A report from Ed Fordham, direct from Serbia. It does highlight how important that it is to remember all those who are fleeing for safety, throughout the world, and not just those in the headlines. the second and third report follow, it is a long read, but as direct as you will get, and highlights the terrible situation caused by those that can not working together as they could. Ed is thankful for the volunteers and NGO’s that remain there. we thank Ed for writing these articles for us.
Report 1 from Sid, Serbia Processing the refugees whilst in transit
Today I got to Sid, Serbia, where refugees and migrants are being handled – I’m trying to digest what I saw and need a little time to process my thoughts – so a short report.
As we drove west from Belgrade we left the E70 motorway and passed through the village of Kukujevci we, approached Givarac. A small lonely village – almost just a row of houses with a solitary shop and bar. Houses in this part of Serbia are of a type, low, functional, some have the ‘hungarian’ architectural style of bold arches and Art Deco charm. But most of all they are road side properties, the entrance to the side of the house, usually through a small gate and a drive, and so this enhances the image that it is shut and closed up. This haunting quiet added to my sense of trepidation.
We cross as railway line, the driver pulled over and in short halting conversation got some directions that were barely audible to me. A few hundred yards more and and were in Sid. Before long we have pulled over – The Autobuska Stanica Sid (Sid bus station to our right) and Sid railways station to our left. considering the small size of this place I was stuck by the number of taxis standing in rank and waiting for trade – at least 9 or 10. There was a hush around and I gained an impression that even the plastic bag of rubbish that blew over the road was solitary. And then all became a little clearer, we pulled over and got out.
A large and fairly intimidation concrete factory towered over us, but there next to it – almost opposite the railway station is a requisitioned large impressive house that has been converted into a processing centre for migrants and refugees.
As I take in my surroundings I see the signs – Mercy Corps notice board promoting www,refugeeinfo .eu – another board showing that we are in the last region before the Croatian border and any further south would be Bosnia and Herzogovina, and the formal sign: Republic of Serbia, Commissariat for Refugees and Migration, One stop centre, Sid – Point. This is where refugees and migrants are handled and processed by Serbia. We are just 3-4 kilometres from the Croatian border.
There are police, not trying to intimidate, just trying to facilitate, there are workers in Serbia uniforms, UNHCR, medicins San frontiers, Mercy Corp and more besides. And scattered around are people, who are clearly not from here, sitting, standing, talking all waiting. There is no aggression, no tension, but everyone is waiting.
I am told that in various guises there are over 20 NGOs operating here and it’s quite a large complex but a permit is needed for entry and so we wander around whilst access for me is considered. There are seven children sitting on the ground in the compound playing some kind of card game. I am struck by how young most of the people are. I am told that there are about 500 people here at the moment – all wanting transit onwards.
But as I talk to people about what is happening I get more of the detail. Last year as many as 3,000 people a day were arriving, now it can be just a few hundred. But there are detailed tragedies and dilemnas’s. Syrians are getting permits and progression rights, whilst people from other countries are not. Moroccans and Algerians who are left stranded here are not happy bedfellows with others as they will drink alcohol and that causes conflict. One young person was killed by the electric cables trying to get onto a train not that long ago, two mothers have given birth here.
And the handling of it – Serbia understand they are handling people as they seek to make asylum applications here – but Croatia realise that they are the gateway not into Europe, but into the EU itself. And so the actual border has moved and this railway station has become a new frontier and on occasion Croation police are here at the station handling the migrants directly.
Looking around – and I am trying not to stare – I see people from across North Africa and the Middle East – the diaspora that has travelled here is not just about Syria. What is underway is a massive transfer of humanity towards Europe.
I manage to get a short halting story with one man “I am not Syrian, I’m from Afghanistan – the war in Syria in is the news now, but when I left, my country was ripped apart by conflict – my family are gone, what do I do? Wait for the political temperature to change so I get left into the EU or go back to nothing?” I can’t help but agree with him.
But more than anything else, I am struck, impressed, by what Serbia is doing here – a processing centre, medics, sleeping space, food bags and water. It’s very basic but it is helping. And as I sit here in my Belgrade hotel, lit by bright light and warmth and on my own, peaceful and in solitude, I am struck that those migrants and refugees I saw were making their nights sleep. They are clustered in rooms with 10, 15 other people, most of whom they don’t know until this situation brought them together. And they are grateful and thanking us for our humanity.
As for the EU rules, the Croats and the Hungarian fences, and the western hypocrisy – I find myself despairing. Do we know so little of our own history, actions and involvement that we think we are only in Syria? Our hand, our soldiers, our arms, reach deep into the conflicts in Libya, Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan and more. It should come as no surprise that these people want sanctuary. And as I try and sleep tonight – in the name of humanity – we should say yes.
Report 2 from Sid, Serbia
Where in the world are we and am I?
Yesterday I got to Sid, Serbia, on the border with Croatia, where refugees and migrants gather and are being processes – something if what I saw and heard follows.
There are a few hundred people here – mostly men – mostly young. The ones wandering round on their own are late teens to mid late twenties. One lad has clearly been reclothed, got a newly packed rucksack and carrier bags – I sense from his optimism and demeanour he has a permit to travel. I look at him closely, he is talking excitedly and I am struck at just how handsome he is. In any other walk of life he could be an actor, a model, someone’s boyfriend, partner, fiancé. And yet, here, in this small Balkan village he is stateless and homeless.
Most people cling together in groups of 2-3. But the women are in two sorts of gatherings – those that are either sitting on the floor watching over bags and possessions or they are younger, with their husband and a young child or two. And then I begin to understand why. It is the women whom I suspect the police are the less willing to move on and so the women stake out the spaces near the road, by the notice boards, closest to the railway station. I wonder if they are first to see and know a train is arriving and grab their seat.
As we wander round I see piles of supplies, logs, firewood, water bottles – there are skips with rubbish in. Somewhat heartbreakingly I watch three adult men (themselves asylum seekers) sorting through the rubbish extracting cans and plastics which I assume they will trade or re-use.
And then my permit is approved: with a simple nod and touch on the shoulder I am told I can go into the camp. There is an understanding that you don’t take pictures and you don’t talk direct to the asylum seekers themselves.
I am shown the medical room where basic health checks are undertaken at the front of the camp, there is a larger more clinical room behind, where people who need it are treated for specific conditions – I am shown a sort of social room where there are board games and toys. I notice how many of the games are in English.
Then we go further down and I see the shower blocks, the portable toilets, the lean-to structures largely erected last October and November, I’m told at the peak, and we pass a heavily barred and locked store which I where I am told the food is held and issued from. And then I get to look into a small crèche of sorts – a small room, the size of my hotel room right now, and I count 16 children aged between 3-6 years of age and three young carers in their 20’s. One of the carers comes over and greets me warmly – in good English she thanks me for taking an interest (my guide having explained that I’m involved in politics and trying to see the situation first hand).
But as we leave I take a close interest in the young people walking around. One child in front of me is barely 6 or 7. He wears blue trousers and a green shirt, he clings to a rubber ring about 8″ in diameter as though it was the best toy ever. I think to myself that it was probably once a dog toy.
Under the roadside notices about trains and hygiene sit three men, crouched on their haunches. They gaze nowhere other than into the concrete and dust and my heart sinks into their silence and I feel a sense of gloom and despair on their behalf.
We walk round the corner to a sort of guest house. As we turn a corner, there is a father and his four children huddled close to him to get out of the wind and I realise that it is beginning to rain. As they huddle a brother pulls down a tarpaulin sheet above them and as they move I realise that they are in fact also huddled round a mobile phone charging point.
I’m seeing a lot but in many respects all it is doing is enhancing my own sense of helplessness – and so I try and take in the details myself so I can share them widely back home. We go into the tea room of the guest house and there is a noisyness as this is where some of the teenagers clearly hang out. My guide says that they are from Libya and so currently can’t be processed. One of them apparently has tried to move on 5 times and been sent back 5 times by Croatian guards.
All along I have sought to avoid having an opinion on the handling by states other than to admire what Serbia is trying to do – but I ask my guide what he thinks. The worst were the Hungarians He says, and so having the fence at least means the asylum seekers don’t get bad treatment as there is no access. But the Croats apparently are not great either – I move the subject quickly on, in for fear of straying into deeper feelings and histories.
As we step back outside it is now trying to rain quite hard and the dark of the late afternoon is starting to gather – as we move towards the railway station to look round there, I see that people are pulling on coats, jumpers and warmer clothes. I am struck how many are wearing sports tops of football teams a long way away and I give thanks to those who stand in high streets and shopping centres gathering clothing to be distributed. These people here will never thank you personally, but take it from me, when it fends off the rain and snow of the Balkans, their gratitude is heartfelt.
But for them right now – they have left their homelands – thousands of miles away, few out of choice, they have been branded as economic migrants, they are now stateless, many have no papers, and they cannot proceed. And so they sit, huddle, chatter and hope and wait. I stand here and think just what sort of world is this and where are we and am I? Surely we can and should help? Sure we can do more?
Report 3 from Sid, Serbia
It’s not where you are going, but where you are from
One of the helpers here – and it is a real mix of characters is a young 18 year old from Ghana – all the Serbs talk enviously of his football abilities and he laughs nervously and proudly. Football he says is one of the important distractions that he can give the you guys as they await their papers, their fate and their future.
The collection of Serbs who are here is a greater level of diversity than I have seen in my many visits to this country but in a situation where they need people who understand the Middle East and North Africa, the Russian Caucusus and a collection of languages that would impress most universities.
Talking to the NGO staff they have a very european view of life – they say that American money is important and American troops matter, but it is British diplomacy, British influence that matters – they reflect on our role in both World Wars. One of them slightly out of context for me, and unexpectedly asks me if Gladstone would have stood by and seen such a disaster unfold…
As we talk over a bottle of water (no need for a fridge here) I discover the subtleties of cultural difference that have emerged in the camp. Those whose culture allows them to drink or not drink alcohol, those who have some grasp of English, those who can pick up languages better and easier. Much chatter starts when the Afghans from Pashtun are mentioned. Everyone says that was tough – one of more fascinating insights was that they had no sense of glass and that tape had to be placed on large open glass windows to stop the young men and women walking into them and hurting themselves. Also there was much struggle with those who only spoke Pashtun as no-one could be found who spoke Pashtun – eventually someone got their friends cousins who lives in Turkey to come and they translated – that’s the need for skills and knowledge on a multinational scale.
Then there is the issue of where are you from. Due to the political priorities Syrians currently get good treatment and are processed quickly but then there are those who reject the tags they are given – so hundred describe themselves as Kurds – rejecting the label of Turk or Iraqi and they are simply delayed in the camps, unprocessed, non-existent to the international community that created these countries in the Post World War One Sykes-Picot carve up of the 1920’s.
And then we touch on where they are going – when asked they say Germany, Netherlands, Sweden and The UK. In the eyes of the NGOs here these are the countries people know to be good, nice, kindly and will help. Virtually no-one ever asks for Austria and being sent there is seen as being sent to a place that doesn’t want you in the first place. But the NGO staff here all believe that a European quota system would help and are annoyed that some countries, those often most able to take people, are those resisting the proposed scheme. Here on the border with Croatia – Serbia, the feeling in that issue is very real indeed.
So we cross over to the railway station – barriers everywhere – I am shown the platforms where people embark and disembark. I see the fence off lines where people are required to queue, where the Croat police check you and assess you in this new and temporary international border. Effectively I am standing on the entry and exit to the EU and it is a tiny station in the middle of no-where and yet has huge significance to so many people. I stand there, one person, with my guide and driver and I clutch my passport in my jacket.
Here people’s lives are decided, a young boy died on the tracks recently, children are born, families lose and gain hope with the arrival of a train or bus. I leave tomorrow, but thank god (if there is one) that these good volunteers and NGOs are here. And if you are at home and collecting blankets and more – keep at it – at the very least it keeps them warm for another week whilst someone no-where decides their fate based on numbers and quotas.
And I turn and walk, get in the car, and leave. My heart is heavy and sense of helplessness total. I need to sleep I think. Tomorrow will be better, surely?