A journey along the refugee trail
Navid Kermani
It was a strangely softened Germany I had left. In the train stations of major cities, foreigners lay on green foam mats amid travelers rushing to catch their trains. But no one tried to shoo them away or saw them as a public nuisance. On the contrary, Germans wearing bright yellow vests kneeled next to the foreigners to serve them tea and sandwiches. While other countries were harassing the foreigners, so much so that they escaped on foot along highways, Germany was sending special trains to pick them up, and wherever they arrived, it was to the applause of local residents, and even mayors, standing along the platform.
Novelist Navid Kermani and photographer Moises Saman recently traveled from Budapest through the Balkans to Turkey. They tell of Europes treatment of immigrants who almost all have the same destination: Germany.
From one day to the next, even the most xenophobic newspapers were telling the life stories of these foreigners, accounts of war, oppression and the rigors and dangers of their journeys so impressive that even Germanys more conservative citizens would have trouble opposing their rescue. Citizens initiatives were formed in cities and villagesnot in opposition to, but in support of these new neighbors. Football teams in the German Bundesliga affixed stickers to their jerseys with slogans welcoming the refugees, and the most popular actors and singers railed against anyone who refused to display solidarity.
Yes, there was also hate for the foreigners, there were attacks, but this time politicians immediately lent their support to those who were being threatened and paid visits to the hostels where they were staying. Even the chancellor, Germanys sedate and sober-minded chancellor, who had reacted helplessly to a crying Palestinian girl only a few weeks earlier, stunned her fellow Germans with her emotional defense of the right to political asylum. Not to mention the government: Was it still the same one that had, just months ago, criticized louder than any other government in Europe Italys Mare Nostrum program to rescue migrants and refugees on boats in the Mediterranean? And then the statethe German state: To care for hundreds of thousands of new refugees went way beyond all possible forecasts, and still worked surprisingly well. Grumbling over the fact that schools could no longer use their gymnasiums was kept to a whisper, and any cost estimates that foresaw Germany needing to take on fresh debt were also kept quiet. And what if another million refugees arrive next year, and possibly even more in the year after that? It was a strangely softened Germany I had left, a country whose gray, stern, unwelcoming aspects seemed somehow coated with powdered sugar. Just as I was leaving, I couldnt help but think how easily powdered sugar is blown away.
From the veranda of my hotel, I look out at the Turkish coast, only a few kilometers away, on the other side of the Mediterranean. It is 8:30 a.m., and just as I write this sentence, the first refugees come walking around the corner. Judging by their appearance and the bits of conversation I can hear, they are a group of Afghan men whose rubber dinghy appears to have landed on Lesbos without significant difficulties. Unlike many other refugees who, out of fear of the police, land their boats on rocky or steep, brush-covered shorelines, or whose boats are hopelessly overcrowded, these men seem neither soaked nor suffering from extreme cold. Having survived the most dangerous leg of their journey, they look happy, even jaunty, as they chat and joke with each other, as one would on a weekend excursion. What they dont know is that they still have a long walk ahead, 55 kilometers (34 miles) to the port of Mytilini, in the hot sun and cold nights, without food, sleeping bags or warm clothing. The United Nations hasnt chartered enough buses to pick them up.
As I write, the next group is already walking past the hotel, Afghans again, except that this time, one of them is an unveiled young woman in jeans, most certainly a city dweller. This is unusual. Almost all Afghans I have encountered on my journey along the refugee route from Budapest across the Balkans to Lesbos are from rural areas, speak no language other than Dari and are clearly not the skilled workers and engineers the German economy is hoping for.
Why are all of you coming here? I asked yesterday, when I took along groups of the elderly, women and children in our small Jeep, with nine or 10 people crowded in each time. What do you expect to find in Germany?
Work, they replied, schools, and a little safety. There is no future in Afghanistan.
But why is everyone leaving now? I asked. There was no future in Afghanistan last year, either.
They said on TV that Germany is accepting refugees, they told me, one after another, to explain why they had embarked on their journey in early September. Most sold their belongings and made their way across Iran, ultimately traversing the mountains on foot into Turkey without spending money on accommodations or hot food, hired a trafficker in Izmir, who often demanded more from them than the agreed upon price of 1,400, only to discover that their boat was so overcrowded they had to throw their luggage overboard. Arriving on Lesbos empty-handed and often with no money, they wondered how they would ever reach Germany. Shit, I thought to myself, this isnt what the Germans meant to happen when they announced they would welcome refugees.
They would need 65 for the ferry to Piraeus, I told them, and 40 for the bus to the Macedonian border, the train through Macedonia was free, and then they would need another 35 for the bus through Serbia, the trains and buses they would take across Croatia, Hungary and Austria before reaching Germany would be free. The aid organizations had set up tents at the border and they would probably manage the night, although there wasnt always enough room, and, starting in Macedonia, they would be provided with a little food and diapers. And yes, the borders were still open, but no one knew for how long.
When I arrived in Budapest, the capital of the European country known for its hostility towards strangers, I was surprised to see no foreigners at all aside from the usual tourists. When I traveled out of downtown Budapest, the faces in the subways remained white and Hungarian was the only language to be heard. Even in John Paul II Park, where thousands were stuck in August and then began to leave the city by walking along a highway, prompting Chancellor Merkels impulsive decision to open the
German border, there was not a single refugee in sight.
I had arranged to meet with Jlia, Eva and Stefan, who had joined many other volunteers in helping the refugees in the park. Back in July, they had no idea they would become activiststhey were leading ordinary lives as a translator, a psychologist and a financial adviser, and they werent even particularly interested in political affairs. But then, in early August, they were confronted with the suffering of refugees on their own doorstep, and found themselves speaking with the migrants who were neither the freeloaders nor the terrorists state television had made them out to be, but actually people just like them, some were even translators, psychologists and financial advisers. Aside from the very sporadic deliveries of aid supplies by the Red Cross and other organizations, the care of thousands of refugees over a period of several weeks depended on the work and donations of local Budapest residents. spiegel
