Part1:Regret The Syrian embassy in Berlin is buzzing. Outside, young men smoke and chatter. “They’re nice; good service, not like it used to be,” says one. “They’re the same shit; they haven’t changed,” another retaliates. It is a sunny autumn afternoon, and dozens of people flood through side doors, into a main administration room, to sit in front of a portrait of President Bashar al-Assad. Men joke and jostle, and mothers tug small children by the hand, while a wizened grandfather is hoisted down some steps into the lobby. Behind a desk an embassy official chews nuts and fires off instructions. “Will they start counting from the time I got my residency permit?” a new arrival asks. “It’s from the time you left Syria,” the official barks. “I left Syria illegally,” the arrival re- sponds, brazenly. “You need to regularise your status. Press number three, get a photocopy of your passport and wait your turn.” In 2015 the number of refugees fleeing Syria for Europe increased drastically. The 500,000 Syrian men, women and children who arrived on the continent were escap- ing a myriad of dangers, including mortars and barrel bombs, snipers who targeted civilians, or forced military service for a government they had no trust in. Every aspect of the dangerous journey, from the barely buoyant boats to Greece, to clashes at the Macedonian border, to lengthy waits for trains in Budapest, was closely covered by the media. Alongside the images of desperation there was much public discussion about what would happen to the newly arrived refugees. How could they be integrated? What type of support should they get? Would the influx of people change European culture? Two years later a much smaller but still significant phenomenon has emerged: reverse migration. In four months of research, we have interviewed dozens of Syrian refugees and former refugees in Germany, the UK, Ireland, Turkey, Sudan and Syria who are considering going home, have attempted some of the journey, or have already returned to what is still a war zone. We set out to discover why some Syrian refugees are leaving, what routes they are travelling, and what happens to them once they get back. In addition to the interviews, we ana- lysed hundreds of posts in online groups by Syrians across Europe who are discussing return. Although this article focuses on refugees leaving Germany, our research shows that Syrians are leaving other European countries, too, including Sweden, Denmark and Austria. Missing family Just two days after we meet, in September, Mustafa is to turn 18, become an adult and lose the chance to rescue his family. He has been living in Stuttgart for two years, but the doe-eyed Syrian teenager, who speaks fluent German, still hasn’t been granted refugee status – something he suspects is a deliberate delay to stop him making an application to bring his parents to Germa- ny. “I lost half my childhood in the war in Syria, and I lost the other half living away from my family,” he says. Every week his father encourages him to stick it out. “Don’t waste your future,” he barks down a WhatsApp call. But for some of Mustafa’s friends, young and alone in a country more than 2,500km from home, the distance has already been too hard. “I know many who have gone back.” Reverse refugee migration is not a new concept. Germany has more than 1,000 Rückkehrberatung – or “return counsel- ling” – centres that advise refugees who are considering it. Most return-counselling centres are run independently, although some are tied to the German state. They’re meant to operate separately from the asylum procedure, but sometimes asylum seekers get confused between the two, jeopardising their asylum status. We speak to one applicant, Obada, whose claim for refugee status was put on hold after he said in an asylum interview that he wanted to go home. Without documents he is unable to leave the country yet has no legal right to work or bring his wife and newborn baby to join him. Obada and Mustafa’s stories illustrate a common experience. At the height of the conflict, Syrian families with little money would send one family member ahead, usually a husband or son. Once in Europe, that person could apply for family reunifica- tion for their spouse, parents, children or siblings, helping the whole family escape. In Germany this policy changed early last year. Before this Syrians were given asylum, but now they are usually given only temporary leave to stay, meaning they must wait two years to apply for family reunification. There have also been changes to which family members are eligible to come to Europe. Under-18s are now allowed to send for their parents only, which often means abandoning siblings in a war zone. At least one underage boy who came to Stuttgart has returned to Syria, according to Patricia Söltl, an organiser with a refugee-support group, because of this policy change. “He missed his family so much,” she says. Without supervision, young Syrians can suffer. Mustafa doesn’t drink, but we learn of another 15-year-old whose father ordered him back to Hama, in Syria, after the teenager developed a drug problem. For older Syrians in Germany, some of the problems are cultural. Obada articu- lates a common fear among Syrians: he worries about the effect German culture might have on his children and thinks the German authorities have too much power to take them into care , should cultural differences cause problems at home. For those who were wealthy in Syria, a fall in status can be hard to accept. In Hanover we meet a former millionaire who owned six properties. “Just the shop . . . would have been enough for my family to live like kings,” he says, sadly. The last he saw of his factory and store in the besieged Damascus suburb of Jobar was in a video of a decimated street on Facebook. His three adult children are settled in Germany, but he dreams of restarting his business at home. “I don’t want to be a burden on the German government,” he says. “If the [Assad] regime is gone I’m 100 percent certain everyone will go back.” Many Syrian migrants say they experi- ence discrimination and judgment from Europeans. “People’s views of refugees have changed in a bad way,” says a 26-year-old economics graduate from Damascus, the Syrian capital, who now works as a security guard. He tried to board a plane to Lebanon last year but was stopped at Frankfurt Airport for not having a visa. “The stories we hear about Isis, explosions in France, because of this I feel like I’m under suspicion.” The young man’s uncle has left Europe already; he has been back working in his Damascus electrical shop since mid-2016. “In Germany he felt like he was missing something. He wasn’t himself. He felt like he wouldn’t find the friends he had, he wouldn’t find work. He was completely lost.” Passport problem Although some Syrian refugees relinquish their passports to the German govern- ment, others are allowed to keep them. One conundrum brought up by several refugees is whether to renew their Syrian passports – at a cost of up to $760 (¤640). Syrians who renew their documents and visit the embassy are, often unknowingly, entering a legal minefield. Both Sabine Lehmann, of the United Nations’ Interna- tional Organization for Migration in Berlin, and a German asylum lawyer who works with refugees admit that when refugees’ statuses come up for renewal, these actions could be a reason to deny their claims. In an email, a spokesperson for the Federal Office for Migration and Refugees says cases are examined individually, but confirms that under the law Syrians lose refugee status if they renew passports or do anything else to place themselves “under the protection of the state whose nationali- ty they hold”. Yet some refugees say German authori- ties have asked them to go to the embassy, in order, for example, to register a new- born baby. These concerns could become especially pertinent if there’s a major policy change in whether Syria is considered a safe country. Already the far-right Alternative für Deutschland party, in parliament since September, has called for the repatriation of Germany’s Syrians, saying the war is coming to an end. Concerns around changing politics are raised by many Syrians we speak to. They say they have little reason to trust any state, and feel safer keeping their options open. “Right now they treat us good here, but in the future we don’t know what will hap- pen,” says one man. “There’s expectation versus reality,” says Walid Chahrour, a lawyer whose work with BBZ Berlin, a counselling and care centre for young refugees and migrants, has grown from just handling asylum claims to also advising those who want to leave. In 2015, he notes, refugees arrived in an overburdened German system, mean- ing cramped living conditions and huge delays in processing their applications – very different from what they had anticipat- ed. “Some Syrians who come to us say in their whole life they’ve only received three letters by post. In four months [here] they’ve received 450 letters, most from the job centre. The tone is threatening. With all these, people start to be scared, and they just can’t deal with it.” We meet Chahrour in a second-floor office in Berlin. “You will regret it if you go back,” he is warning a refugee in the corridor when we arrive. Last year Chahro- ur was involved in fighting a seminal case, one of the first taken by Syrian refugees who wanted their documents back so they could leave Germany. The family of three brothers were eventually successful. One of them, a sweet maker named Mohamed Ma’rouf, had been refused a permanent visa, meaning he couldn’t apply for his family to join him or use his German documents to travel back to them. Three times he tried to get to Sudan – one of the few countries Syrians can enter without a visa – but each time he was stopped at the airport. When the court granted him the return of his documents Ma’rouf moved straight to Khartoum, the Sudanese capital, where he began to work. Months later he had enough money to pay a smuggler $1,250 to move his wife and four young daughters out of East Ghouta, a besieged area east of Damascus, through a tunnel. “It’s relieving being together again,” Ma’rouf says delightedly when we meet in Sudan in July, 10 days after he was reunited with his children. “When I was in Germany I worried all the time about my family’s safety, but now I know they’re okay.” Part2:Return Sengar is on a mission: to rescue his children. As the fighting in Syria got worse they would call him from the city of Deir ez-Zor, saying they were under siege; Isis was nearby; they couldn’t leave their house; they were hungry. None of the four teenagers, nor their mother, has a passport. Even if they did, there’s no way for them to get to a German embassy, to complete the family-reunifica- tion process by which Sengar can bring them to Europe. They can’t even move from street to street, he tells us. There are mines on the road outside. Still, there are dangers even inside the house. When their home was hit by two rockets Sengar’s son’s face was scarred and his teeth were broken. Sengar, a 49-year-old with greying hair and a leather jacket, came to Germany in 2015. He went ahead because the family could afford only one passage. “I was running away from one situation to another,” he says now, but he experienced problems as soon as he arrived, including shock at how difficult German is. Still, he was granted refugee status, and at the beginning of 2017 he was given a grant by German authorities to buy furniture. The money made up his mind for him: why furnish an apartment when he could rescue his children? We meet on a Berlin road that is nicknamed Arab Street, and is lined with hookah bars and Middle Eastern restau- rants. As we speak Sengar uses his lighter, his phone and a sugar dispenser to map out the route he took home on the table in front of him. First he got a train to Budapest; then he flew to Athens. From there he went to the Greek port city of Thessaloníki, where he got a bus to the Turkish border, then walked until he reached a part that was unguarded. Next he travelled through Turkey. Because the German government was holding his passport he used a forged Syrian passport and a smuggler to get across the Turkish border into Idlib, a city held by the Syrian opposition, which they managed after a long wait and a bribe to the border guards. The trip cost Sengar ¤2,500, putting him in debt. Once he was inside Syria the Free Syrian Army opposition told him to turn back. “Don’t go to Deir ez-Zor, because Isis controls it. If they see you coming from Europe they’ll cut your head.” Eventually Sengar arrived back in Germany. Now he’s in debt and homeless. He’s living off the charity of Berlin-based Syrians who let him sleep in their restau- rant and begrudgingly give him food and cigarettes. “Many people want to go back but need a safe area to be in,” Sengar says. “I went there and tried, but it’s impossible.” Thessaloníki Two years Thessaloníki was a hub for migrants and refugees arriving for the first time in Europe, a point of celebration and a place to co-ordinate your journey onwards. Arrival there meant you had made it across the border and avoided local police carry- ing out illegal push-backs, detaining and then depositing refugees back into Turkey. Now Thessaloníki has become a hub for refugees returning to the Middle East. On a Facebook group with tens of thousands of members, Syrians post regularly about the city. “Hey guys, I’m going from Cologne to Thessaloníki next month. If someone wants to join me we can go together,” a recent post reads. Another family of six going to Turkey ask if anyone will join them. Travelling in groups reduces the individual cost for a smuggler. Some groups are as large as 30 or 40 people. Those leaving Germany fly to Thessaloní- ki with their German travel documents. From there they get a bus to one of the numerous points recommended by smug- glers along the Turkish border, and either find a bridge crossing the Maritsa river or contact smugglers permanently stationed there who can take them across on a boat for between $100 and $200 (¤85-¤170). “Don’t worry, brother: my people sleep at the point,” one smuggler tells us. As many did on the way to Europe, reverse migrants are entrusting their safety to smugglers who often misrepre- sent the true situation and make it seem easier than it is. “Smugglers only care about making money,” says one man who travelled from Germany to Turkey to see his wife. “I went 10 days ago, and the [Greek police] caught me, beat me up and threw everything I had in the river.” He said the border police hurt him so badly they broke two of his teeth and knocked him unconscious. THE ROAD BACK TO DAMASCUS In Hanover we meet a former millionaire who owned six properties. ‘Just the shop would have been enough for my family to live like kings,’ he says, sadly News Review Reverse migration – efforts by Syrian refugees in Europe to return home – is a growing phenomenon. But those who want to go face legal, practical and financial blocks, and many who make it back face torture and conscription. In a major investigation ‘The Irish Times’ travels to Germany, Sudan and Syria to meet some of those looking for a way back ‘‘ ■ Above: a young girl walks around her neighbourhood in Aleppo. Her family returned in August after four years in a camp for displaced people. They still have no water or electricity in their apartment. PHOTOGRAPH: SALLY HAYDEN Sally Hayden and Ziad Ghandour 4 THE IRISH TIMES Saturday, December 2 , 2017
Transcript
Part1:RegretThe Syrian embassy in Berlin is buzzing.Outside, young men smoke and chatter.“They’re nice; good service, not like it usedto be,” says one. “They’re the same shit;they haven’t changed,” another retaliates.
It is a sunny autumn afternoon, anddozens of people flood through side doors,into a main administration room, to sit infront of a portrait of President Basharal-Assad. Men joke and jostle, and motherstug small children by the hand, while awizened grandfather is hoisted down somesteps into the lobby.
Behind a desk an embassy official chewsnuts and fires off instructions.
“Will they start counting from the time Igot my residency permit?” a new arrivalasks.
“It’s from the time you left Syria,” theofficial barks.
“I left Syria illegally,” the arrival re-sponds, brazenly.
“You need to regularise your status.Press number three, get a photocopy ofyour passport and wait your turn.”
In 2015 the number of refugees fleeingSyria for Europe increased drastically. The500,000 Syrian men, women and childrenwho arrived on the continent were escap-ing a myriad of dangers, including mortarsand barrel bombs, snipers who targetedcivilians, or forced military service for agovernment they had no trust in.
Every aspect of the dangerous journey,from the barely buoyant boats to Greece, toclashes at the Macedonian border, tolengthy waits for trains in Budapest, wasclosely covered by the media. Alongside theimages of desperation there was muchpublic discussion about what wouldhappen to the newly arrived refugees. Howcould they be integrated? What type ofsupport should they get? Would the influxof people change European culture?
Two years later a much smaller but stillsignificant phenomenon has emerged:reverse migration.
In four months of research, we haveinterviewed dozens of Syrian refugees andformer refugees in Germany, the UK,Ireland, Turkey, Sudan and Syria who areconsidering going home, have attemptedsome of the journey, or have alreadyreturned to what is still a war zone.
We set out to discover why some Syrianrefugees are leaving, what routes they aretravelling, and what happens to them oncethey get back.
In addition to the interviews, we ana-lysed hundreds of posts in online groups bySyrians across Europe who are discussingreturn. Although this article focuses onrefugees leaving Germany, our researchshows that Syrians are leaving otherEuropean countries, too, includingSweden, Denmark and Austria.
MissingfamilyJust two days after we meet, in September,Mustafa is to turn 18, become an adult andlose the chance to rescue his family. He hasbeen living in Stuttgart for two years, butthe doe-eyed Syrian teenager, who speaksfluent German, still hasn’t been grantedrefugee status – something he suspects is adeliberate delay to stop him making anapplication to bring his parents to Germa-ny. “I lost half my childhood in the war inSyria, and I lost the other half living awayfrom my family,” he says.
Every week his father encourages him tostick it out. “Don’t waste your future,” hebarks down a WhatsApp call. But for someof Mustafa’s friends, young and alone in acountry more than 2,500km from home,the distance has already been too hard. “Iknow many who have gone back.”
Reverse refugee migration is not a newconcept. Germany has more than 1,000Rückkehrberatung – or “return counsel-ling” – centres that advise refugees who areconsidering it. Most return-counsellingcentres are run independently, althoughsome are tied to the German state. They’remeant to operate separately from theasylum procedure, but sometimes asylum
seekers get confused between the two,jeopardising their asylum status.
We speak to one applicant, Obada,whose claim for refugee status was put onhold after he said in an asylum interviewthat he wanted to go home. Withoutdocuments he is unable to leave thecountry yet has no legal right to work orbring his wife and newborn baby to joinhim.
Obada and Mustafa’s stories illustrate acommon experience. At the height of theconflict, Syrian families with little moneywould send one family member ahead,usually a husband or son. Once in Europe,that person could apply for family reunifica-tion for their spouse, parents, children orsiblings, helping the whole family escape.
In Germany this policy changed earlylast year. Before this Syrians were givenasylum, but now they are usually given onlytemporary leave to stay, meaning theymust wait two years to apply for familyreunification.
There have also been changes to whichfamily members are eligible to come toEurope. Under-18s are now allowed to sendfor their parents only, which often meansabandoning siblings in a war zone. At leastone underage boy who came to Stuttgarthas returned to Syria, according to PatriciaSöltl, an organiser with a refugee-supportgroup, because of this policy change. “Hemissed his family so much,” she says.
Without supervision, young Syrians cansuffer. Mustafa doesn’t drink, but we learnof another 15-year-old whose fatherordered him back to Hama, in Syria, afterthe teenager developed a drug problem.
For older Syrians in Germany, some ofthe problems are cultural. Obada articu-lates a common fear among Syrians: heworries about the effect German culturemight have on his children and thinks theGerman authorities have too much powerto take them into care , should culturaldifferences cause problems at home.
For those who were wealthy in Syria, afall in status can be hard to accept. InHanover we meet a former millionaire whoowned six properties. “Just the shop . . .would have been enough for my family to
live like kings,” he says, sadly. The last hesaw of his factory and store in the besiegedDamascus suburb of Jobar was in a video ofa decimated street on Facebook.
His three adult children are settled inGermany, but he dreams of restarting hisbusiness at home. “I don’t want to be aburden on the German government,” hesays. “If the [Assad] regime is gone I’m 100percent certain everyone will go back.”
Many Syrian migrants say they experi-ence discrimination and judgment fromEuropeans. “People’s views of refugeeshave changed in a bad way,” says a26-year-old economics graduate fromDamascus, the Syrian capital, who nowworks as a security guard. He tried to boarda plane to Lebanon last year but wasstopped at Frankfurt Airport for not havinga visa. “The stories we hear about Isis,explosions in France, because of this I feellike I’m under suspicion.”
The young man’s uncle has left Europealready; he has been back working in hisDamascus electrical shop since mid-2016.“In Germany he felt like he was missingsomething. He wasn’t himself. He felt likehe wouldn’t find the friends he had, hewouldn’t find work. He was completelylost.”
PassportproblemAlthough some Syrian refugees relinquishtheir passports to the German govern-ment, others are allowed to keep them.One conundrum brought up by severalrefugees is whether to renew their Syrianpassports – at a cost of up to $760 (¤640).
Syrians who renew their documents andvisit the embassy are, often unknowingly,entering a legal minefield. Both SabineLehmann, of the United Nations’ Interna-tional Organization for Migration in Berlin,and a German asylum lawyer who workswith refugees admit that when refugees’statuses come up for renewal, these actionscould be a reason to deny their claims.
In an email, a spokesperson for theFederal Office for Migration and Refugeessays cases are examined individually, butconfirms that under the law Syrians loserefugee status if they renew passports or doanything else to place themselves “underthe protection of the state whose nationali-ty they hold”.
Yet some refugees say German authori-ties have asked them to go to the embassy,in order, for example, to register a new-born baby.
These concerns could become especiallypertinent if there’s a major policy change inwhether Syria is considered a safe country.Already the far-right Alternative fürDeutschland party, in parliament sinceSeptember, has called for the repatriationof Germany’s Syrians, saying the war iscoming to an end.
Concerns around changing politics areraised by many Syrians we speak to. Theysay they have little reason to trust any state,and feel safer keeping their options open.“Right now they treat us good here, but in
the future we don’t know what will hap-pen,” says one man.
“There’s expectation versus reality,”says Walid Chahrour, a lawyer whose workwith BBZ Berlin, a counselling and carecentre for young refugees and migrants,has grown from just handling asylumclaims to also advising those who want toleave. In 2015, he notes, refugees arrived inan overburdened German system, mean-ing cramped living conditions and hugedelays in processing their applications –very different from what they had anticipat-ed.
“Some Syrians who come to us say intheir whole life they’ve only received threeletters by post. In four months [here]they’ve received 450 letters, most from thejob centre. The tone is threatening. With allthese, people start to be scared, and theyjust can’t deal with it.”
We meet Chahrour in a second-flooroffice in Berlin. “You will regret it if you goback,” he is warning a refugee in thecorridor when we arrive. Last year Chahro-ur was involved in fighting a seminal case,one of the first taken by Syrian refugeeswho wanted their documents back so theycould leave Germany. The family of threebrothers were eventually successful.
One of them, a sweet maker namedMohamed Ma’rouf, had been refused apermanent visa, meaning he couldn’t applyfor his family to join him or use his Germandocuments to travel back to them. Threetimes he tried to get to Sudan – one of thefew countries Syrians can enter without avisa – but each time he was stopped at theairport. When the court granted him thereturn of his documents Ma’rouf movedstraight to Khartoum, the Sudanesecapital, where he began to work.
Months later he had enough money topay a smuggler $1,250 to move his wife andfour young daughters out of East Ghouta, abesieged area east of Damascus, through atunnel.
“It’s relieving being together again,”Ma’rouf says delightedly when we meet inSudan in July, 10 days after he was reunitedwith his children. “When I was in GermanyI worried all the time about my family’ssafety, but now I know they’re okay.”
Part2:ReturnSengar is on a mission: to rescue hischildren. As the fighting in Syria got worsethey would call him from the city of Deirez-Zor, saying they were under siege; Isiswas nearby; they couldn’t leave their house;they were hungry.
None of the four teenagers, nor theirmother, has a passport. Even if they did,there’s no way for them to get to a Germanembassy, to complete the family-reunifica-tion process by which Sengar can bringthem to Europe. They can’t even movefrom street to street, he tells us. There aremines on the road outside.
Still, there are dangers even inside thehouse. When their home was hit by tworockets Sengar’s son’s face was scarred andhis teeth were broken.
Sengar, a 49-year-old with greying hairand a leather jacket, came to Germany in2015. He went ahead because the familycould afford only one passage. “I wasrunning away from one situation toanother,” he says now, but he experiencedproblems as soon as he arrived, includingshock at how difficult German is.
Still, he was granted refugee status, andat the beginning of 2017 he was given agrant by German authorities to buyfurniture. The money made up his mind forhim: why furnish an apartment when hecould rescue his children?
We meet on a Berlin road that is
nicknamed Arab Street, and is lined withhookah bars and Middle Eastern restau-rants. As we speak Sengar uses his lighter,his phone and a sugar dispenser to map outthe route he took home on the table in frontof him.
First he got a train to Budapest; then heflew to Athens. From there he went to theGreek port city of Thessaloníki, where hegot a bus to the Turkish border, thenwalked until he reached a part that wasunguarded. Next he travelled throughTurkey. Because the German governmentwas holding his passport he used a forgedSyrian passport and a smuggler to getacross the Turkish border into Idlib, a cityheld by the Syrian opposition, which theymanaged after a long wait and a bribe to theborder guards. The trip cost Sengar¤2,500, putting him in debt.
Once he was inside Syria the Free SyrianArmy opposition told him to turn back.“Don’t go to Deir ez-Zor, because Isiscontrols it. If they see you coming fromEurope they’ll cut your head.”
Eventually Sengar arrived back inGermany. Now he’s in debt and homeless.He’s living off the charity of Berlin-basedSyrians who let him sleep in their restau-rant and begrudgingly give him food andcigarettes.
“Many people want to go back but need asafe area to be in,” Sengar says. “I wentthere and tried, but it’s impossible.”
ThessaloníkiTwo years Thessaloníki was a hub formigrants and refugees arriving for the firsttime in Europe, a point of celebration and aplace to co-ordinate your journey onwards.Arrival there meant you had made it acrossthe border and avoided local police carry-ing out illegal push-backs, detaining andthen depositing refugees back into Turkey.
Now Thessaloníki has become a hub forrefugees returning to the Middle East. On aFacebook group with tens of thousands ofmembers, Syrians post regularly about thecity. “Hey guys, I’m going from Cologne toThessaloníki next month. If someonewants to join me we can go together,” arecent post reads.
Another family of six going to Turkey askif anyone will join them. Travelling ingroups reduces the individual cost for asmuggler. Some groups are as large as 30or 40 people.
Those leaving Germany fly to Thessaloní-ki with their German travel documents.From there they get a bus to one of thenumerous points recommended by smug-glersalong the Turkish border, and eitherfinda bridge crossing the Maritsa river orcontact smugglers permanently stationedtherewho can take them across on a boat forbetween$100 and $200 (¤85-¤170). “Don’tworry, brother: my people sleep at thepoint,” one smuggler tells us.
As many did on the way to Europe,reverse migrants are entrusting theirsafety to smugglers who often misrepre-sent the true situation and make it seemeasier than it is. “Smugglers only careabout making money,” says one man whotravelled from Germany to Turkey to seehis wife. “I went 10 days ago, and the [Greekpolice] caught me, beat me up and threweverything I had in the river.”
He said the border police hurt him sobadly they broke two of his teeth andknocked him unconscious.
THEROADBACKTODAMASCUS
InHanoverwemeet aformermillionairewhoownedsixproperties. ‘Justthe shop wouldhavebeenenough formy family to livelikekings,’ he says, sadly
■Above: a young girl walks around herneighbourhood in Aleppo. Her familyreturned in August after four years in acamp for displaced people. They stillhave nowater or electricity in theirapartment. PHOTOGRAPH: SALLY HAYDEN
SallyHayden andZiadGhandour
4 THE IRISH TIMESSaturday, December 2 , 2017
Once in Turkey, Syrians certain abouttheir decision to leave might sell theirGerman documents to other Syrians for asmuch as $3,000. The buyer can then usethe documents to fly to Germany, beforeclaiming asylum once safely there.
“I’m leaving from Germany to Turkey,”a recent online posting reads. “If you find alookalike he could take my passport andcome back.”
For many Syrians, selling on theirEuropean documents allows them to coverthe cost of the journey back.
There is theoretically a legal and freeroute for refugees to return home. Whenrefugees from other countries ask to leave,the International Organisation for Migra-tion will pay for their trip. It even has a“return hotline” – including one for Ireland– and this year set up a specialised websitein collaboration with the German govern-ment. But Syria is one of only three coun-tries classified as being too dangerous, soreturns there are currently on hold. (Theothers are Libya and Yemen.) SabineLehmann, of the International Organisa-tion for Migration in Berlin,says it iscarrying out “continuous evaluation” inSyria. “The travel itself must be safe, andthe situation there must be safe.”
However, she says she is aware thatmany Syrians are debating returningamong themselves. “You are sensing iteverywhere. I am too,” she says. “You needlegal ways of migration in both[directions].” She also warns that refugeesmust be aware of the consequences. “Whenyou leave Germany you legally resign yourasylum application,” Lehmann says. “If Ireturn I relinquish that right to asylum” butcan lodge another claim.
The German Federal Office for Migra-tion and Refugees says it has no way ofrecording the number of refugees whotravel home “independently”. Its organisedreturn programme won’t send people toSyria, but last year 35 Syrians returned toneighbouring countries through thisprogramme, it says.
Our research suggests the numberleaving both for neighbouring countriesand for Syria itself is many times that.
SudanandIranroutesThat it is one of the few places they don’tneed a visa for makes Sudan a populartransit country for refugees on their wayback to Syria who don’t go through Greece.From Germany, Syrians who still havetheir passports can fly to Khartoum, andfrom Khartoum straight to Damascus.During the stopover, some also sell theirGerman documents. “I got a German traveldocument in Sudan and want to get toEurope,” one online poster comments.“How is the way?”
A few Syrians tell us that Germany’sSyrian embassy is facilitating flights backvia Iran. “If you have a Syrian passport youcan go to the Syrian embassy in Berlin andsay you want to go back to Syria,” oneposter advises. “They’ll fly you to Tehranand there you’ll wait for an hour for yourplane to Damascus.”
Another refugee says his uncle travelledhome that way. Embassy officials cancelledan interview with The Irish Times and didnot respond to multiple requests forcomment.
Part3:ReunionSami thought he had got away with it. Thethirtysomething had been living in Germa-ny for three years as a recognised refugeewhen his mother became seriously ill. Frailand elderly, she would need an operation tosave her life. His brothers decided it was hisduty, as the youngest son and the only
unmarried one, to help her.Brandishing his Syrian passport so
Germany wouldn’t find out he was violat-ing the conditions of his refugee status,Sami boarded a flight to Khartoum andthen went to Damascus. He planned to stayless than 20 days – the first period he wouldspend in Syria since the war began. Still, hetook precautions. From abroad, Syrianscan pay someone to check whether theirname is on a “list”, meaning governmentofficials are looking out for them. Samididn’t need that; he got a friend to do it forhim. When he got the all-clear he thoughthe was safe.
But things went wrong at the immigra-tion desk at Damascus airport. “You haveto wait five minutes,” Sami was told before
being pushed into a back room and then acar. It would be more than a month beforehis mother found out he was still alive.“For one month my family didn’t knowanything about me. Even after they wentand asked at a police station. They knewthat I flew from Sudan to Syria and afterthat [for] one month no one knew any-thing,” he says.
For weeks afterwards, Sami, whosename has been changed for his safety, waslocked in a cell with dozens of others,including several who had been caughtreturning from Europe. He estimates it tohave measured 3m by 4m, which barely leftroom to breathe. “For sure they give usfood, but it’s little, just to be alive.” Everytwo hours at night, half the cell’s detainees
would stand up to let the others lie downand try to snatch some sleep. The crampswere unbearable.
Sami was released only for torturesessions, when officers would beat him,demanding he give them informationabout opposition leaders thought to be inEurope – people he didn’t know.
‘Wefightallday’“It’s normal in Syria. No one goes to [the]police without [being tortured]. They don’tcare if someone dies . . . Also, you can’t doanything, because nobody knows whathappened to you. If someone from outsidecomes to the police station and asks aboutyou, they say he’s not here . . . Even [if] youdie nobody knows.”
Sitting outside a bar in the Bab Toumadistrict of Damascus this autumn, Samilooks malnourished. In the four monthsafter he left Germany he lost 15kg, or nearly2½ stone. He explains that he wants to tellhis story to warn other Syrian refugees inEurope about what could happen to them ifthey come back.
After a month in the prison cell Sami wassent to the army, despite having completedmilitary service years before. Within dayshe was sent to an Isis-controlled territory –one of the areas of Syria currently experi-encing the most brutal fighting.
The lack of food and care for soldiersmeans a posting there could be a deathsentence, according to Sami. “We fight allthe day, and then in the night they give ussome bread and some potatoes . . . It’s notreally food. No breakfast, no lunch . . .Sometimes we [can’t] find water.”
Three weeks before we meet, and threemonths after he was enlisted in the army,an Isis bomb detonated near where he wasfighting, killing almost everyone with him.Sami can now barely walk. He holds oneside of his body rigidly. Later he rolls up histrouser leg to show deep lacerationsextending all the way up his body. “I knowtoo many people who were in Europe andcame back. They are with me now [on thefront lines].”
In Germany, in Syria and across Europewe hear multiple accounts of young menwho have disappeared after returning toSyria, and are presumed to be in prison.Some even manage to be reunited withtheir families before they disappear.
But Sami’s story gives a comprehensiveaccount of what happens to some of them.He says women and only sons, who areexempt from military service, might beheld for only a few days, but any other men
between the ages of 18 and 42 would bothbe enlisted and come under suspicion.
Another Syrian from Hama says hisfather, who is above army age, had beendetained for nearly three hours at Damas-cus airport after returning from Sweden.His passport was confiscated so he couldn’tleave Syria again.
“Everyone who left Syria illegally will betaken for political questioning, and anyonewho tells you otherwise is lying,” the sonsays. His father was caught for having noexit stamp in his passport. He was ques-tioned about his connections with “enemycountries”, how he got out of Syria, whosmuggled him, and who was in control inthe country’s north when he passedthrough.
The father – who remained underinvestigation – has since been smuggledout to Turkey again. “He will never go backto Syria,” his son says.
For those who cross the Turkish borderand re-enter Syria illegally by land, theconsequences could be worse. Some of thesmugglers along the route to Aleppo are inleague with the army, Sami says. If you’recaught you could be sent straight to themilitary or disappear into prison for years.
Others who manage to reach home aretrapped in their houses. Military check-points across towns and cities, as well asundercover intelligence, mean it’s impossi-ble to go undetected for long.
Once refugees return to govern-ment-held Syria they fall into a systempowered by endemic corruption, where asoldier must pay large sums of cash to get asafer posting. “Without money you can donothing,” Sami says.
‘Don’teverreturn’The government says there are channels bywhich those who have left can ensure a safereturn. In Aleppo, Fadi Ahmad Ismail, thegovernment representative for reconcilia-tion, details the process. He says anyonewho fought government forces or evenspoke against the Assad regime in themedia must contact the ministry forreconciliation and make peace before theyreturn.
So far 300 people have come back toAleppo from abroad after doing this, hesays. Each had to sign paperwork saying hewill not act against the state in future. Anywho speak out again may face prosecutionin a terrorism court.
Although legal expatriates can pay$5,000 to avoid military service after beingout of the country for five years, Ismailconfirms that refugees aren’t eligible forthis. Even if they have previously been inopposition to the government, any eligiblemale between 18 and 42 must do militaryservice upon returning home, he says.
Across the country it is possible to findpeople who have come back legally. InDamascus, at the Syrian football cup finalin October, Hamo Ahmad bounds throughthe stadium stalls, shouting an enthusiastic“Guten Tag” at anyone who looks foreign.The 25-year-old arrived back in Syria 20days earlier, after three years playing with aFrankfurt football club. “I loveDeutschland,” he says. “But I missedhome.”
Powerful figures from three pillars ofSyrian society have issued mixed messagestowards the more than five million refu-gees who fled the country – though thereality at this stage is that most people arerelated to someone abroad.
In February Mr al-Assad said he recog-nised that most refugees may want to comeback in the future. “This is [a] country toevery Syrian,” he said, but he added thatwhat happens next may not be up to him.“It doesn’t matter what I believe. What
matters is what the law would say aboutevery person who committed any actagainst his country.”
A month before his death by landmine inOctober, the prominent Republican Guardgeneral Issam Zahreddine caused anoutcry when he said refugees wouldn’treturn if they knew what was good forthem. “To those who fled Syria to anothercountry, I beg you don’t ever return,because even if the government forgivesyou, we will never forgive or forget,” he toldstate media.
Speaking in his residence in Damascusin November, Syria’s grand mufti, AhmadBadreddin Hassoun, a powerful religiousleader close to the government, assures us:“The gates are open for everybody.” But hedenies the number of refugees in Europe isas high as has been recorded and says theyfled only because of abuses by Syrianopposition groups, rather than anythingthe government did. Hassoun was inclinedto believe reports that “226,000 refugeeswent to Europe in 2016”, but he insists veryfew of the families are Syrians. “The othershave fake passports.”
Syria’s foreign minister declines arequest for an interview.
“The entire system of mass detentionand torture is still continuing,” says ScottGilmore, a lawyer from the Center forJustice & Accountability, in the UnitedStates, who is investigating war crimes inSyria. “People get routinely stopped atcheckpoints, kidnapped . . . There are stillforms of political violence, but some[attacks] are common criminality.”
For Sami these warnings come too late.Days after we meet he is to be summonedback to the front lines. His story, told inhushed tones in an open street, where wecan watch for eavesdroppers, is under-scored by the harsh reality that he doesn’tknow whether he’ll survive the rest of theconflict.
He curses himself for re-entering whathe describes as “the last war” – the mostdangerous period of the fighting so far, asthe government tries to retake the areasstill out of their control. “I say don’t believeanyone and don’t come,” he urges. “Youhave to wait a little more time.”
This report was supported by the Mary RafteryJournalism Fund and Tony Ryan Trust
Anyonewho foughtgovernment forcesorevenspokeagainst theAssadregime in themediamustcontact theministry forreconciliationandmakepeacebefore they return
‘‘■ Top left: a formermillionaire shows aphotograph on his phone of whatremains of his shop in the besiegedDamascus suburb of Jobar. Top right:Mustafa, who suspects Germanauthorities have put off confirming hisrefugee status so hewon’t apply for hisfamily to join him in Stuttgart. Aboveright, middle: Sinjar, who attempted toreturn to Isis-held Deir ez-Zor to rescuehis children, in a cafe in Berlin. Aboveright: a refugee in Heidenheim looks outfrom the accommodation he shares withthree other Syrians. Above left:MohamedMa’rouf, who fought to beallowed to take his documents back sohe could leave Germany, reunited withhiswife and four daughters in Sudan.Left: a sign shows the road to DamascusPHOTOGRAPHS: SALLY HAYDEN
Idlib, SyriaNext, he travelled through Turkey and useda smuggler to get across the Turkish borderinto Syrian opposition-held Idlib
BerlinIn Germany since 2015, Sengar tried to travelhome this year to rescue his family
BudapestTo get homeSengar first got a train to Budapest
AthensFromBudapest he flew to Athens
ThessalonikiFromAthens, hewent to Thessaloniki
TurkishborderHewalked until he reached apart thatwas unguarded
Deir ez-ZorIn Idlib hewaswarned Isis wouldkill him if hewent to Deir ez-Zor,where his family are. He returnedto Germany
1
2
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Sengar’s journey
THE IRISH TIMESSaturday, December 2 , 2017 5
Nurah suspected her13-year-old son was dead whenthe smuggler who claimed to beholding him hostage refused toput him on the phone. That wasthree years ago, but the seriesof events still runs through hermind every day.
Her youngest had left home,without warning and leaving nogoodbye note or clue as to hisdestination. Nurah – originallyfrom Eritrea – was already anx-ious because just a month earli-er her older son had abandonedSudan, hell-bent on making itto Libya and then across theMediterranean to Europe.
And then the angry mancalled, demanding a ransom of$2,000 for the younger boy. “Isaid if my son was alive I wantedto hear his voice, but they didn’tput him on,” she recalls,hunched over in a hot, crampedroom in the Sudanese capital,Khartoum, her eyes staringfirmly at the tiled floor.
Today, Nurah is on her own.Like most Eritreans and Ethio-pians in Sudan she describesherself as a habesha – a sec-ond-class citizen. She used towork at one of the tea stalls dot-ted along the banks of the Nileriver running through Khar-toum, but unending harass-ment from locals and Sudanesesecurity ended, she says, withtwo men following her home,kidnapping and raping her.Now she’s afraid to go outside.
Nurah’s story (she requestedanonymity because she fearsretribution from smugglers orSudanese security) is just one ina thick book of woes relating toSudan. Here, young people aredisappearing with startling fre-quency, many of them encour-aged by smugglers to leave forEurope without telling theirparents, who’ll be hit later witha staggering bill for the pas-sage.
ConflictandpovertyMost Sudanese migrants, escap-ing conflict and poverty, wantto go to Europe. It’s consideredthe closest safe region. Butthat’s gradually changing be-cause of new restrictions onnongovernmental search andrescue missions off the coast ofLibya, new money from the Eu-ropean Union to help Libya, Su-dan and other African coun-tries to stop migration, and newEU training for the LibyanCoast Guard, which is crackingdown on Mediterranean boattraffic.
All this makes the trip to Eu-rope more costly and difficult.But it has not stopped would-bemigrants in Sudan – especiallythe young – from plotting jour-neys to what they expect will bebetter lives.
In Kassala, on Sudan’s east-ern border, and in Sudan’s capi-tal, Khartoum, smugglers areeasy to find. In Khartoum,they’re often Eritreans whohave made enough money tobuy cars. Connections to smug-glers are made through neigh-bourhood recommendations; ameet-up is likely after asking afew key people.
“Smugglers are very organ-ised, it’s organised crime,” saysIsmail Omer Teirab, deputychairman of Sudan’s NationalCommittee to Combat HumanTrafficking (NCCT). He be-lieves what makes them diffi-cult to root out is that gangs of-ten work with the nation’s secu-rity forces. “First they bribe po-licemen. Otherwise theycouldn’t get through the check-points.”
For those fleeing Eritrea –Nurah left because of forced un-ending military service and se-vere economic and social op-pression – the journey from Kas-sala to Khartoum costs$300-$450 (¤250-¤380) forboys and men, and $750 forwomen. Why the difference?Families have been willing topay more to ensure the safety ofwomen.
RansomfeesFor those wanting to go fur-ther, passage to Libya costsfrom a further $1,600 and$1,800; going all the way to Eu-rope from Khartoum – in a
smuggler’s run – costs as muchas $5,000, a fortune even forworking refugees who earn aslittle as $50 a month as labour-ers.
When a ransom is added, theprice skyrockets. And, if it goeswrong, some pay with theirlives.
The one near-certainty fac-ing migrants is that they will fallinto steep debt to the moneymanagers who facilitate thejourneys. Those who brave thevoyage often fall into the handsof militias operating a viciousslave trade inside Libya, wheremultiple governments andmany tribes are locked in astruggle for supremacy.
Refugees and migrants whounsuccessfully attempted thejourney to Libya say it is com-mon for smugglers to sell themto other gangs once they drawnear the Libyan border. Prettysoon, they no longer knowwho’s in charge, and the termsof their “contracts” can changewithout notice or negotiation.Some migrants are held in de-tention, suffering malnutritionand physical or sexual abuse.Others are forced to work untilsmugglers decide the debt ispaid.
“Traffickers don’t keep theiragreements. They’ll increase ordouble it and sell them to othertraffickers,” said one27-year-old Eritrean, whosefriends recently set out on thejourney and an unknown fate.
Europe “is only a hope, awish”, he said.
DeadlyrouteThe central Mediterranean iscurrently the deadliest route toEurope. Some 600,000 peoplehave crossed since 2014, whileabout 12,000 are feared to havedied at sea. More than 2,800are believed to have died so farin 2017.
Migrants and refugees in Su-dan commonly originate in Eri-trea. In Sudan, their move-ments are limited. They claimthey face harassment by the po-lice, who regularly round themup, threatening deportation un-less they pay bribes.
“The police every day arrestEritreans and Ethiopians here.They ask for your ID card, makeyou pay $50. If you have an IDcard they might take it and cutit [in half] says one Eritrean fa-
ther.“Some of the police live off
refugees,” a Khartoum resi-dent, who asks to remain anony-mous, agrees. “They really getthe brunt of it.”
Those who manage to get per-mission to work are often paidvery little, and much less than alocal would get.
The road to Europe is so diffi-cult that many who today aretrying to get across the Mediter-ranean are the second genera-tion, sons and daughters of refu-gees who came to Sudan yearsago. They see their parents be-ing paid low wages, and suffer-ing discrimination, police bru-tality and corruption, and de-cide they don’t want the samelife.
Meanwhile, smugglerssearch out young people andconvince them to make the jour-
ney without telling their par-ents. “Go now, ask for moneylater,” they tell them. “That wayno one can stop you.”
“I hid it from my family. Iwon’t tell my parents until I getto Libya,” explained a24-year-old woman with deli-cate features in Khartoum. Shesays her parents have proper-ties in Eritrea they can sell, asacrifice that would leave themwith nothing but if she iscaught, she knows they willhave to pay. “I will be exposedto slavery and sexual violence ifthey don’t pay.”
Another 24-year-old, a nursefrom Eritrea who wants to be adoctor, says she is aware of thedangers: “I know but there is nomore miserable life than thisthat I am now living. I want achance . . . a better life.”
Two weeks ago, her18-year-old sister tried to followher to Khartoum, but was kid-napped on the Eritrean border.Her family have been told theransom is $5,000, an impossi-ble amount for them to pay. Sheworries that if the ransom is notpaid, the girl may be moved upto the Sinai desert in Egypt.Among Eritreans, there are ru-mours that there is a trade in or-gan harvesting in that area, al-though the UN special rappor-teur for Eritrea, Sheila BKeetharuth, says there is no evi-dence to prove those claims.
“There are many who triedto go to Libya and they aredead,” says Azgiamin Tesialas-si, a tired-looking Eritreanwoman with braided hair,speaking in a dark, stone housein a low-income neighbour-hood popular with refugees.“Some are lost in the desert andsome at sea. For those who aredead, no one can help.”
As she speaks, she repeatsthe words “delalti haisebat” –which means human smug-glers in her language, Tigrinya.
“Our children are being kid-napped by smugglers here.”
“If trafficking is business,now how can we make itnon-profitable? I haven’t an an-swer,” Ismail Omer Teirab, theNational Committee to CombatHuman Trafficking (NCCT)deputy chairman, says in an in-terview in Khartoum’s oldesthotel, the Acropole. At least100 people each month make itinto Libya, Teirab estimates,though exact statistics are im-possible to collect in a vast areawith little technology and re-cord-keeping.
EducationThe NCCT was formed after Su-dan adopted the much-lauded2014 Human Trafficking Act.Teirab, a former teacher fromDarfur, says he wants to runcampaigns to educate refugeesand Sudanese youth about thedangers of courting smugglers.He has received minimal fund-ing – not enough for an office,other staff members, or even aphotocopier.
“Every day young people seevideos of Europe on theirphones now, how can we com-bat that?” he asks.
Jeff Crisp, a research fellowat the public affairs think tankChatham House and the for-mer head of policy at the UNHigh Commissioner for Refu-gees, accepts that if the Mediter-ranean becomes an impassablebarrier, it’s possible smugglerswill begin sending people onnew routes.
“It’s something a lot of peo-ple say: if one route closes it di-verts into another,” Crisp says.“[But] it takes a while betweenone route closing off and thenpeople taking up a differentroute.”
Among refugees in Sudan,there is little knowledge of theworld outside the destinationsalready travelled to by familymembers or acquaintancesfrom home. Most simply ex-press the desire to keep movinguntil they find a safe space withopportunity. “I don’t knowwhere would be good but Iknow I can’t stay here,” one ref-ugee said.
SouthAmericaThere is evidence that more mi-grants from northern and eastAfrica are even finding theirway to South America, and byarduous and complicatedroutes. In one neighbourhood,families told of a Somali whoended up in Mexico, after heflew from Zambia to Brazil witha work visa. Another Somalitravelled to Brazil from SouthAfrica.
Another factor pushing mi-grants elsewhere is a growingrecognition of the backlashagainst new settlers in Europe,and the magnitude of the Medi-terranean crossing.
“Panic is the word I woulduse for the EU response to thewhole refugee and migration is-sue over the last three years, ithas really not got its act togeth-er and it has lurched from onething to another,” Crisp says. “Ithink everyone thinks thatthere’s an importance in ap-pearing and talking tough.”
Crisp says while it was obvi-ous the EU was hoping peoplewould no longer go on boats ifrescues off the coast stopped,“that really depends on howmuch information [themigrants] have and what thesmugglers and traffickers tellthem”.
Tekulu, an Eritrean24-year-old in Khartoum, is dueto make the journey northsoon. He says smugglers don’ttell refugees the truth about the
risks involved with these jour-neys, or give them adequate in-formation about what the situa-tion on the other side might be.“With the traffickers – no onetells you exactly how people liveas refugees and how they ar-rive. They just tell you thingsare good.”
He is camped out in a sparsecompound that has been usedby countless Eritreans on theirway through Sudan. The fourother young men staying thereon this particular day have beenin Khartoum less than a month.
On Tekulu’s bicep is a tattoofrom the early days of his forcedmilitary training, the imprintcarried out with a pen heatedover a burning tire. “It was notmore painful than what washappening around us,” he says.
Given what he’s been
through, Tekulu isn’t willing toshatter illusions for those whowill no doubt follow him. “Evenif I tell them not to come, howcan they stay here? It is good forme to keep quiet.”
This story was produced in a col-laboration between thenon-profit 100Reporters, aWashington, DC-based investi-gative reporting organisation;and Journalists for Transparen-cy, a project of Transparency In-ternational.
■Main: Eritrean girls chat ona bed in the unaccompaniedminors section of Shagarabrefugee camp, eastern Sudan.From top: scenes fromShagarab refugee camp.PHOTOGRAPHS: SALLY HAYDEN
Africa’s crossroads: How corrupt smugglersin Sudan drive refugees onwards
‘‘
inKhartoum
■An Eritrean teenager sits on his bed in the unaccompaniedminors section of Shagarabrefugee camp, eastern Sudan. PHOTOGRAPH: SALLY HAYDEN
World News
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Join us and be part of the year’s ultimate theatre
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Thedreamofescape toEurope isworthextremeriskto life and limb
THE IRISH TIMESThursday,December 28 , 2017 9
On the edges of the SambisaForest, a vast, colonial-eragame reserve believed to be hid-ing a combination of Islamistmilitants, the region’s disap-pearing wildlife, and – localswill tell you – charms and mag-ic, the Nigerian army is keepingwatch.
Along the horizon, figureswill sporadically emerge fromthe vegetation: a lone boy, ayoung girl or two, a mother cra-dling a baby.
In a war where the majorityof suicide bombers are womenand children, those on guardcan’t be too careful. “Stop!” asoldier will shout as soon as any-one comes within earshot.“Raise your hands up. Emptyyour bag. Lift up your dress.”
They’ll fire into the air to giveearly warnings, and continue tobellow until those approachingcomply. Some – starving, anddesperate to reach safety – fol-low orders without hesitation.Others, strapped with explo-sives, might not. They’ll beshot, the soldiers say.
A few months ago, those onguard watched as a teenage girland another – even younger –abandoned hope even beforethe military made a move.“They got scared and blewthemselves up,” one soldier re-calls.
On the other side of the mili-tary checkpoint is Gwoza, atown that has gained notorietybecause of its value to Boko Har-am, one of the world’s deadliestterror groups, which has beenwaging war in Nigeria’s north-east for the past eight years.
BrutalexecutionsBoko Haram captured the townof 275,000 in August 2014 anddeclared it the headquarters ofits “caliphate”. Former cap-tives describe militants march-ing through the town wavingblack flags, performing brutalexecutions and celebrating inthe streets after suicide bomb-ings.
One woman who was sold asa slave within the group tells meGwoza’s fighters would ex-change videos with IslamicState in Iraq and Syria, eachboasting about their conquestsand brutality. From Gwoza, or-ders would be pushed out tofighters across the region. Be-fore a large military offensive
against it in early 2015, BokoHaram’s territory extended toabout 20,000 square miles.
Two years after it was recap-tured by Nigerian forces, theland surrounding Gwoza is stillhighly insecure, with frequentattacks, kidnappings and am-bushes along roads. But thetown itself is now a guarded oa-sis, the safest spot for miles, andthe displaced are trickling backin.
The Nigerian army’s 192 Bat-talion is in charge of defences inGwoza, and its headquartersare at an old government lodge.On one side are the MandaraMountains, where thousands ofGwoza’s residents fled and hid,some living in caves for years.The area is unusually green andlush. When we arrive by helicop-ter, an officer is sitting behind amound of sandbags, while oth-ers mill around.
CampsfordisplacedThough residents are return-ing, many haven’t gone neartheir homes, instead headingstraight to camps for the dis-placed.
Sheltering from the sun in anabandoned school building, thewalls pockmarked with bulletholes, 42-year-old Bintus de-scribes the day Boko Haram ar-rived in Gwoza. “They came inwith guns blazing. I was indoorsand didn’t know how manythere were,” she recalls.
She fled with her children,moving to the next safe place,and then on again once the mili-tants launched a fresh attack.“We had no food, no drinkingwater. I was afraid my childrenwould die of starvation. Theywere constantly fainting.”
The family ate plants to sur-vive. Eventually, they returnedto Gwoza, arriving just 11 daysbefore we meet. Sitting on themat beside Bintus is UwaniMusa Dure (25). She also re-cently came home, but herthoughts are elsewhere.
She lists the names of hermissing relatives: her teenagebrother and a sister who wasforced to marry a Boko Haramfighter; her mother Haziza; andher own children, Umar (10)and Hadiza (8). Her husbandwas killed during the assault onGwoza.
Dure has spent the last14 months traversing the north-east, trying to find out what hap-pened to her family. She has vis-ited the cites and towns of Yola,Mubi, Maiduguri and Kano, butto no avail.
When Boko Haram attacksan area, one of the first things itdoes is knock down mobilephone masts, with the resultthat reports of its atrocities areslow to circulate.
In Gwoza, communicationsare still down, meaning the onlyway to get a message out is tosend it with someone by road orhelicopter. Returnees use a net-work of old neighbours and fam-ily to try to get news of missingrelatives, but often their search-es are fruitless.
“I get nostalgic when I seepeople with their parents or
husbands,” Dure says. “I thinktoo much and cannot sleep atnight.”
Civilian life has come back toGwoza. Young girls walkarm-in-arm down the street.Someone is blasting music, acover version of Michael Jack-son’s We Are the World.
Yet burned-out cars lie be-side burned-out buildings.Saeed Salisu Sambo, electedchairman – the equivalent ofmayor – of Gwoza last August,says 30 per cent of residentshave returned. Many rushed torepaint their houses to hide themarkings the militants left be-hind, he says. “Even the house Ilive in [had] ‘Allah’ painted allover it,” he says.
Just as the Islamic State ter-ror group has done in Iraq,Boko Haram systematically de-stroys properties before theyare recaptured, maximising thechaos and seeking to prevent ci-vilians from returning to theirregular lives.
BurnedlaptopA former medical centre in thetown has clearly been set onfire, all its records incinerated.On the walls, drawings by themilitants are visible. All werepictures of weapons, cars ortanks. There is also evidence ofBoko Haram’s use of technolo-gy. Outside one building at thecentre, a laptop had beensmashed on the cement andthen burned, the memory cardsrendered unreadable.
The area is now a healthcarefacility run by Unicef, whichhas set up its own tents in thefront of the grounds. In one cor-ner is a mass grave.
“That’s where Boko Haramburied their own,” a medicalworker tells me. Staff are care-ful of where they stand – be-sides the hidden bodies, there’sstill a risk of explosives.
Landmines, booby-traps andother improvised explosive de-vices are a problem across thenortheast of Nigeria, says Sine-ad McGrath, country directorfor Mines Advisory Group Inter-national, which began carryingout assessments in May. Howev-er, the ongoing conflict meansverified information on thescale of the threat is scant.
“The number of victims andthe exact type and extent of con-tamination across the region isnot known,” she says. “Further-more, the most conflict-affect-ed state, Borno, is mostly inac-cessible to humanitarian ac-tors, so little comprehensive in-formation is available.”
Back at the military base,Sambo struggled to explain theimpact of the war on what was arural farming community,where education was prized butmost residents lived simplelives. “There are a lot of trauma-tised people. More than10,000,” he says. “We were af-fected quite immensely, butnow we’re moving beyond it.”
The politician’s youngerbrother was killed by Boko Har-am in 2014, aged 26. His nieceand nephew were abducted thesame year.
At times Sambo dismissesthe significance of Gwoza’splace in the war, while at othertimes he emphasises it. “Any-where can be declared the cali-phate. It doesn’t mean any-thing,” he says, dismissively, be-fore changing his mind.
“I have to feel fear. My homewas declared as a caliphate.”
Donald Trump jnr’s decisionto publish a transcript ofemails he exchanged with Brit-ish publicist Rob Goldstonemarks the latest developmentin an extraordinary series ofevents over the past few days.
The latest controversy to be-set the Trump administrationbegan within hours of the USpresident touching down inWashington after the G20 sum-mit on Saturday evening, whenthe New York Times reportedthat Mr Trump jnr had metwith a Russian lawyer, NataliaVeselnitskaya, in June 2016.
On Sunday morning, thepresident’s eldest son issued astatement, confirming that themeeting had taken place butstating that the discussion wasprimarily about an adoptionprogramme.
SecondstatementThat evening, Mr Trump jnr is-sued a second statement inwhich he said that he was toldahead of the meeting that theindividual “might have infor-mation helpful to the cam-
paign”. However, he said thatduring the meeting the womantold him that certain individu-als connected to Russia werehelping to fund Hillary Clintonand that “it quickly becameclear that she had no meaning-ful information”.
Late on Monday, the NewYork Times reported that anemail had been sent to MrTrump jnr prior to the June9th meeting stating the infor-mation being offered to himabout Hillary Clinton was partof the Russian government’ssupport for his father’s cam-paign. The New York Times didnot print the email, but basedits story on three unnamedsources.
It appears to have been theNew York Times report aboutthe email – and perhaps thechance the newspaper mayhave been preparing to print
the full email – that promptedthe president’s 39-year-old eld-est son to post his email ex-change with Mr Goldstone, theman who set up the June 9thmeeting, yesterday.
Mr Trump jnr had been regu-larly tweeting since the news-paper story first broke at the
weekend. Yesterday morninghe dismissed the media cover-age of the June 9th meeting, de-scribing it as a “nonsense meet-ing”.
NBCinterviewA few hours later he tweetedthe link to the email chain. Thisalso took place shortly after MsVeselnitskaya gave an inter-view with NBC, perhaps anoth-er reason why Mr Trumpchose to publicise the emails.
In that interview, the Rus-sian lawyer – who it lateremerged was described as agovernment attorney by MrGoldstone in his emails propos-ing the meeting to Mr Trumpjnr – denied that she had any in-formation about Hillary Clin-ton, as claimed by Mr Trump inhis Sunday evening statement.
She said that Donald Trumpjnr had asked her during themeeting whether she had any fi-nancial records which mightprove that funds used to spon-sor the Democratic NationalCommittee were coming frominappropriate sources.
“It is quite possible that may-be they were longing for suchinformation. They wanted it sobadly that they could only hearthe thought that they wanted,”she said.
Unlike his son, US presidentDonald Trump was uncharac-teristically silent on the contro-versy on Twitter.
Deputy press secretary Sa-rah Huckabee Sanders did de-liver a message from the presi-dent at a press briefing yester-day, however.
“My son is a high quality per-son and I applaud his transpar-ency,” the president said.
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SuzanneLynch
Inside the headquarters ofBoko Haram’s former caliphate
■ From top: Residents on astreet in Gwoza, northeastNigeria; recently returnedpeople sit in a camp for thedisplaced; a burned-outmedical centre. PHOTOGRAPHS:SALLY HAYDEN
