Mohammed the Refugee

On the night before his escape Mohammed excused himself from the party of celebrating relatives with the excuse of preparing an English lesson for the neighbour. Two days earlier the trafficker had told him to wait on the corner for a truck at five in the morning on 23rd March 2015: I’ll stop for a second and my mate will open the door for you. Jump in and go right to the back. Don’t be scared, there’s someone else coming with us. And above all: “Don’t be scared. Don’t move at all. Then nothing will happen to you.” Mohammed lay awake for almost the entire night. He was consumed with fear, hope and sorrow. Downstairs his siblings and relatives were celebrating but he mustn’t sense their solace. He had too much to lose. This was his only chance.

From Badda to A’zaz

The journey among the crates of tomatoes went almost completely according to plan. The person he was not to be scared of was an old school friend. That was the first piece of good news. Together it is easier to overcome the fear, when the truck slows down again for another military checkpoint, the driver haggles far too abruptly about the size of the bribe or a soldier lifts the tarpaulin. After 13 hours the truck stops for a final time. They have reached the Syrian border town of A’zaz.

And it was only here that he found out the two other passengers: out of a metal box hidden under the truck bed crawled two Syrians, hardly able to walk or even sit. They had no papers and couldn’t get faked ones, so they had to accept this hardship. But they didn’t complain. There were people doing way worse than Mohammed. But there were also people, who couldn’t do anything at all anymore.

From A’zaz to Mersin

From A’zaz it is only a short walk to the border and Mohammed wants to get to the Turkish coastal town of Mersin as quickly as possible. However crossing the border is harder than it seems. Since a car bomb sent 16 people to their death here a year ago the border is closed. The locals say that anyone approaching the border will be shot. It’s better to try North of Aleppo: In Bab al-Salam (The Gate of Peace) the Free Syrian Army cut a hole in the border fence for refugees every night.

The tip off is good and lots of other Syrians have been given it too. Mohammed sees how hundreds of them have hidden themselves in the long grass. He lies down with them and waits for the signal, for hours on end. Then suddenly the race is on. There’s pushing and shoving because things aren’t moving quickly enough. Babies are screaming, parents are calling despairingly for their children. Those who don’t manage it now, before the Turkish gendarmes come, have missed their chance. Mohammed is lucky: A strong man’s hand reaches out of the darkness towards him and pulls him into Turkey. He runs towards the woods behind the border — and sees taxis. Completely normal taxis. They don’t ask where to go. Everyone here is headed the same way: To Killis and then to Mersin on the Mediterranean. Then finally, off to Europe.

From Mersin to Lesbos

In Mersin Mohammed’s cousin is waiting for him. He too has recently fled from Syria but he has bad news. The traffickers are barely offering any boats to Italy. The situation for refugees in the Mediterranean is getting worse and worse. For over a month they wait together for a signal from the traffickers. It is a strange time and Mohammed’s morale sinks considerably. Yet on the other hand he feels for the first time in years what it means to be free again. At night the streetlights glow, the people smile here. No one is going to shoot him.

Every evening Mohammed sits at the beach with his cousin. They hear about the rising death toll in the Mediterranean but it doesn’t dissuade them. One evening there are pictures of a shipwreck off the Italian island of Lampedusa on TV: 700 refugees dead. He receives a message on his phone from his mother. “Have you not seen the pictures on TV? Do you not know how dangerous it is? Please don’t go!” But what can they do? Continue travelling over land and get stuck somewhere in Southern Europe? They know how refugees are treated in Macedonia, Hungary and Serbia. There’s no future for them there either. Better to entrust their passage to the sea.

“It feels like a gigantic risk. You are risking everything. You risk your money and you risk your life. But if you have no choice, if there is no way back, if you are stuck, you simply have to do it. It’s the only option. Even if it’s far too dangerous.”

At some point the trafficker does get it touch. He’s giving up. It’s too risky for him. He’s looking for a better route in the North. If you’re smart, he says, you’ll do the same and cross over to the Greek island of Lesbos in the North and go the rest of the way on foot.

On the same evening they take a bus to Izmir and find a new trafficker, who organises inflatable boats to Greece. Mohammed let’s his father know and he transfers several thousand Euros to Izmir. Mohammed drops of the 1,000 Euros for the trafficker at a kind of notary’s office. If the crossing is successful then the trafficker receives a code to redeem the cash. This method is popular but risky. Again and again the notaries make off with the refugees money; a friend of Mohammed’s even got his arm broken for one of these codes. Yet what is without risk on such a journey as this?

Crossing to Europe

The first attempt fails because the police discover the trafficker’s truck, although Mohammed and his cousin get their money back. Nevertheless they decide to use a different trafficker for their second attempt. He is an old Syrian, who lets his clients spend the night at his place and is yet to lose a tour. That speaks for him. They should be ready at sundown, it’s then they will be picked up. Mohammed quickly buys himself a good life jacket from town for 40 Euros and a balloon to protect his smartphone from the seawater. At the arranged time a completely overcrowded truck brings them to a beach two hours North of Izmir, where a dispute breaks out immediately. The trafficker had promised them two inflatable boats, yet the refugees can only see one: five or six metres long, a raggedy piece of rubber with an out-board motor. But it’s too late now anyway. 48 people climb aboard the boat and one of them grabs the rudder. It’s only 10 kilometres to Greece, they can see Europe already, but the boat is barely moving forwards. Then the young tillerman suddenly lets go of the rudder. He is shaking and pleads that he has never steered a boat before in his life. He has no idea where they are headed. He is just doing it because he didn’t have any money for the crossing and the trafficker made him an offer: Cross for free but take the risk of being arrested as a refugee smuggler. The passengers are up in arms but before the situation can escalate, a father, who has his children on board, grabs the rudder and navigates the last few kilometres to Lesbos. The boat descends into silence.

All arrive safely. They take selfies and sing, while two Greeks disassemble the boat and take away the motor. At this point there is no sign of the police. Mohammed can hardly believe his luck but he doesn’t laugh or sing. Instead he writes to his parents: “I’ve made it. I am in Europe.” He can only think about what is yet to come. His flight from Syria is over but his flight through Europe has only just begun.

From Lesbos to Athens

A female American activist leads the new arrivals from Syria to the police station. They are treated well, even if it’s all too clear that the island’s infrastructure is creaking at this surge of refugees. In the past around 150 people arrived on Lesbos every day, whereas now it is more like 1,000. Yet they receive their papers without objection, allowing them to stay in Greece for the next six months — even if none of them plan on doing so. A ferry will nevertheless take them to Athens tomorrow. The 50 Euros for a ticket they must pay themselves.

During the crossing Mohammed and his cousin decide upon a new route. They shall leave Greece via Thessaloniki as soon as possible, then travel through Macedonia, Serbia, Hungary, Austria and Germany to Holland. There, Mohammed has heard, the situation for refugees is supposedly good.

From Athens to Gevgelija — First Try

The journey to Northern Europe begins with difficultly. Because they are not permitted to use public transport, Mohammed and his cousin, together with a small group of Syrians, walk for 12 hours along the main motorway to the Greek border village of Evzoni. Exhausted they seek help from a policeman, who wishes to aid them on the journey. It is however a trap. The policeman breaks his promise and has them all driven back to Thessaloniki. After barely any rest the group sets out the next day anew: 50 kilometres on foot.

This time they achieve a breakthrough. Together they hide their rucksacks with the superfluous clothing and the fake documents (they only needed them in Syria) in the undergrowth. They plan to buy new clothes in the town of Gevgelija, four hours away on foot — and should they be sent back to Greece again, their things will be waiting for them in the woods.

This caution pays off: The police discover the refugees’ camp under a bridge and they disperse as the police attack. In the chaos that ensues Mohammed loses his papers — what a beginner’s mistake! But he gets them back from a boy who had found them and now wants to sell them to Mohammed for 10 Euros. Mohammed pays straight away, but his relief is short lived. The police pick them up once more and send them back across the border.

From Athens to Gevgelija — Second Try

At the third attempt they cross the border in groups of two. Everything seems to be going well, yet Mohammed’s body can no longer keep up with the strain. During the day the sun beats down and at night his mind is full of thoughts. He is terribly exhausted, can barely sleep and then he sprains his ankle while taking a leak in the woods. His joint swells up. The idea of carrying on is impossible; the others from the group can only help so much. Mohammed makes a tough decision: He splits from the group and says goodbye to his cousin. Without him it shall be much easier. He must first regain his strength.

Yet nothing seems to help. Over and over again, the police pick him up and demand that he leave the village. But how? In the woods the mafia is waiting, a Syrian warns him, the only trafficker around is a murderer and a thief, the locals tell him and he’s not allowed to take the bus to the nearby town of Stromitsa, the police remind him. When the police pick him up for a fourth time, he simply collapses with despair in front of the police station. Only then does a small miracle occur. The initial anger shown by the police towards this unruly refugee transforms into compassion. They’re going to give him a chance. Take the bus today at four, they say. We won’t check. The police keep their word and in doing so allow a good dozen other Syrians to continue their journey.

From Gevgelija to Belgrade

The border to Serbia is tightly controlled, so Mohammed searches for the number of a trafficker via WhatsApp. It works like a taxi service. There’s a telephone operator, the drivers and somewhere, remaining hidden, the person who profits. In this case it’s 500 Euros for an eight-hour hike during the night through the forest on the Serbian border and a bus ride to Belgrade. It’s the same here: Refugees everywhere. All the hotels are overfilled, rental apartments are full. They’re sleeping in the parks and backyards and squeezing onto park benches. Mohammed wants to head to Hungary as soon as possible — then he’s almost made it. Once again he walks the last few metres to the border and as ever, he’s part of a small group. The refugee’s rule of thumb: As a group over the border and alone across country.

From Belgrade to the prison of Nyírbátor

Mohammed’s group can bribe the first police patrol (they’re everywhere). The second arrests them and takes them to Budapest. For Mohammed this isn’t that bad. It’s on his way to Vienna. But at the police station, crammed into a small cell with the policemen and their mean intentions, he starts to fear for his life. This is completely different to the cell in Gevgelija. The police give each of them the choice: Allow their fingerprints to be taken or get sent to prison. Perhaps you have to be a refugee to understand the dramatic nature of this situation: Anyone allowing their fingerprints to be taken in a certain country may later be deported to this country and you don’t want to be a refugee in Hungary, Serbia or Macedonia. That’s why many of the refugees, Mohammed included, opt for prison: 270 kilometres to the East in Nyírbátor on the Ukrainian border.

From Nyírbátor to Vienna

For Mohammed, this is the hardest time of his journey. For two weeks he’s damned to do nothing at all. There are no books, there’s no telephone, just now and then a few minutes on the Internet at a group computer. They’re treated like second-class citizens. He falls into a deep depression, from which he’s awoken by a loudspeaker announcement 13 days later. He’s being taken back to Serbia — and from here he tries for a second time to cross over into Hungary. Once again a police patrol wants a bribe and once again the group is arrested but Mohammed manages to run away through the woods and hurries to the Hungarian city of Szeged on foot. He then gets a trafficker to take him to Budapest for 150 Euros and from there to Vienna he pays another 250 Euros.

Hidden on the back seat, he drives across the border into Austria and notices an unknown feeling arising within himself. It is a sense of existential relief: “I no longer have to be afraid. I have made it.”

From Vienna to Amsterdam

From that point on everything seems to take care of itself. He spends a week in Vienna and then travels with a friend through Germany to Holland. On 26th June, almost three months after Mohammed had climbed into that tomato truck just outside his village of Badda in Syria, he steps out of a car in Amsterdam. His beard has grown and his naturally dark eyes are bloodshot, his feet are raw and his hands calloused. He has a small bag with him, the contents of which he empties onto a table: What’s left of his documents, a pair of socks, his scratched telephone and a disposable razor. For the future that’s all he needs.