Daoud Abdo's daughter Surin, aged 6 (Photo by Anna Psaroudaki)
The passage to Greece was probably easier
for Daoud Abdo and his family than it is for most Syrian refugees. It took the
family of five just two weeks to travel by bus to Istanbul and cross the Evros
river, which forms Europe’s southeastern-most land border; but it was still
fraught with danger.
During the long march to the Evros on the
Turkish side, Daoud says, “my wife and I both fell off duckboards into sumps.”
It was raining and the marshes that surround the Evros were deep. Daoud is
convinced they would have drowned that day, were it not for a group of Bangladeshi
fellow travellers. The Turkish trafficker who led them had some 70 people to
smuggle across, and barked, ‘Leave them! Leave them!’ but, Daoud says, “the
Bangladeshis ignored him and helped us out.”
That was only the beginning of the family’s
ordeal. Once in Athens, they spent a full year sleeping in city parks and on
the street, only intermittently offered shelter by the traffickers to whose
Syrian collaborators they had paid 18,000 euros to take them to Western Europe.
Sometimes the shelter was offered on condition that they prostitute their
eldest daughter, Suzin, a poised girl with intelligent eyes and a coy smile,
who was then 14 – an offer they never accepted. It was only here that they
discovered that the full bargain they had struck in Aleppo would not be
honoured without more money, and that, penniless and jobless, they were
stranded in Greece.
For the 48 year-old Abdo, once a well-to-do
lawyer who used to undertake government work and owned a series of properties
in Aleppo, it was a severe blow. At times, he sounds almost suicidal. “I wish I
had died there. It would have been better and easier for me. The most difficult
day for me in Greece was when we were homeless and all my children were crying
because they were hungry and I couldn’t feed them.”
Abdo says his properties are mostly
destroyed by the war in Syria and he would never risk going back. “There is no
peaceful place left in Syria. Because we are Alevi people hate us,” he says
referring to the minority tribe that, since Bashar al Assad’s father became
president in 1971, has held sway over this nation of 22 million. “Before the
hate was hidden. Now there is constant pressure from all the villages to
leave.” His wife’s family has scattered to other countries. “I will not send my
children to their death,” she says when asked if the family would ever return
to Syria.
Six months ago they were picked up off the
street by scouts for the Coptic Church in Greece and were put up in an apartment
owned by the church, which also feeds them on a daily basis.
Yet life in Greece remains difficult. While
the war rages, Greek authorities will not deport Syrian refugees, but nor will
they support them in any way. Without residence permits, it is next to
impossible for them to work legally. Many are reduced to begging. Others live
off the charity of the Greek Orthodox church and community organisations. It is
easy to be picked up during police stop-and-search operations targeting
undocumented migrants. Syrians can end up jailed for months while their
nationality is verified, and once inside a detention centre, police brutality
is all too frequent, as Juan Akash, a 35 year-old journalist, discovered.
Police picked him up with a group of
Syrians trying to cross over to Italy from Greece’s west coast at the beginning
of the year. He was crammed into a cell with 56 others. “We didn’t sleep for
three days,” he says. When police bussed the inmates to other precincts, “the
senior officers took me out and started to slap me on the face. Then police
took out sticks and started to beat me. On the way down the stairs they beat me
behind the knees.”
Akash was taken to Korinth detention
centre, one of six police have created to house deportation subjects. “It is not
a human place,” Akash says of the former army camp where he spent close to 50
days before being released.
During that time he witnessed frequent
beatings of Syrians and other nationals, including that of an Afghan man who
refused prison food, and was beaten in full view of the others as an example.
“He was on the floor, not moving, completely full of blood. I was watching from
the window. I could not see his face, only the blood.”
“Police brutality is a fact,” says Vasilis
Kerasiotis, a human rights lawyer who works with the Greek council for
refugees. “There is no eye, no non-governmental organisation constantly inside
the detention centres.”
Greece has suffered a severe backlash
against migrants, legal and illegal, as a six-year recession has driven
unemployment to 27 percent. Coupled with this, Greece has over the past two
decades become Europe’s frontline immigration state. According to Francois
Crepeau, the United Nations’ Special Rapporteur for the Human Rights of
Migrants, 85-90 percent of “irregular migration” into Europe passes through Greece.
The UN often decries conditions in these detention centres. Crepeau called them
“shocking” and the detention of children and families “utterly unacceptable”.
The financial burden of policing external European
borders and the legal task of separating political refugees and legitimate
asylum seekers from economic migrants has come as a shock to Greek authorities,
which estimate the total cost at some $650 million a year – an enormous sum in
light of the fact that Greece can barely pay pensions or finance public
hospitals. “The European contribution is 230 million euros. We are grateful,
but… I am afraid that it is not enough,” Greece’s public order minister, Nikos
Dendias, told European officials last month.
The war in Syria has exacerbated the
problem enormously because it has produced close to two million refugees in
just a year. Thousands have elected to go to Europe, but end up living a
non-life in Greece, which hasn’t the money, and arguably the legal culture, to
support them.
The Hiluh family are a case in point. They
applied for political asylum, a notoriously difficult process in Greece, where
applicants must pass muster through two committees. Until now, the process taken
up to three years. “Average approval rates are 0.25 percent in the first
committee and about nine percent in the second committee,” according to human
rights lawyer Alexandros Konstantinou.
Last month, Greece finally overhauled its
asylum process, taking out of the hands of the police and assigning it to a
dedicated Asylum Service in the interior ministry. In its first month of
operation, the service received 878 applications, 51 of them from Syrians, and
made initial rulings on 46, suggesting that it may live up to its ambition to process
applications in under five months. The service is also to open three border
offices, making the application process easier for many. Maria Stavropoulou,
the director of the new Asylum Service, says her office will also recognise the
right of applicants to work legally. “Our law says that anyone with
international protection has the right to work. The real problem is the level
of unemployment in our country.”
This is progress, but the Asylum Service
won’t be processing the backlog of at least 25,000 valid applications that are
still languishing. Those will remain in the hands of the police.
The dysfunction of that police system is
readily apparent. To maintain asylum applicant status, Idriss and Roshan Hiluh
had to show up for an interview once a month, despite the advanced pregnancy of
Roshan. “Two weeks ago we missed the interview because my wife was inducted
into hospital for anaemia,” says Idriss Hiluh, a cabinetmaker from Aleppo.
“When we returned to immigration police we were given deportation papers and
lost our asylum status. We said, ‘what shall we do?’ They said, ‘That’s your
problem.’”
During their harrowing trip to Greece, the
Hiluhs saw just how reluctant Greek authorities were to admit or help them. As
they crossed the Aegean at 2am in an overfilled rubber dinghy, they were
accosted by a Greek coastguard vessel. “The coastguard told us to go back,” Hiluh
says, “but we had a group of Algerians among us who said, ‘this is our fifth
crossing and we are not turning around.’”
To make the point, they began to knife the
dinghy one compartment at a time, until the Hiluhs and their four children,
including an infant, were in the water. “Only then did the coastguard pick us
up,” says Hiluh. Like the Abdo family and thousands of others, they are stuck
in Greece without the money to go deeper into Europe or the legal means to feed
themselves.
Greek asylum
procedures have become so notorious, that a European Court of Human Rights
ruling obliges other EU member states to process those who manage to escape
Greece and file applications on their soil – even though this directly
contravenes existing treaties.
Syrians seem to have cottoned on. Within days of
our interview, Roshan Hiluh had alighted in Switzerland – not an EU member, but
a state with no smirch on its treatment of refugees. She bore her sixth child
upon arrival and plans to file for family reunification there. Idriss Hiluh
articulated the alternative in Greece. “What shall we do? Await a slow death?”