A Refuge for a Refugee

Amidst the buzzing conversations and bustling children, there stands a beacon of peace and quiet:
The Social Café

Inside, it is as if the rest if the world stands still. Located in the corner of  the camp, the "café" is secluded and the jumbles of voices and childish giggles are drowned out by the distance. It houses the internet modem for the entire centre, which is aptly entitled 'Asylum'.

Filled entirely with women and children (at the time of my visit), there is paint chalk, and every other possible form of artistic supply scattered orderly around the room. If they are ever in want of anything additional, the café coordinator, Irena Radujevic, is the person who sees to it.

Irena is provided to the Krnjača Asylum Centre by the Divac Foundation in order to alleviate some of the hardships in the lives of the resident refugees through any form of art therapy. "A lot of people here are naturally talented, and I am amazed watching them create without any former formal artistic training." Irena has been learning Arabic and Farsi so as to best approach and communicate with all of the people.

Her star pupil, so to speak, is a 10 year-old boy from Afghanistan named Farhad Nouri, whose artwork has received raves of international praise.

His nickname is "Little Picasso".

Here are some examples of his work:

Our guide in the camp told us that they receive almost daily interest from individuals and even art galleries to attain or exhibit his work. The morning I visited, the camp director(s) were in the midst of conversations with a private art collector from Germany who wished to commission an artpiece from the young boy.

Farhad, his parents, and his two younger brothers hope to move to Switzerland or the United States so that the children can continue their education, but with increasingly militant EU borders and the escalating nativist sentiment in the US that culminated in the Trump Administration's infamous "Muslim Bans," the future is looking bleaker with each passing day.

Thanks to the joined efforts of the Divac Foundation and the International Rescue Committee (IRC), the Nouri family and countless other refugees within the camp have been learning English and Serbian, along with practical skills such as the operation of various computer-based systems.

Two teenage boys pictured in a room within the camp where refugees have access to provided computers.

Of all the things I saw, not just in the Social Café, but the entire Krnjača Asylum Centre, I adored the 'Complaint Boxes' the most. These anonymous boxes are in several places around the camp and are intended to provide those working in the camp with feedback and understanding of issues that the refugees are experiencing or witnessing, both inside and outside of the camps.

There are numerous copies of each Harry Potter book available on the shelves, in English, Arabic, and Farsi.

Who knows, maybe one day we'll see artwork by Farhad or one of the many other astoundingly gifted Krnjača residents hanging up in MoMA.*

*If you have the time I highly encourage you to read this New York Times article about the beautiful way that the Museum of Modern Art has protested the Trump Administration's entry ban.

NGO's Aiding Krnjača

Walking through the asylum centre, there were plaques and stickers denoting the various donations made by all sorts of organizations. The most notable non-governmental contributions were made by the Caritas Organization and the Ana & Vlade Divac Foundation.

Caritas Internationalis:

Established in November of 1897 as a confederation of 165 predominantly Catholic relief-centered organizations. These partners focus on providing food, living necessities, and "dignified" shelter so that refugees and their families (especially women, children, and the elderly) can meet their basic human needs. Furthermore, they provide critical information, legal resources, along with translation and language services to centres like Krnjača, so that they can in turn best provide for the inhabitants.

Upon my visit to the camp, I saw a lot of places and things that featured the Caritas logo. Thereby showcasing how that place/item was funded by Caritas. Here are a few examples...

One of the MANY trash cans featuring the logo.

This is the 'laundry room' with a washer and dryer, along with detergent and fabric softener, all provided jointly by Caritas and German humanitarian assistance.

The Divac Foundation:

Established by Ana and Vlade Divac (the Serbian ex-NBA player), in June of 2007, as a continuation of the the humanitarian work they had been doing for twenty years in the United States through the Humanitarian Organization Divac (HOD). 

These are Ana and Vlade Divac.

Over the past eight years, their organization has narrowed their focus on supporting refugees and IDPs (internally displaced persons) in improving the conditions for raising children and youth, and addressing any resettling or housing and integration problems they may have. The Foundation's priority is security the prospect of quality life for vulnerable groups, primarily youths and single parents, by introducing them to lifelong learning and skills development.

One such provision by the Ana and Vlade Divac Foundation is the Social Café in Krnjača. I will do a full post following this, going further in depth on the "Café" and its effects within the camp.

This is a timetable of the weekly activity plan in the
Social Café that provides English learning services, artistic
outlets, and introductory computer science education.

The emblem was also featured on the jacket of Irena Radujevic, one of the people in the camp who works in the Social Café and is paid by the foundation.

Ripping Through the Red Tape

The last few weeks, I have personally been in communication with the Commissariat for Refugees of the Republic of Serbia in hopes of being granted access into the Krnjača Asylum Centre.

As a minor, who is still technically in high school, I have had a lot of people doubt my sincerity in terms of this project. Yet, when I speak to them about my senior project and my future career plans, they all ultimately note my determination. That realization was thankfully not lost on the Commissioner for Refugees and Migrants, Vladimir Cucić.

Commissioner Vladimir Cucić

When I first visited the Aslyum Centre Krnjača, I was denied entrance. I suppose they just expected me to leave after they told me I couldn't go in, but I kept 'prying' (so to speak) until they gave me the contact information of the people who could grant me ingress to the camp.

My security was required to provide evidence of being a member of the Ministry of Defense, which the man on the phone was verifying.

Ultimately, after nearly an hour, they provided me with an email. When I contacted that email, it turned out to be their communications director. I explained to her that I didn't simply want a statement in regards to the centre, I wanted to physically go in and see it for myself. In response she provided me with the phone number of the next person I should contact.

This passing of the torch continued until they understood I was earnest in my pursuit, and at long last presented me with the contact information of the coordinator within the Commissariat that oversaw relations with the media. Igor Miladinovic and I spoke at length about my intentions, methodology, and desired outcome regarding the inclusion of this visit to the entirety of my project.

When he finally felt satisfied with our conservation(s), he obtained the Commissioner's approval and granted me admission to the Krnjača Asylum Centre.

While waiting, I spoke to some of the people for a few minutes as they were coming out of the camp. 

In my coming posts, I look forward to showcasing the remarkable investments made by the Serbian government (via the Commissariat) and multiple independent organizations from Serbia, and abroad, in an effort to provide the best possible care to the families, youths, and unattended children living under these circumstances.

Could You Spare an Apple?

The first time I visited the derelict warehouses I was in shock, to say the least. When I went home, later that night, I had no appetite. It didn't feel right to me that I could offer my sympathies and company for a few hours, then just walk away to the comforts of my warm blankets, buzzing radiators, and unwavering refrigerator.

For most of us, food is an unquestionable reality. If we are hungry, we will eat; and in that regard, we are far luckier than we will ever come to appreciate.

The boys who spend their days and nights under the harsh roofs of the Belgrade warehouses, are not so fortunate. They consider themselves lucky if they have more than one meal a day. That one meal tends to be hot soup distributed by Hot Food Idomeni, an NGO that began by aiding refugees in Northern Greece.

When I reached out to HFI for comment on how they handle the distribution process, a representative stressed their commitment to approaching refugees with humour and dignity. All while fostering trust and maintaining high quality at understandably high quantities.

I wanted to do my part as well, by providing more than just questions and curiosity. So I collected over 5,000 Serbian dinars (roughly around 50 dollars) and purchased 6 bags worth of food. From rice and lentils to biscuits and bread to salt and sugar, and much more. As Ahmed helped me distribute the contents, the resident refugees began to collect around us in a line.

There was no pushing or shoving to reach food before someone else. The level of respect within those walls never ceases to mesmerize me. Young men came in line to collect anything willing to be given to them, then they would return to the various fires created within the building and share what they have with those who had remained seated.

Furthermore, I always felt safe and even respected amongst them. Every single person in those buildings made sure to keep a "respectable distance", as my military companion phrased it. There was one instance when he walked outside to answer a phone call, and the men around me took a step back, almost in unison, while I left alone with them. We continued talking, the same conversation as with my chaperone, always keeping and maintaining eye contact. 

Above everything we had brought, two items were the most important to them, and the most cherished. Sanitary hand wipes and apples.

Even with my limited knowledge of Arabic, I understood the deep gratitude behind the simple repetition of "Shukran" (English: thank you) as I handed them each an apple. Some simply wiped the apples across their shirts, as though polishing them, before devouring the fruit in a matter of seconds. Others cradled their apples, and stashed them in various places, typically around their sleeping quarters, for later.

One man ripped open the small package of hand wipes before it had even completely left my hand. He began ferociously scrubbing his palms, desperate to sanitize them. Then, he walked back to his blankets on the floor, still cleansing his hands with such force I feared he would rub them raw.

With everything in our bags distributed, Ahmed walked with me through the warehouse again. A group of boys were boiling water for the rice we had given them and extended me a torn off piece of the loaf of bread I handed one of them earlier, asking me to join them in broken English. 

This is the second time I was invited to share a meal in the warehouses. These resilient people had so little for themselves, yet saw everything as shareable.

So I responded with an Arabic phrase I had learned just the night before: "Bil-hanā' wa ash-shifā'"

May you have your meal with gladness and health.

Graffiti: A Voice for the Voiceless

"With guns, you can kill Terrorists. With Eduction, you can kill Terrorism."

These are the voiceless:

These are their voices:

Ahmed was quick to come and move the spare firewood that blocked the graffiti I wanted to photograph
when he noticed we had come back.

Once cleared, the wall read: We are Helpless, [please] don't ignore us.

Beside the "camerawoman" of this photo stood Ahmed, as he and I discussed the changing history of these very warehouses over the the last few decades, as a mirror of the changing statuses of Serbia as a nation.
Please don't forget about us. 
That isn't just a plea. That's a warning to remember history, otherwise it is doomed to be repeated.

This particular wall was featured in the background of a picture of Ahmed I previously posted, and as focus-point of countless journalists' talking points.

Door: With guns, you can kill Terrorists. With Eduction, you can kill Terrorism. We need Education. No more War.
Wall: In Peace, sons bury their fathers. In War, fathers bury their sons. Once a Refugee, Always a Refugee.

Refugees are not terrorists.

Now, this particular photograph (in my opinion), speaks volumes in terms of the social commentary it can provide about the way people view the refugee crisis:

The blonde woman, a British photojournalist, stands at the forefront, basked in sunlight, with a glistening Italian Alfa Romeo (!!!) automobile behind her. In the background, a man hooded in all black struggles to find a cell phone signal in the wake of a decaying warehouse wall that features what may be the most powerful graffiti there: I am a person too.

At the very basis, it brings Western elitism into the equation. I observed her after capturing this photo, and she never entered the building. I asked Ahmed if she had been here before, and he said it was her third day, but she always travels with other reporters and has never spoken to any of the actual refugees, just photographed them without their consent.

Ahmed heavily stressed that she never asked if it was okay to take anyone's picture, she just did it. Almost as if she "forgot about decency," when photographing some of the young boys washing up outside with fire-warmed water.

When I expressed my distaste of her methods, Ahmed threw me his bullet-proof smile, before thanking me for coming back, remembering him, and, as he put it, "even caring to ask us."

I was stunned that kindness came as a shock. More so, I was concerned at the rarity of compassion.

Profile of a Refugee: Mohammad*

How much is your life worth?
For Mohammad, the answer was clear: 6,000€

This is Mohammed.

For that price, a Turkish smuggler promised to get Mohammad to France in 15 days.
He has been in Serbia for 8 months (on and off), but is not the only one who has been swindled out of his life savings and all personal documents, in return for barely half the promised journey.

Yet, Mohammad says he would pay the price all over again, "if given the chance to escape."

But, what was he escaping from? Mohammad studied management and public relations at a university in Singapore, and worked at the Dubai International Airport for six years, before fleeing from his native Pakistan when Taliban insurgents entered a nearby town.

However, Mohammad told me stories of people he's met along the way, who aren't escaping near-death. Just debt. Running away from their homes in hopes of making a life for themselves somewhere more economically stable. "They are not refugees, they are immigrants. We want to survive, they want the 'American Dream' in Europe."

As we walked through the warehouse, these boys were adding blankets to their 'fort' for warmth that night.
Mohammad informed me that he sleeps in there, along with a lot of the unaccompanied minors he says
that he has taken "under his wing."

One of the older boys in the group chimed in with a story he wanted to share about his journey, and had Mohammad translate it to us, line by line.

He had also paid a Turkish smuggler to take him to Subotica, a Serbian city near the Hungarian border. There were about 20 or so of them huddled in the back of a truck for hours in freezing December temperature, with no light apart from their dying cell phones and no 'bathroom breaks'. At long last, when the truck stopped, and the doors swung open, it was the middle of the night. They were right in front of a sign that read Subotica, which was barely visible.
By morning, the boy says, everyone noticed something was wrong. Their instincts proved correct; the smugglers had stollen a street sign from Subotica, and posted it in a small village a few hours outside of Belgrade, which is practically in the middle of the country.

The entire scenario sounded surreal to me, almost unbelievable. Until some of the other boys began affirming the story. Mohammad, himself, even had photos on his cell phone of a 'Subotica' sign from the time smugglers dropped him off, and a 'Lazarevac' sign the next day, in the same place

In that situation, Mohammad says they could have gone to an asylum camp nearby or come to the now-famous warehouses behind the bus station in Belgrade. He chose the option that he felt he had more control over; he didn't want charity and he definitely didn't want to feel locked in, "like cattle."

The boy in the blue relied his smuggling story through Mohammad.
He said he was from Syria, but didn't want to give his name.

When I asked why they didn't even consider going to camps during the winter, when it fell to -16°C, all the refugees who collected around us gave similar answers to Mohammad.

The reasoning was the same as before: uncertainty masked as fear for their options in the future.

I still wondered why Mohammad gave up on each attempt to continue his voyage, since he knew he wanted to go to Norway. 

His response was "health," but then he pointed to two young boys by a fire, "and them."

The boys, whose ages were 10 and 12, are brothers, and apart from each other, they are alone. Mohammad told me they are from Iran, and learning Serbian. Other than that, he didn't want to talk about the boys or have their picture taken, "out of respect for their family." Nonetheless the two followed Mohammad the entire while I spoke to him.

In these warehouses where they are living, they create fires for warmth, but the materials that keep these fires alight are most commonly plastic and other toxic materials. Most of these refugees have become ill to some degree due to the fumes, and Mohammad, who is in his late-thirties, says he is no exception with a respiratory infection.

This little 'fort' would house at least 3 men, all sleeping around the fire that's barely visible from the smog.
They light a fire as soon as temperatures begin to drop outside.

There are volunteer doctors of nurses who come to the warehouses, once or twice a month, but they don't really do much to help, "they just give us cough drops and some band-aids if we get hurt." Symptoms of dizziness, exhaustion, shortness of breath, and coughing fits, seem common among the groups who lived there during the winter, when Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders) handed out blankets and tended to mass instances of frostbite.

When he first arrived at the warehouse, he says he was severely fatigued, "I slept for days when I got here. Every muscle hurt." 

He ardently believes that had he been younger, he would have carried on, and reached Norway by now. Mohammad says that when he sleeps, he still dreams that he did in fact make it. He sees himself working in a "big hotel" in Norway, as a manager in "a nice blue suit."

When he now recounts the smuggler who brought him here, he likens the man to a "devil." 

Mohammad says "I made a deal to survive, and I am alive. Just barely living, but still alive."

*Name has been changed at subject's request.