Kurdish Refugee Reception Centers in Greece: Home Displaced

Kurdish Refugee Reception Centers inGreece

Home Displaced

BARBARA SMITH

Refugee campsites in Greece have provided temporary relief for hundreds of asylum seekers. At their peak, camp pop-ulations have exceeded over a thousand people, mainly Kurdish people seeking refugee status. In search of a better life,the people arrive in Greece by way of a smuggler’s speedboat, a dilapidated ship, or crossing minefields. People oftencreate functioning villages within the confines of the most difficult living situations. Their life there becomes a smallmirror of the country and the life that they left behind. When the people are finally ready to leave the camps, it is simplythe start of another chapter in their complicated journey to the golden land. [Key words: Greece, Kurds, refugeefamilies, refugee reception centers, refugees]

Introduction

Istarted photographing asylum seekers and refugeesin cooperation with the Hellenic branch office of theUnited Nations Higher Commission for Refugees

(UNHCR). I photographed in the Lavioron Reception

Center and in various other reception centers, includingAgios Andreas, Pendeli, Sounio, the Greek Council forRefugees, and Pyxis. The UNHCR Public InformationSection at the UNHCR headquarters in Geneva purchasedthese photographs for use in its awareness campaignsand exhibitions promoting cultural understanding.

Visual Anthropology Review, Vol. 24, Issue 1, pp. 78–93, ISSN 1053-7147, online ISSN 1548-7458. & 2008 by the American Anthropological Association. DOI: 10.1111/j.1548-7458.2008.00006.x.

I have also collaborated with Doctors Without Bordersand the Hellenic Red Cross, photographing at their refu-gee reception center at Nea Makri. These photographswere used similarly in Greece to help prevent feelings ofracism and xenophobia from taking root.

The term asylum seekers refers to people who moveacross borders in search of protection, but who may notfulfill the strict criteria laid down for refugee status inthe 1951 UNHCR Refugee Convention. ‘‘Asylum seekers’’describes those who have applied for protection as refu-gees and are waiting the determination of their status.The majority of refugees/asylum seekers in Greek recep-tion centers are from Afghanistan or Kurdistan, whichstraddles Iraq, Syria, Turkey, and Iran. They arrivein Greece without documentation by a land route inNorthern Greece, where they cross the Evros River fromTurkey, or by sea. Arriving by sea they are dropped offon an island or, worse, dumped in the water near land.All of the refugees arrive physically and financiallyexhausted, with most of their possessions lost.

During the last decade or so, Kurdish asylum seekershave entered Greece in six major waves: 1991–92 afterthe chemical weapons attack in Halabja, Iraq, and the GulfWar; 1994–95, after the escalation of violence in south-eastern Turkey; 1996–98, after the conflict in northernIraq; 2001, during the disarmament conflict; 2003, afterthe war in Iraq; and, currently, due to the ongoing con-flicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. Afghan asylum seekersbegan to enter Greece as a result of the 2001 war in Af-ghanistan. Kurdish and Afghan migration continues.

Greek reception centers are often a way station or atemporary resting stop for many asylum seekers who havefriends or family members in other European countries.They remain in Greece until they have obtained the moneyand the will to pay to be smuggled farther, or until theyhave received official third-country resettlement. Family,relatives, and friends at home will assist with travel fees byselling their property or by contributing their savings. InEurope, friends and family also mobilize and send moneyto those waiting at home or in the transit country. Refu-gees in Greece also take up part-time jobs, mostly inconstruction and agriculture. They save their earnings tocontinue on their journey or to settle in Greece.

The refugee procedure in Greece is a series of legalapplications, interviews, decisions, and appeals. Theusual application process takes a maximum of threemonths from the time of the initial application. The ma-jority of people approved for refugee status tend toresettle in Greece because Italy, France, England, and

other European Union countries are currently tighteningup their borders. Unapproved asylum seekers also tend tomore often stay in Greece, dodging arrest and driftingfrom one low-paying job to another for months on end.

The longest stay possible in the refugee centers is sixmonths or until the asylum seekers receive an official deci-sion regarding refugee status. During this waiting period,many look for employment outside of the centers. Becausethey are not supplied with a work permit, their jobs are un-documented. If they are denied refugee status, they arerequested to leave the country within three months. Thosegranted official refugee status are granted a five-year resi-dence permit and a work permit. They must solvethe problems of finding a legal job and housing, usuallywithout any assistance. Most find low-rent basement apart-ments in Athens and secure low-paying labor jobs. Thesame happens to those not given refugee status who opt tostay and work in the country without documentation.

Through the camp grapevine, people had heard that Iphotographed for nongovernmental organizations. This in-formation was disseminated within minutes of my arrival.The people living in the centers most often asked whether Iwas married with children. I believe they perceived me on avery human level, as a woman with a camera who waswilling to share photographs with them and listen to theirstories. I always felt welcome and safe in the receptioncenters, where I would usually photograph on my own.

I collected personal narratives within the confines ofthe camps and centers, often over hot tea in tents. Thecamp children would hand-deliver me to their parents.Sometimes we sat outside in community spaces: at thewater taps where the women washed young children andpots and pans, on dusty and burnt-umber paths with afew patches of green grass, or at makeshift outside livingrooms with overstuffed chairs and couches. Sometimesthe people spoke a little bit of English or they foundsomeone in the camp who had attended university andknew English very well. Sometimes Greek was our com-mon language. Most often, I had a personal translator.

Almost all of the people I met were eager to tell theirstoriesFeven the children shared their stories. On thesedangerous journeys, they experience the same risks,traumas, and homelessness as their parents. Soon mytrips became regular visits and I became a part of camplife. I was the tall American woman, a photographer whocollected stories about their journey from home, theirfamily life at home, about what and whom they left be-hind and why, about where they were trying to go andwhat family members were waiting for them, about

Barbara Dawn Smith is a professional photographer who has worked for the United Nations High Commission for Refugees and theHellenic Red Cross photographing refugees in Greece. Currently she is developing a project with Kurdish refugees in the United States.

Kurdish Refugee Reception Centers in Greece SMITH 79

loved ones who were lost on the journey, about friendswho were separated on the journey, and about the longwait for them to catch back up to be reunited.

People showed me their personal snapshots fromtheir homeland: family, friends, and scenes from a lifeleft behind. Snapshots are some of the few cherisheditems that often survive the journey. In return I gaveadults and children photographic prints of themselves. Ialso gave the children disposable cameras and showedthem how to take pictures. The adults started to takepictures with these plastic cameras too. Some would mailtheir photographs back home to loved ones, or wouldkeep them as mementos of their temporary home ontheir continuing journey for a new homeland. The pho-tographs and the snapshots became a shared experience,a connection that was always understood even when thespoken language was not.

Part One: The Journey

NasrinMy village, Dahuk, is in the mountains. I lived with

my parents, four brothers, three sisters, and grandpar-ents. The house was always full of life and, even throughthe bombings, we never lost our hope. Every morning, mymother would wake us up with the warm smell of bakingbread. After breakfast, I would go riding. I had a beautifulwhite Arabian horse, a present from my father. Onemorning on the mountainside, my horse stepped on aland mine. He did not survive. I left home a few monthsafter this experience. I had to because the governmentwas looking for me. I could hide in the mountains, joining

the men who were fighting for an independent Kurdistan,or I could leave my country. I did both.

The vision of the journey begins in the smoky teashops located throughout Kurdistan. The men sip tea andshare stories about leaving and traveling to Europe. Thestories describe the possible experiences they might faceon this dangerous journeyFthe journey to the imagined‘‘golden land.’’ The price tag attached to their dreams isexpensive. There are two ways to travelFwith or with-out documentation. The route with documentation is acomplicated paper chaseFbuying false Iraqi passports,applying for a Turkish visa, and waiting a long time forapproval. Once the visa is granted, there is a trip to theborder and a crowded bus to Ankara. The route withoutdocumentation involves a 3–4-day mountain crossing.Hired smugglers guide the people crossing on foot.

KarzanI left with a small group of men, women, and chil-

dren. Our number was around 20, not including thesmuggler. We were caught trying to cross the Turkishborder. At first, you hear the gunshots, and then thepanic spreads like wildfire throughout the group. Menare shouting orders, the children are crying, and chaos iseverywhere. Some of the single men break out of the group,risking their lives, trying to make a run for it. The familiessurrender, falling to the ground to protect their children. Inthe midst of the confusion, you have to figure out who hasactually captured you. You never really knowFit could bethe Turkish army or the Iraqi border patrol.

The smuggler is the key to survival and the peoplefollow him, carrying food and extra clothing. The jour-ney is rough and the pace is quick. Hidden minefields liein wait; no one is ever sure of the mines’ location. After

80 VISUAL ANTHROPOLOGY REVIEW Volume 24 Number 1 Spring 2008

many hours of walking, fatigue overcomes the group.Mothers drop everything to carry small children and thestronger help to support the weak.

RebwarI crossed the mountains in the dead of winter. For

four days and three nights, I walked through the bone-chilling mountain snow, waist deep in many places. Thecrossing was treacherous. A storm dropped a foot of freshwet snow, hiding the markers for the minefields and thewalking path. You cannot lose the path; it is the only life-line to a hot meal and a warm room. It is forbidden to lightfires. The border guards and army watch for the smoke.The trick is to keep moving; it is the only way to survive.

The group knows that the smugglers have their ownagenda, unwilling to wait under any circumstance foranyone. Under the cover of darkness, they cross overand look for cars or buses to carry them to Istanbul.Inside Turkey, they find apartments in the slum areas,hiding among smugglers, thieves, and prostitutes. Im-mediately, the search for new smugglers for the journeyto Greece begins. Migrants must trust smugglers, al-though they are untrustworthy and often tell lies. Thepeople are never sure about their fate when dealing withsmugglers. Will they make it to their desired destinationor will the smugglers take their money and leave themstranded?


BaranIn Istanbul, I was walking to meet my friend, whom I

had lost when we crossed the Turkish border. It was adark moonless night and we had accidentally run indifferent directions. We were randomly stopped bythe Turkish police looking for Kurds. I had no visa ordocumentation, and was immediately arrested andhandcuffed. We were on the way to the police stationwhen we hit a traffic jam. Seizing my lucky chance, Ijumped out of the car, running at lightning speed into thecrowded streets. I could hear the shots fired by the police.I did not look back. I had to get lost. I had to find a safe

house and then find a blacksmith to remove the cuffs.Again, I was lucky. I found the blacksmith through anunderground connection and he did not burn my handswhen he took off the cuffs. Some of my friends still carrytheir scars.

Once the smuggler is paid, the journey requirescomplete trust to reach the next destination, Greece.There are two choices for crossing over the Greek border:by land for $1,000 or by sea for $1,500. The costfor children is slightly less. The land route is throughnorthern Greece, crossing the Evros River, either byfloating on plastic rafts or by swimming. The border


area is rough and littered with minefields. The Greek armyand police patrol the area. Hundreds lose their lives atthis border.

ChiyaI traveled with a group of 60 men. Each man paid the

Turkish smuggler 1,000 U.S. dollars to be guided intoGreece across its northern border. We were walking alongthe edge of the Evros River, trying to avoid the Greek ar-my, when we heard the explosion. We stopped, frozen interror. The men in our front had accidentally walked intoa mine field. The smuggler was the only man to run. He

might have known it was a mine field. Many times theyuse us as human mine field detectors. The smugglers donot care about us; they only want our money. Three menwere instantly killed. Two lost both legs and 12 werewounded by the flying shrapnel.

The sea route involves speedboats. Twenty to 30people crowd into one five-meter boat. Broken-downboats are only used to go one way and they are left de-serted after their use. Despite its dangers, families,women, and children usually opt for this method be-cause it is less strenuous than the land route.


ShlerMy mother and I came to Greece in a small boat. We

left at night and I could only carry my favorite doll. Theboat was full of people. My best friend and I were reallyafraid. Our moms held on to us very tightlyFwe were go-ing so fast. My friend’s father fell out of the boat and died.The boat was too fast and they would not stop. We left myfather in Turkey. He was arrested by the police. Mom saysthat we are waiting for him at the camp. I miss him.

The ideal destination is one of the many Greek is-lands off the coast of Turkey. The migrants set out to seain darkness. Sometimes the old boats sink and people

drown. The coast guard patrols these waters and oftenfires upon the boats of migrants. Most of the time, thegroups have to swim ashore. In the morning light, theyhave their first glimpse of their exact location.

BeriwanIn the middle of the night, we were told to jump into

the sea and swim to shore. We could not see the coast, butwe had to take the risk. We paid too much money to gethere. The boat captain grunted, pointing in the directionof the shore, and we jumped. The dark sea felt like it wasswallowing us whole. We swam desperately, underthe twinkling stars in the sky. Luckily, at dawn, a local


fisherman discovered us. The smuggler had left us ex-hausted and helpless on a deserted, rocky islet.

While the lucky ones are now in Greece, the unluckyones are involved in a new game. This involves at-tempting to enter Greece until they too are lucky enoughto escape detection at the Greek border. People must paythe same amount of money for each attempt and thereare no guarantees.

NezanIn 18 months, I crossed the Greek border five differ-

ent times, all on foot. I had amazingly terrible luck; theGreek army always captured my group. I was deported

back to Turkey, where I would work black-market jobsuntil I could pay the smuggler again. Luck found me onmy fifth try. I spent 8,000 U.S. dollars to reach Athens.When I have the will, I plan to set off for Italy. I have tohurry. At home my girlfriend, who is Miss Baghdad, iswaiting for me to send for her.

When they arrive in Greece, the people are physicallyand financially exhausted. At this point they have usuallyspent around $2,000, which is enough money to live forthree years in Kurdistan. The people are held in temporarydetention centers, where they can apply for refugee sta-tus. Then they may travel to the Kurdish camps.


Part Two: The Camps

The first camp was established in 1996 to solve theproblem of a growing Kurdish population living on thestreets in a makeshift cardboard-box village. This campwas intended to be a temporary solution to the problem.Its population peaked at around 1,000 people during thecold winter months. Eventually, there was pressure toclose it, and the continually growing Kurdish populationcreated splinter camps in other parts of Greece. Thecamps differ in their quality of life. The more desirablecamps offer a kitchen and health services. The least de-sirable camp offers torn tents and no drinkable water.

When I began to photograph refugees for theUNHCR, I entered the gates of the tent camps to discoverindividual Kurdish villages existing within wire-fenceboundaries. I visited the camps with Kurdish friends whobecame my guides and translators. The people had cre-ated functioning villages within the confines of the mostdifficult living situation. Their movements within thecamps become a small mirror of the country and the lifethat they had left behind.

The dirt paths that wove through the camps werelined with small cooking fires. A smoky haze and thesmell of simmering lentils hung heavy in the air. Thechildren roamed freely, playing in small groups. They


were thrilled at any chance to be photographed withtheir best friends. They followed us, until another inter-esting distraction stole their attention. The adults hadsuspicious yet curious eyes. They waited to hear throughthe grapevine what our movements in the camps in-volved. I found the people to be warm and sharing. Inresponse to my camera, their typical reply was ‘‘Ba kaifikhota,’’ which means ‘‘as you wish’’ in Kurdish. In eachtent I visited, the people offered us hot tea and theirpersonal stories. Some told their stories in order to findhelp; others merely wanted their stories to be heard.Each story was a testament to the bitter reality of a peo-ple forced to flee their homeland.

The central dirt path led to the heart of the camp,with smaller paths branching off to more remote livingareas. On one of the smaller paths, Khazal was washingher 9-year-old son, Hunar, in the public taps. The childwas shivering and screaming. His small friends werewatching in the background, happy that it was nottheir turn.

KhazalAround one hundred and fifty people, mostly fami-

lies, live in this camp. We only have one tap that is safe todrink from. Around six hundred Kurds live on the otherside of the wire fence. They have no clean water andpeople are getting sick. They keep the wire fence door


locked. We try to help them as much as we can, but we toohave very little. It breaks my heart to see my peoplesuffering.

Hunar was wrapped in a white towel and quicklywhisked away to the family tent. Some women were do-ing laundry in front of the public toilets, where the septicsystems normally fail. At the next tent, we met Rizgar.His wife, Carwan, was frying pita bread in the shade.

RizgarHello, welcome. Please join us for tea. We were from

Halabja, located in northern Iraq (Kurdistan). Carwanand my son, Khabur, were living in the village when it

was attacked with the chemical bombs. I was fighting inthe mountains when I heard the news. I walked for twosleepless days to my house, praying that they survived.What was left of our village was consumed in tears andhatred; the families were burying their dead. Can you doanything to help us? Tragedy is following us. Yesterday,our old tent was consumed in wild flames. The small oilheater exploded and sent Khabur to the hospital with se-rious burns. Carwan suffers terrible breathing problemsfrom the chemical bombing. I only want to take my familyto a place where we can live in peace. He started unfold-ing their documents to verify the story.


Later we continued on the path, eating hot pitabread. There was a feeling of restlessness in the air: thepath had led us to the living area of the unmarried men,who lingered outside in sofa chairs, sipping tea, andkilling time. A haircut and a shave could be found at oneof the tents doubling as a barber shop. The men wereeager to leave. They discussed all of the possible routesout of Greece. They seemed to talk until their plans ac-quired a life of their own.

OmidI lived in an abandoned train car for three months.

There were over a hundred of us camped out in the dirtycars, all wanting to cross the Italian border. We warmedtins of food over campfires. Each one of us was waitingfor our golden opportunity: a truck boarding the ferry toItaly. I would hide underneath in a wheel compartment,unknown to the driver. It is a very dangerous thing todo. Once inside the cramped space, you wait for hourspraying the search dogs do not find you. I was alwayscaught. Some of my lucky friends made it through onthe first try. I came back to the camp when I ran out ofmoney. Another friend wants me to leave tomorrow, totry again.

All of their energy was channeled into this onegoal. Easily bored with camp life, they sought comfortin the company of friends. Political parties from Kurdi-stan exist within the camps, splitting them into politicalfactions. I saw the signs of the stress and tension betweenthe parties. Chalked or painted political signs on thetents or wooden walls decorated the camps. In times ofunrest, the men unite and become the driving force be-hind the protests and the occasional hunger strikes thatcondemn their treatment and living conditions.

BarzanLook at usFwe are in a cage. See how we

liveFcanvas tents with holes in the middle of winter.People are sleeping outside; our children are cold; andthe septic system is overflowing. We are human beings;we are not animals. We want to live as human beings.Why do we have to hold demonstrations and hungerstrikes? Why do we have to fight for our basic humanrights?

At a demonstration, a young man was wildly ges-turing in the crowd. He had taken razor blades andmarked his chest in protest.

RamziIf he is sincere, this act is a sign of his utmost brav-

ery. If he is not sincere, this act will be considered asboasting. Either way, he needs our protection.

The young man was quietly escorted away from thedemonstration by other Kurds.

Another path took me into the family area. Thisplace was alive with the laughter of playing children.The children kept busy with outdoor games. The campwas their playground. Most of them had a large collec-tion of secondhand toys: stuffed animals, dolls, and toycars. The lucky ones had small bicycles or big wheels tocruise the paths.

I met Awat, a little boy with a small bike, who isnamed after his father. He suffers from a birth defect thataffects his legs.

AwatI play all day. I ride my bike sometimes even at night.

I don’t have very many friends because I can’t run so fast.My sister plays with me; we paint pictures. She likes todraw red flowers and I draw boys and girls.


A little later I meet his mother, Hozan.HozanI was pregnant with my sixth child when the village

men came to my house. When I saw them, they didn’thave to speak. I knew my husband was dead. My heartwas broken. He had mysteriously died in a prison. I suf-fered unbearable grief; what little strength I had left keptmy child alive. When my son was born, I named him afterhis father, Awat. He has a problem with his legs. I thinkthe shock and my grief affected him.

The young girls carried their dolls with blonde hairand blue eyes wherever they went. They clung to themlike lost friends. I saw small boys playing pretend shoot-outs with plastic guns. I wondered whether they hadexperienced this in real life or it simply came fromwatching the few TV sets found in the camp. I wasphotographing Rawand with the plastic toy gun hewas playfully holding. Hawar, an older man, said,‘‘Rawand, hold the gun with strength.’’ I wonderedwhether Hawar might have been a retired freedom


fighter who once lived and fought in the mountains witha real gun.

Sometimes during the journey the children are sep-arated from their parents, or they make the trip under thesupervision of extended family members. I was photo-graphing a group of young boys when suddenly the boyin the middle started throwing violent punches. After thefight was broken up, I was told that the boy had lost hisparents. He came alone on his journey from Turkey toGreece.

The path now wrapped around a cluster offamily tents. They formed a semicircle with a patch of

brown grass in the center. The tent flaps were pulledback; daily private life became public. Inside a tent,Sibar, a mother of six, was washing the hair of one of heryounger sons. An older child was warming the waterover a small fire.

SibarMy six children and I live in this small tent.

My husband, Kendal, has left me alone to provide forand protect our children. The older children help outas much as they can, but they should be in school. Pleaseexcuse my tears. Kendal has traveled to Sweden withthe hopes of finding the money and the means to send for



us. He has been gone for six months and we are stillwaiting.

She offered us hot tea, but we could not stay. Itwas late in the afternoon and I had recently drunkmy sixth cup of tea of the day. There was a little boy ea-gerly waitingFhe wanted us to follow him to hismother. He guided us to his tent, where we found hismother, Nargis, and his two younger brothers. Hismother was dressed in black surrounded by an air offresh sadness.

NargisI lost my husband, Rebar, in the mountain crossing.

We walked without stopping over the snowy peaks. Everyday we carried the children in our arms; they were ex-hausted and cold. We dropped our belongings andmemories in those mountains. Close to the finish, Rebarsuffered a heart attack and died. Our group buried him inhaste, never knowing if the smuggler would stop us,to push us forward. Now in mourning, I must find thestrength and the means to continue to travel with mysons.

I found many of the family tents were full of singlemothers, separated from their husbands for many rea-sons. If possible, single mothers travel under theprotection of men who are extended family members.Many of the missing husbands were being held in Iraqiprisons without being chargedFoften for political rea-sons. The wives were not sure whether their husbandswould come out alive. They discovered within them-selves a courage that they may have not known existedbefore their journey.

The winding paths encircled the camps. It waslate; the people were getting ready for the evening meal.They started to form lines, holding empty plates, out-side the communal kitchen door. Others settled down

next to small fires to cook their meals. Even thoughfood was limited, we had many different offers of food.The children were usually the messengers, invitingus back to their family tents. The evening sun had fad-ed. The few electric lights scattered throughout thecamp were turned on, creating little pockets in thedarkness. We sat in the shadows at a white plastic table,drinking sodas. My guides were talking to their friends,making plans to leave the country. Every so oftensomeone broke off the conversation to offer me a ciga-rette. The camp had become still; only the sounds ofdistant Kurdish conversations emerged out of thedarkness. A friend translated a funny story from theconversation.

KendalI thought it was my lucky day. I had found a truck

loaded with watermelon, waiting to board the ferryto Italy. When the coast was clear, I moved into myhiding position. I nestled among the ripe green melonsand waited. It felt like the hottest day of the summer.I roasted for eight hours, waiting and sweating withthose watermelons. I made my plans about what to doin Italy and dreamed about my new life. I was awakenedby angry Greek shoutsFthe driver had found me.I left the truck and my daydreams behind for the mo-ment. There would be another truck to carry me to mydreams. I only have to wait. And I didn’t even eat onewatermelon.

Everyone at the table started to laugh.When the people are finally ready to leave the

camps, it is not the end of their struggle. It is simply thestart of another chapter in their complicated journey tothe golden land.

After the last story is told and the last cigarette issmoked, it is time for me to leave the camp.


Documents

Kurdish Refugee Reception Centers in Greece: Home Displaced