Where Is Home?

Every week a group of young people who could not be more different from one another meet in Berlin. But one thing they have in common: no secure residency status. By Silke Kettelhake

​​They come alone or with their siblings. Their destinations are German cities such as Hamburg, Frankfurt, or Berlin. Most of their parents put them on planes or paid a fortune to organizations that smuggle people. They want their children to have better lives. It does not always turn out that way.

Around twenty boys and girls meet in Berlin every month. "Unaccompanied underaged refugees" is what they are called in official jargon.

1.5 million children refugees worldwide

But the term is not precise enough for the director of the Berlin Office for Non-Residents, Harald Bösch-Soleil: "These are asylum seekers who entered Germany illegally. The first designation implies a legal quality which does not exist. In this regard I'm a bureaucrat." The United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child ratified by Germany on January 26, 1990, states: "With regard to all measures affecting children, (…) the well-being of the child is an aspect that must be given priority."

In the crisis regions around the world it is precisely the children and youth who get caught between the fronts. They suffer from torture, prostitution, and slavery, and have few opportunities. Worldwide there are 1.5 million children refugees. In general, once they arrive in the saving arms of the West, every trace of them disappears.

No one knows exactly how many of them remain, how many are returned. Few of them have prospects of security and humane treatment, not even in Germany. The asylum process often launches a host of difficulties and insecurities. At age sixteen young people are considered to be of full age, and have to reckon with the same consequences as adults and file their asylum application on their own.

Giving each other courage

The smell of greasy fish sticks wafts through the stairwell at the counseling center for young refugees and migrants in Berlin-Moabit.

The evening sun immerses the room in an unreal glow of red light. The group surrounding Ibrahim and Haznyie meets on a regular basis: cooking, discussing their plans, giving each other courage. These meetings mean a lot to the young people. Most of them live in asylums or in small apartments scattered across the whole city. "Unaccompanied under-aged refugees" are not permitted to work. Actually they are not supposed to do anything but wait – for their notice of deportation.

Haznyie

Her fingers repeatedly comb through her long, brown hair. Eight years ago her parents set her and her two siblings in a plane heading to Germany. She still has not forgiven her parents. Hazynie is nineteen years old and was born in Iran. Two weeks ago she received her notice of deportation after a five-hour hearing. The reason given by the officials: She is not capable of earning her own living. How can she, when she is not permitted to work?

Hazynie would like to become a nurse for the elderly. But she no longer believes that she can reach her goal. The appeal against the deportation has been filed – but it does not protect her from deportation. Hazynie speaks quietly and cautiously. The contact to her family in Iran was broken off years ago. A tear trickles down, carrying a thick layer of mascara. Angrily, she wipes her eyes. She does not touch her fish sticks. "See you at the airport," the joke is old, but the group always repeats it when they depart. You never know.

Compared to other German federal states, the child and youth care situation in Berlin is fairly comprehensive. Those who turned themselves in as well as those brought in by the police are sent to the so-called clearing house in Berlin-Pankow, "from every country in which a reason to flee exists," say one employee there. Here particulars are gathered and recorded, here the "cessation of parental care" is determined. The guardianship court appoints an official guardian, who is paid by the respective district office.

Mehmet

It is a few minutes before eight o' clock in the morning. Soon he will know. Mehmet – twenty-one years old, from Afghanistan – is waiting for the Office for Foreigners to open. He needs to have his exceptional leave to remain in Germany renewed. He has no idea what will happen. "Stamp, yes or no. For them I am merely a number." He finds the police in the waiting room creepy. Children cry, otherwise it is silent. From here many a police car heads off to the deportation camp. To prison.

Today, after the war, the situation in Afghanistan is anything but secure. "If I am deported, I will be sent straight into the army," says Mehmet. Although officially the Taliban are no longer portrayed as a danger, the family fears for their lives. Mehmet receives the stamp that permits him to remain. For two more months, then he has to come back.

Saybet and Taybet

Taybet from Kurdistan (photo: Silke Kettelhake)
Taybet lives in Berlin-Neukölln

​​Subsidized housing, Berlin-Neukölln. Nothing functions here anymore. The shops have all closed. Only the estate executors still have something to do, and men pass their days playing cards in Turkish cafes. The sisters Saybet and Taybet, nineteen and twenty years old, come from Kurdistan and live together with their three younger brothers and parents in a small apartment. Everything takes place in two rooms: eating, sleeping, watching television. Their parents are trying to supplement their welfare rate with work at home. The head of the household receives 184.07 euros. Except for a sum of forty euros in cash, they receive non-cash benefits: vouchers, hygiene packages, and food chips. Shopping on a chip card is not fun.

Long-life milk, rice, a few potatoes, and perhaps a can of tomatoes. Taybet is happy that she can at least choose the goods. She finds the hygiene package for women fourteen years or older terrible. For three months they receive two bars of soap, two tubs of toothpaste, one toothbrush, one bottle of shampoo, one deodorant roller, 150 ml of skin lotion, four packets of tissue paper, three packets of sanitary napkins.

Ibrahim

Berlin-Spandau. Ibrahim lives alone in a high rise, thin walls, cheap linoleum. The view from the fourteenth floor stretches far into West. But Ibrahim is not allowed to leave his allocated district. The striker often cannot play with his team on their away games.

Ibrahim: "Somehow I came here from Lebanon when I was twelve. I have no idea how long I traveled. It was cold. The only thing I knew was that I would not see my parents for a long time. I understood nothing back then." He is studying law. At first secretly, then with the approval of his professors.

Now he needs only a few more courses. That refugees can take courses at the university is new, and throughout Germany a unique arrangement. "I'm not wasting my time! The state of uncertainty surrounding the unsettled question of residence is hard enough to bear. If I had just sat in my apartment, I would have gone crazy." As a lawyer he wants to help people in similar situations. "As a lawyer, I can fight for justice." Justice for young refugees means first of all a future that lasts longer than the next two months. They speak perfect German, they think German, they dream in German. Berlin is their home.

Silke Kettelhake

© Silke Kettelhake

Translation from German: Nancy Joyce

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