary migration in light of the interchanging idea of the
‘established’ and the ‘outsider’ through selected oral history interviews. In my case, the
established groups compose the category of the islanders, while the non-established
ethnic minority groups (I will call them outgroups thereafter) comprise the outlanders
category. These interviews are derived from my fieldwork on the island of Lesvos in 2019.
Methodology
This research unpacks histories of subjectivities and the fluid relationship between memory
and identity through in-depth interviewing. It focusses on the case of Lesvos drawing upon
a subsample of six interviews out of 70 oral testimonies that were conducted in September
and October 2019. It should be noted that interviews are not pseudonymised and thus
interviewees’ real names appear, in accordance with their written consent and relevant
ethics confederations. The community of the island of Lesvos is composed of the native
population (outside the scope of this study) and old settlement group (Asia Minor) at its
core, two recent settlement groups (Albanians and Romanians), and the contemporary
ethnic outgroups (unfolding migration and refugee flows). My main analytical category is
descendants of Asia Minor refugees (1922-24) and migration flows from Albania and
Romania (1990s). My sampling strategy was based on lists of Asia Minor refugee
associations, snowball sampling, and random sampling. My interviewing technique
combined both individual and group interviews. In the context of semi-structured
interviews, respondents gave broad chronological and personal accounts. An oral history
approach enabled me to trace voices ‘from below’ that otherwise would have been lost,
providing nuanced and diversified stories. This paper is focused on the borderland island
of Lesvos, which became the focus of world attention due to the arrival of large numbers of
displaced people in 2015. Following selection criteria such as the island’s exposure to past
and contemporary migration and refugee arrivals, its complex population composition, and
its position as an irregular migration route due to its proximity to Turkey, I chose to focus
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my research on Lesvos, an island with many historical, geographic, and identity
particularities.
Moria refugee camp, Lesvos, 2019, taken by the author.
The Island’s Mosaic
Given its proximity both to Turkey and to the mainland, Lesvos has a long migration and
refugee history. The first, and most well-integrated, wave of migration traces back to the
island’s refugee history of the 1922-23 events and specifically to the compulsory exchange
of populations between Turkey and Greece, during which around 47,000 Greek Orthodox
Turkish nationals living in Turkish territory landed on the island just in April 1923 (Hirschon
2007). In addition, in the context of the collapse of the Soviet Union and the 1989
geopolitical changes mainly undocumented migrants and an important flow from Albania
composed the second and more moderate wave of migration. In spite of the rise of the
xenophobic sentiment over a long period after their arrival, these people are gradually
integrated into the host society, mostly working in the agriculture and the construction
sectors. Most significant, however, was the fact that in 2015 Lesvos became the focus of
world attention, experiencing the arrival of about 436,000 migrants and refugees. During
my stay on Lesvos, a Greek border island in the north-eastern Aegean Sea, sea arrivals
increased significantly with more than 4,700 people landing on the island in September
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2019 (UNHCR 2019). These new arrivals, coupled with incidents such as the death of a five-
year-old Afghan boy in an accident and deadly fires at overcrowded Moria refugee camp,
were sad reminders of the 2015-16 ‘migration crisis’ on the island. In short, Lesvos is an
island with a long history of migration and a complex mosaic of populations, constituting
an entry port, a transit point, and a place of settlement for significant contemporary, in
addition to past, migration and refugee flows.
Histories and Identities
This section presents three family stories, in order to explore the ways in which history,
memory, and identity construct and reconstruct each other, reawakening or diluting ethnic
and refugee identities, and ultimately informing the interaction among diverse outgroups
that co-exist on the island of Lesvos.
Born in Romania in 1974, Mariana, a mother of four children, came alone by bus to Greece
15 years ago. As she described, she decided to come to Greece in order to work ‘I had no
work in Romania, I had a very difficult time’. She moved to Mytilene, Lesvos’ capital, 5 years
ago in order to be close to her brother and his family, after spending 10 years in Molaoi, a
town in the Peloponnese, where she was harvesting olives and working at local taverns. By
the time she arrived, the island was faced with the arrival of massive numbers of migrants
and refugees. Born in 1997, her oldest son, Fernando, arrived in Greece at the age of five
and recalled that for the first years he and his siblings stayed locked in a house in a big field
because their mother had to work. Fernando was raised and educated in Greece, he has
many Greek friends, and he recently became a father, while married to a Greek.
In her attempt to describe her identity, in terms of nationality, Mariana, a first-generation
migrant, underlined that her homeland is Romania and that she wishes to return there. On
the other hand, Fernando said ‘If I go back to Romania, it will be like going to a foreign
country’ and then he added that although he feels Greek he could never say that he is Greek
because his understanding is that ‘Greek means that you are born here and your parents
are Greek. For my newborn, I can say that he is Greek’.
Andreas Voglis, born in Albania in 1970, arrived in a small village in 1991 called Skala
Loutron, which was formed by Asia Minor refugees in 1922-23 and whose present
population is, to a large extent, comprised of descendants of these people. As he said ‘we
took the road for a better life. We left due to economic problems’. His wife Angeliki, with
whom he has three children, came to the island a decade later. Andreas, who now works
for a fishery, attributed his integration to the hospitality of the local community. He recalled
how welcoming people in the village were from the very first day ‘They gave me home,
work, hugs. We are going everywhere together. They taught me how to walk, how life is
here…It was like I was their child. I did not feel foreign. They protected me from the very
start in order to not feel a foreigner’. To provide an example of this protection from the local
community, Andreas described a serious fight in 2001 between the native residents of a
village nearby and some Albanians, he said ‘Here everybody protected me. Then I felt not
only love but also obligation. I came to a foreign country and they protected me’.
Describing his identity and his attachment to different countries and places, Andreas
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mentioned ‘From the beginning I did not feel foreign. [I prioritize] Skala Loutron, but I am
of Albanian descent, but I feel native’.
Also in Skala Loutron, in 1952 Dimitris Papachrisos, a second generation Asia Minor refugee
and one of the founders of the ‘Museum of refugee memory 1922’ described his family
history. His father was born in Alacati in Turkey, from where he was forcibly displaced at the
age of 5 in 1914 and arrived unaccompanied on the island of Chios by boat. His wife,
Anthoula, is also an Asia Minor refugee descendant. Both her father and her grandfather
from her mother’s side were born in Turkey in Phocaea and Smyrna respectively and they
were forcibly displaced in 1922 due to the great fire of Smyrna and the so-called Smyrna
Catastrophe. Although Dimitris and Anthoula described the difficult years of their ancestors
in Greece, the tense relations with the local Greeks, and the characterisations that
stigmatized refugees for years, they are both fully integrated and inseparable from the
native population. They both feel like locals and, as they explained, their identity is shaped
by Greece, Lesvos, and Asia Minor.
Identities of belonging are volatile when they intersect with other memories and identities.
The next section examines how these people with different migration and refugee
backgrounds form and reform their memories and identities in relation to contemporary
migration.
We – They? In – Out?
Talking about the current situation, I asked them how they see the migrants and refugees
that arrive on the island. Without a second thought, Fernando answered ‘Humans. How do
we see them? As humans! We are not racists’. Mariana added ‘They are like us, the exact
same thing. They have been through a lot, just like we have been through’. Due to their
frequent contact, mainly with Pakistanis, Afghans, and Africans at work, they both speak
very highly of the contemporary migrants, describing their willingness to learn Greek. On
the contrary, they seem very negative towards the Albanians, whose arrival coincides with
their arrival to Greece. Specifically, Fernando noted ‘The Albanians are a little dangerous
because they fight very quickly. If they see that you are beautiful they will rape you. They
are like mafia members, I am telling the truth’. Mariana underlined that the Albanians are
more established in Greece and, confirming her son’s sayings, noted ‘You can become
friends with them. They are more years than us here’. In this case, it seems that empathy is
increased towards the newcomers, meaning the current migrants and refugees, while on
the other hand prejudice, hostility, and competition is present towards the other very similar
outgroup, which is perceived as more established and integrated.
In this battle for dominance between outsiders, the latter outgroup, the Albanians, appears
to treat as outsiders the newer settlement groups in order to safeguard its place in the host
society. Firstly, Andreas admitted that he does not have any relationship with the other
migrants that came to Greece between 1990 and 2000 because, as he said, ‘you should not
be open when you go to a foreign country with the others [migrants], with the natives yes’.
Secondly, he underlined that they have not been in contact with the current flows. His
opinion seems to be formed indirectly ‘from what I hear’, as he repeatedly mentioned, and
to be aligned with the local sentiment, based on which there is a differentiation between
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the Syrians who flee from war and who are characterised as ‘more gentlemen, advanced,
and respectful’ and ‘the others’. When I asked the couple’s opinion regarding the
incorporation of migrant students into school they both were very negative. Specifically,
Angeliki said, ‘I don’t want them to be with my children. I am not racist but they have to pass
the stages we have in order to get integrated’, and Andreas added, ‘I would not have
allowed it for my children. … I cannot accept it, it is not the time yet. I do not hate them, I
do not blame them but they have not gone through the stages we did and we are one with
the Greeks’. Finally, Andreas pointed out the differences between them and the current
migrants – ‘they are very different flows. They are not like us’.
The pattern of comparisons between outgroups also appeared in the members of the
oldest established group. Dimitris recalled that in the 1990s, except for some criminals who
caused trouble, most of ‘the Albanians until today are very hard workers, they never beg,
and they are almost fully intergraded…in contrast to the current flows that cause trouble’.
Along these lines, Anthoula added that ‘the Albanians after the 2015 flows were assessed
differently [more positively]’. Indeed, it seems that the Albanians’ position in the local
community was reassessed in the light of the contemporary ‘migration crisis’, further
stabilizing their establishment. As far as the recent migration flows are concern, she said:
When they arrived in 2015 we helped them and we felt compassion because
the Syrians came due to the war, in a violent way…this means that you could
not have not compared it by thinking that in a similar way Smyrna was set on
fire. We ran in order to cook, collect clothes, and go to the accommodation
facilities. I was cooking chicken with rice…everybody in Mytilene [felt
compassion] because our memories came to light but now I feel that it is
completely different.
Dimitris underlined that although he felt sympathy for the first wave of migration, mainly
comprised of Syrians, now, as he said, ‘They started coming from all over the world…Lesvos
now has 50 different languages, they fight with each other, they set fires, they steal
animals…now I see this phenomenon negatively. … I don’t see these young boys willing to
work’.
Lastly, when Dimitris was asked to compare his ancestors’ flows with the contemporary
migration and refugee flows he emphatically explained ‘there is no similarity with the
current flows because back then [in 1922-23] people spoke the same language, they had
the same morals and customs, the same religion and they were able to be integrated’. In
this case, tolerance and empathy are increased towards ethnic out-groups that are
perceived as members with similar characteristics, such as the Syrian refugees, while
competitive victimization, and in some cases hostility, appear towards those considered to
be migrants or outsiders.
Conclusion
In the context of the contemporary ‘migration crisis’, changing patterns are triggered,
alternating the perceived as established relations and the positionality of the various
outgroups within the host society. I argue that in the context of this complex mosaic of
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populations, memory and identity inform and construct each other, revealing the fluid and
dynamic nature of the idea of the established and the outsider. In this light, people’s
collective identities and their position in the host society, are perceived both internally and
externally, ultimately informing their interactions as well as their attitudes. The position of
an outgroup (i.e. Albanians) in the local community can be reassessed and further stabilised
in the light of the arrival of a new minority group (i.e. the unfolding migration and refugee
flows). With regards to their attitudes, empathy is increased towards outgroups that are
perceived as refugees (i.e. Syrians). In Greece, this term has a very positive connotation
because of its connection with the successful integration of the group of Asia Minor
refugees. Competitive victimization, prejudice, and hostility appear towards those
considered to be migrants or those with whom they have competing claimants (i.e.
Albanians VS Romanians). Competition among outgroups appears to be a key element
based on which these minority groups try to safeguard their place in the host society. Based
on these elements and as memory and identity inform and construct each other, the
outsiders (outlanders) become the established (islanders) throughout time and due to the
dynamic interactions of the various groups and their coexistence in the host society of
Lesvos. Changing perceptions, gradual integration, and arrivals of new outgroups can
further stabilise the position of an outgroup altering the positions of the established and
the outsiders, which are perceived as fixed but are fluid in reality. The extent to which these
dynamic interactions emerge in different transitory places that experience migration needs
to be studied in various contexts.
The Author
Marilena Anastasopoulou is a Research Associate at the Diaspora Project in the South East
European Studies at Oxford (SEESOX), an Onassis Foundation Scholar, a Committee
Member in the International Politics of Migration, Refugees, and Diasporas (IPMRD) Working
Group at BISA, and a DPhil student in the Faculty of History at the University of Oxford. Her
doctoral research focuses on family memories of forced displacement, their
intergenerational transmission, and the way people with these family memories think about
subsequent migration. She holds a MSc degree in Migration Studies from the University of
Oxford and a bachelor's degree in Political Science and Public Administration from the
University of Athens, from which she graduated as the valedictorian. She has worked as a
researcher at the Centre of Asia Minor Studies, at the Department of Politics and
International Relations (DPIR), University of Oxford, at the Hellenic Foundation for European
and Foreign Policy (ELIAMEP), and at the Hellenic Ministry of Foreign Affairs. She has
teaching experience in Modern History in the Faculty of History at the University of Oxford.
Her research and publications focus on issues of political discourse, right-wing extremism,
migration policy implementation, forced displacement, and diaspora philanthropy.
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Bibliography
HIRSCHON, R. (2007) ‘Geography, Culture, and the Refugee Experience: The Paradox of
Lesbos’, in Kitromilides P. M. and Michailaris P. D., (eds.), Mytilene and Ayvalik, Athens,
Institute for Neohellenic Research.
UNHCR (2019) Greece (Online) Available from:
<https://data2.unhcr.org/en/documents/download/71947> (Created 30 September 2019,
accessed 27 April 2020)
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Next Stop: Nowhere
Clara Dybbroe Viltoft
Abstract
In Denmark, there exists a Departure Centre which is home to a few hundred residents,
most of whom are de facto refugees. This is an account of the facility, its conditions, and
what it is like to work there as a substitute Nurture Care Worker. Departure Centres
represent a manifestation of the legislative paradigm shift that can only be interpreted as a
wish to deter refugees from applying for asylum in Denmark and encourage asylum seekers
and refugees already here to undertake voluntary repatriation. This facility de facto puts in
a state of indefinite departure rejected asylum seekers who refuse to leave, criminally
evicted refugees, and refugees without documentation or legal status who cannot return to
their country of origin. Locally and internationally, critics have claimed that these Centres
create conditions that severely strain the mental health and wellbeing of its residents. The
very existence of these kinds of Centres suggests that there has been a shift away from a
commitment to human rights. The fact that infinite standby exists in Denmark points to a
paradigm shift towards a nation closing in on itself, unwilling to actively protect refugees as
per international and regional obligations.
It’s not a prison
But it’s in an old prison
It’s not a detention centre
But it is home to people on both sides of the law
It’s not a deportation centre
It’s a departure centre, they say
But almost no one ever leaves
Author’s poem, April 2020, Denmark.
Introduction
As an on-call Nurture Care Worker contracted through a temporary agency to the Red Cross
section at the Departure Centre, I am under obligation to maintain confidentiality. For this
reason, it should be noted that this article draws on news, reports and legislation tied
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together with my personal experiences of working in this facility and knowledge on the
matter.
Departure Centre: A Place Designed to Incentivise Voluntary Repatriation
The Departure Centre is tucked away in the countryside, approximately 7 km from the
nearest public transportation station. Although the area is green, tranquil and comely,
walking back and forth is not a real option, unless the purpose is the hike itself. Staff drives,
whereas most residents need to arrange borrowing a bicycle for errands. Otherwise, they
have to rely on staff, family or friends to provide transportation for them. What is now the
Departure Centre, administered by Correctional Services, was once a prison. The only entry
point requires a biometric key card and is guarded by staff, as the Centre is fenced in. Upon
entry, the fencing continues. Together with the different buildings and barrack-like houses,
the Centre is split into sections. One area, fenced in and separated from the others, is
managed by the Red Cross. This is where I work. This section is called ‘care’ or ‘nurture care’.
I am placed with the rejected asylum seekers and refugees with psychosocial and/or
psychiatric challenges. My role at the Centre is simple: I am there to ring the alarm if
something happens, make sure the residents have coffee and tea, and assist them if they
have questions or need help. Although many at the Centre are depressed, struggling with
mental health challenges and battling psychosocial and psychiatric diagnoses, this job at
the Centre is largely up to oneself, with the exceptions of assisting around mealtimes,
assisting those who are bedbound and driving residents to, and from pre-approved
destinations. Engaging with residents, who are literally confined to the Centre in a dignified
and meaningful way is therefore the first and foremost aim for me.
Indefinite Standby: Success Has Many Fathers But Failure is an Orphan
In 2015, the Danish government decided that the prison should be used as a Departure
Centre for foreigners without legal status (Kontoret for Økonomi og Indkvartering 2016).
The Centre is home to about 300 men and 30 women; the women live separately, and I
rarely see them. The residents are either rejected asylum seekers, who refuse to leave,
criminally evicted or refugees who cannot be sent home but do not have a legal permit–all
of them are single adults. Only a handful of residents qualify for benefits, a meagre wage,
which can barely cover a return ticket to the nearest bigger city. The rest do not receive any
benefits, as they are not contributing to their departures nor able to attain protection under
the non-refoulement principle. Additionally, the Centre serves three meals a day and
provides necessities, such as hygiene products and access to health services at the facility.
In short, the residents are given food, shelter and medical attention and so, with basic needs
covered, the residents should not need money for anything nor need to leave the Centre.
As it is not a prison, the residents are allowed to leave the facility. However, they must report
to the police in person at the Centre three times a week and they must remain on site during
the night, unless they have been cleared for an outside overnight visit (Røde Kors 2021). As
explained by one of the residents interviewed by Bahgat (2018):
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When we go outside we have to sign to report our attendance three days a
week, Monday, Wednesday and Friday … if I stay outside the whole month
they would take out my stuff from my room and send me to court, then to
prison.
As documented in a report by Sørensen (2017), in 2016 the government-appointed
ombudsman visited the Centre with a team and highlighted three points of contention. The
visit took place in the contexts of complaints about inadequate and poor conditions in the
facility made by the residents themselves, an immigration sub-department, and various
NGOs and civil society actors. First, the report stated that up to four residents lived together
in 10-14 m2 (Sørensen 2017). This has since been changed so that the same rooms can now
only hold two to three rejected asylum seekers, although this often causes problems, as the
residents lack privacy and culture clashes readily escalate into both non-violent and violent
conflicts. In the ‘nurture care’ section, the residents have single rooms. As the facility houses
less than the mandated 600 residents, the report concluded that there is no cause for worry
(Sørensen, 2017). This argument may make sense on paper, as the Centre is supposed to
be a temporary place of residence. When the Centre opened, it was thought that no one
would stay longer than a few weeks and maximum 6 weeks before deportation or voluntary
leave. Yet, the majority of the residents have been there for more than a year and up to four
years, without the prospect of being able to stay (for example by attaining humanitarian
stay or asylum) or the ability or willingness to leave. An additional complaint concerned the
location of the Centre and its distance from public transports as well as the fact that it
resembles a prison (Sørensen 2017). Sørensen’s (2017) report also stated that even though
the Centre was once a prison, the non-police staff is uniformed and thus may be perceived
as ‘prison-like’. Furthermore, the facility still resembles other non-prison institutions run by
the Correctional Services. Finally, the report stated that the persons in question are able to
leave Denmark and return home safely (Sørensen, 2017).
As mentioned above, this Centre, and the other of its kind in Denmark, were created with
the intent for people to reside there for up to 6 weeks until their return had been finalised.
Now, years later, most residents are still at the Centre. The majority of those who leave the
Centre are caught in a cycle of serving short sentences in prison for crimes committed while
at the Centre and then returning to Centre where they live in a state of infinite standby.
Since I started working there over a year ago, I have heard of only one person who was
afforded humanitarian stay. This means that this type of facility in practice functions as a
space to house foreigners separated and far away from the general society, and most of
them do not have any real opportunity or hope for change. Housing de facto refugees
alongside criminally-evicted or time-serving refugees at an old prison problematically
contributes to the narrative of the othering and labelling of refugees as ‘undeserving’,
‘dangerous’ criminals who pose a threat to society--a xenophobic trend found in many
European countries and overlapping with increasing far-right discrimination and violence.
It’s not an island,
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But for some the entry can only occur by plane
It’s not Europe
But when it comes to deportations it flies the stars
It’s not an immigrant nation
It’s a nation of expected assimilationists
But almost no ones manages to pass.
Editor’s replica poem, June 2021, Switzerland.
Pandemic at the Departure Centre: The Sound of Silence
The opportunities to study or work are extremely limited at the Centre, even though some
structures are set to create activities for each resident either inside or outside the Centre.
The attempts seem genuine and admirable, but given the fact the residents have no legal
permits, most cannot expect to be able to study or work, even if fluent in Danish. These
kinds of activities are only offered when it is deemed that they ‘prepare residents for return’.
During the pandemic, activities at the Centre managed either by the administration, NGOs
and/or volunteers had to shut down. No fitness centre, no educational undertakings or
activities categorised as ‘in preparation for departure’ could be conducted so as to comply
with the COVID-19 regulations. Though I do not know how it was before I began working
there, I often heard similar accounts to those referenced in the news articles from the
Centre; the dislike of not being able to prepare your own food, living behind fences when
you are not a criminal and having to live in indefinite standby. Though perhaps a global
phenomenon, it seemed to me that the lack of autonomy and privacy became even more
visible throughout the pandemic; the residents were increasingly bored, gloomy and
extremely difficult to motivate and support, even when restrictions ceased and some
interaction and local travel was allowed. How do you motivate someone to stay positive and
hungry for life, when there is literally nothing you or any system can offer to assist towards
documentation?
Conclusion: Navigating Indefinite Standby as a Nurture Care Worker
Departure Centres created by the government leave people to live their life in the unknown
and without the agency, mobility or opportunity to change the course of action. As such,
they are a clear manifestation of inhumane laws and policies, an expression of what I
experience as growing apathy and increasing dehumanisation of undocumented people. I
am shocked that any Danish government has allowed them to continue on for this long. In
my experience, Denmark used to be known for its progressive legislation and liberties in
the rest of the world - now, my experience is different. Our humanitarian aid and civil society
actors, especially the smaller organisations, fight to survive and run faster than ever. At the
same time, my international friends mostly ask me about headlines on scandals, such as the
so-called ‘Jewellery Law’ used to seize assets from refugees (and deemed ‘inhumane and
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degrading by the UN) (Agerholm 2016) and the ‘Danish Ghetto List’, which contains low-
income neighbourhoods nationwide added based on the following criteria: “higher than
average jobless and crime rates, lower than average educational attainment and,
controversially, more than half of the population being first or second-generation migrants”
(O’Sullivan 2020). The fact that infinite standby exists in Denmark points to a paradigm shift
towards a nation closing in on itself, unwilling to actively protect refugees as per
international and regional obligations.
Since this article has been written, the Immigration Ministry’s new department called ‘the-
travel-home’ agency has started its operations (Udlændinge- og Integrationsministeriet
2020). The agency is tasked with securing that rejected asylum seekers travel home. Job
ads for the ministry stated that most rejected asylum seekers and undocumented refugees
can travel ‘home’ – not that most are returns to ‘their country of origin’ or ‘third-country-
returns’. This choice of wording for the job ads and the name of the new department
suggest that rejected refugees can indeed return home, that they have a home to go to.
Furthermore, the branding strategy promotes the process of return with (monetary)
incentives to prompt voluntary leave. In a politically charged environment characterised by
increasing anti-refugee sentiments, this type of language reinforces a discourse where the
concept of ‘deserving refugees’ is legitimised and those who engage actively and willing
with their return are ‘awarded’.
Is it fair, humane and, more importantly, realistic to expect positivity and engagement with
a process that will put people in danger? Our systems should be capable of practicing
compassion and empathy, rather than making hundreds of people live in Departure
Centres.
As reported by Bahgat (2018), Professor Martin Lemberg-Pedersen argues that Detention
Centrres are designed to psychologically coerce people to leave Denmark:
This is a very serious situation, due in part to the very rationale behind such
expulsion centres. They are built on a logic that people can be motivated to
leave the country. This means that the centre's main function is to impose
living conditions so intolerable that people will leave. Consequently, [the
centres] are not created in a way that allows for a normal, healthy life.
It is therefore clear that there is an implicit wish to deter refugees from applying for asylum
in Denmark and to encourage asylum seekers and refugees already here to voluntarily
repatriate. Most staff at the Centre are not trained to work with people with migrant and
refugee background, but rather they are trained to deal with inmates and people who have
broken the law. Although my experience is that most do what they think is best, as a person
who has worked with refugees in the Global North and Global South for almost 10 years in
various capacities, I see many opportunities to improve conditions at the Centre. Yet, as a
nurture care substitute worker, I find that it is almost impossible to really do anything to
contribute to easing the lives of the people at the Centre given its governing structures. As
a substitute, responsibility does not really fall on my plate, although this is unavoidable once
there. Given that most of the residents in the Centre cannot be assisted into society nor
back to their country of origin in the current legal framework, the Centre primarily functions
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as a basic needs facility. When people ask me what I do there, I usually say that I am there
to ‘be human’ with the residents.
The Author
Clara has worked and volunteered in the non-profit sector for almost 10 years with various
human rights and social justice initiatives besides acquiring a BA in Peace and Conflict
Studies with additional International Law courses. While obtaining her Master of Philosophy
in Criminology, Law, and Society at University of Cape Town, she engaged with NGOs such
as Scalabrini Centre of Cape Town, Lawyers for Human Rights and Cape Mental Health.
Besides regularly engaging in academia as a writer, peer reviewer and speaker, she works
as a consultant on a variety of projects and tasks related to migrancy, integration, historically
marginalised and -oppressed populations, including but not limited to human rights,
development and social justice, crime, conflict, and violence.
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refugees for first time. The Independent (UK).
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deportation camp. The Local.
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Kærshovedgård. In: UDLÆNDINGE-, I.-O. B. (ed.).
O’SULLIVAN, FEARGUS (2020). How Denmark's 'ghetto list' is ripping apart migrant
communities. The Guardian.
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>[Accessed 31 March 2021].
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