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Tatiana

Jan Hillnhuetter and Tatiana Henrequez

Schifferstadt, Germany

In the summer of 2015, Jan and I saw pictures and videos of refugees coming from the Middle East into Europe. We saw videos online of people packed onto sinking inflatable boats, attempting to make their way across the Aegean. We saw them apprehended by authorities, unable to vouch for themselves. These images of broken, frightened people convinced us that we had to help them, however we could. We felt responsible. 

Our original idea was to host them in our own home. But we quickly realized that would be impossible, because as renters, we would need our landlord’s permission, and there was no chance that he would agree to hosting refugees. We’d heard him talk enough about current events to know he wouldn’t go for it, so we didn’t bother asking. And even if we were allowed to host refugees, the legal process for doing so in Germany is needlessly complicated and bureaucratic. 

So we looked for other ways to help. We found out about a volunteer organization in our city called Team 31, which met on a biweekly basis. The organization hosted fellowship events where refugees and locals could get to know each other over coffee and snacks. They also offered language classes; some volunteers were retired teachers. Some Team 31 members even helped refugees with legal documents. 

We attended one of the Team 31 meetings in 2015 and said that we wanted to do something. They informed us about their sponsorship program, and we said we were interested. They explained that sponsors are responsible for offering one-on-one support to refugees as they integrate into their new surroundings. They told us about two men who had boys with them, and we set up an appointment to meet them for the first time. 

We arrived at Building 31, the building where Team 31 houses refugees, to meet our new friends. Iyad was with his son, Abdulwahab, and Rateb was with his nephew, Mahmoud. Although we thought Iyad and Rateb were related at first, it turns out they weren’t. One of them, Rateb, spoke a few words of English, but Iyad and the boys only spoke Arabic. We communicated with our hands and feet and Google translate; it was complicated.

After some initial attempts at conversation, we invited them to our house and served them tea and cookies. We got out the iPad and let them show us their hometowns on Google Maps. Rateb and Mahmoud are from Daraiya. Iyad and Abdulwahab are from eastern Syria, next to Rakaa. 

Due to the language barrier, we had to find a way to connect and get to know them, so we took them to a mini-golf course, hoping to introduce them to a typical German pastime. But we realized that in spite of our efforts to break the ice, Iyad and Rateb were still distressed; their minds were elsewhere. They were concerned for their families. Were they alive or not? How could they get them to Germany safely? We found out that both men had six children. Iyad kept saying, “I have to bring my wife and kids over to Germany. I have to bring them over.” These were serious problems. I felt embarrassed later for taking them to do something so trivial. Instead of providing the support they actually needed, we took them to play… Mini-golf.

When refugees first arrive in Germany, they stay in a sort of “camp” for up to six months while they apply for asylum. Building 31 was one of these “camps.” It was a three-story house, with a big kitchen and five or six bedrooms on each floor. It used to be a convent. The pairs, Abdulwahab and Iyad, and Rateb and Mahmoud, each had one room in the house—one family per room. While they lived in Building 31, we helped them run errands. The closest supermarket was somewhat far; to get there they had to walk for about half an hour with their bags. So we helped by picking them up and driving them to the Syrian supermarket in another city, where they could buy khubz and hummus and halal meat. Iyad was a good cook, and would often invite us to eat with him.

We also organized doctor’s appointments, especially for Mahmoud. The reason Rateb brought his nephew with him before his wife and his own kids was that Mahmoud needed a surgery that couldn’t be done in Syria. Mahmoud had been born with one testicle missing. His condition rendered his remaining testicle especially prone to becoming cancerous if left untreated. A doctor in Syria had already performed an initial surgery on Mahmoud, but Mahmoud needed a second one, and it had to be done before he hit puberty, after which the procedure would be too dangerous. When Mahmoud came to Germany, time was close to running out; he was already eight or nine. The first doctor we saw was not interested in helping. He examined Mahmoud and said, “It’s a cosmetic problem. No one would pay for it here. He’ll just have to live with it.” 

The doctor that had performed the first surgery on Mahmoud, back in Syria, had also made it to Germany and was living a little west of us. He was working in a hospital, so he spoke German. He told us, “No, the procedure is not complete yet, something must be done here.” He was very insistent about surgery, but he himself was unable to perform it. In the beginning, I didn’t understand the urgency, but because Rateb and the Syrian doctor were so persistent, we finally set up an appointment with a good pediatrician. He seconded the Syrian doctor’s opinion, saying, “Yes, we have to do something. This boy needs surgery soon.” He took care of all of the paperwork. If a procedure is urgent, the German healthcare system pays for it and it gets done, even for refugees. So Mahmoud finally got his surgery, and now he is healthy. 

“When Jan and I first started our sponsoring and volunteering project, our main desire was to give. We thought, simply, that we were the ones doing the giving, and Iyad and Rateb were the ones receiving. But after about a month, we realized that the dynamic was more complex.”

We had a young friend from Palestine, Abdulrahman. Back then he was eighteen or nineteen. He had picked up English and did a lot of translating, and he helped us communicate with Iyad and Rateb. I had set up a meeting with Rateb using WhatsApp and Google Translate. When I finally showed up to pick him up, he wasn’t there, and I was irritated. “You know, I’m taking time off work, and you aren’t there,” I said. Abdulrahman explained to me that Google’s translation was very vague. “He just misunderstood you,” he said. Abdulrahman’s explanation resolved the situation. I thought I had written, “I will pick you up at a certain time at your place.” But Google translated this as a question, so Rateb didn't think we had a meeting planned yet. 

Abdulrahman was eighteen when he came to Germany. He is highly intelligent. He became a fluent German speaker—at a high level—in one year, and worked as a writer for an Arabic newspaper in Germany. He writes very well. He used to live here in Schifferstadt, but now he lives about an hour from here, in a northern city. He’s currently working towards a secondary school diploma, so he can apply to universities in Germany. 

When Jan and I first started our sponsoring and volunteering project, our main desire was to give. We thought, simply, that we were the ones doing the giving, and Iyad and Rateb were the ones receiving. But after about a month, we realized that the dynamic was more complex. 

At first, we assumed that if we generously offered them something, they had to accept it. To put it bluntly, we thought they had to be “forever grateful.” And of course that was not the reality. They did not like or accept every offer we made them, and it took time for us to understand why. I must admit that, though they were grown men, we sometimes treated them like children. We had to realize that they decided for themselves what they liked and what they didn’t. For example, they did not always want clothing or food. As a matter of fact, we cooked for them only once. They politely ate one tablespoon and then said they weren’t hungry. So we stopped cooking for them, because they obviously didn't like our food. It was strange to them. 

In the beginning we objectified them. “We want to help people, and people like things.” It was a materialistic line of reasoning. After a while we began to think, “They’re people like us. Maybe they want what we’re offering, maybe they don't. They have their own opinions. They also have something to give. And they have good and bad characteristics, just like every other human being.” The last part was especially impressed upon us when we became more involved with Rateb and Mahmoud. 

Everyone in Building 31 told me that Rateb was mistreating his nephew. His housemates saw and heard slapping, biting, shouting… This was hard to hear. I called the police and asked them what to do if I found out about abuse. Normally when you suspect abuse, you have to report it to child protective services. The police told me to speak with a social worker. I searched for a social worker and told him what I knew. He said he would talk to Rateb. The social worker said that maybe Rateb was frustrated because he had no job, nothing to do. Rateb never found out that I reported him. 

Jan had a serious talk with Rateb. Jan looked him in the eye and said, “You will go to jail if you do it again.” We think Rateb understood what Jan was saying, and we think, but don’t know for sure, that Rateb became gentler with Mahmoud after this talk. After Rateb’s family came, however, the situation definitely improved. 

I have another confession. One day Iyad asked me to bring him to another town, because he had to go there to “pick up some money.” In this town there was another Syrian man, and this man lended money to Iyad, which Iyad used to pay for a smuggler who would get his family into Germany. Though it was definitely illegal, I helped. I drove him to pick up the money, and then I took him to the bank to send it. 

Reunion

While Iyad’s family made their way to Europe, tensions were high, and Iyad was anxious. We received word when the family got to Turkey, but for days afterwards, we didn’t hear anything. Iyad was worried because he thought, “My family is lost, I’m not hearing anything.” As they traveled from Turkey to Greece, we had no idea if they were alive. Then we got the relieving news that they made it safely to Greece. Whenever he got an update, Iyad immediately sent me a message: “Tatiana, my family arrived in Croatia,” or, “They made it to the Czech Republic.” A week or two later, Iyad’s family finally arrived in Germany. It was an exciting time.

Both families arrived before Christmas; reunification only took two to three months, which is quick for Germany. Iyad’s family arrived at the end of November, Rateb’s in December. We saw Rateb’s family just a couple hours after they arrived. Like Iyad’s family, they had their trials and difficulties on the road, and communication with them was sporadic during their journey. The trials, however, did not end when both families arrived in Germany. Each family moved into the rooms that Iyad and Rateb had already been staying in, rooms far too small for families with six children. The city had to find new accommodations for them.

Iyad’s family ended up moving to another city, and we lost contact with them. We don’t know why. It saddens me, because I was close to Iyad; we spent a lot of time together. We had amazing conversations about life, religion, and politics. In spite of the language barrier, I feel like we had a mutual understanding. The experience of simply being in another person’s presence can be enough to bridge cultural and linguistic gaps. Sometimes words are superfluous. 

Even before they left, my relationship with Iyad really changed when his family came. I think this change was mostly due to the influence of his wife, Amdim. When Iyad was alone he used to offer me his hand in greeting, but after Amdim arrived he didn’t touch me at all. This small change in our dynamic signaled something deeper. 

The last time I tried to get in touch with them was in December of 2018. I messaged Iyad, and he replied in a very friendly manner, “We moved to another town, much bigger, you should visit us.” I said, “Yes, of course, maybe in January.” Then Iyad’s wife sent me a message from her phone number, which wasn’t in my contacts list: “Hi, this is Amdim. Please don’t come. We don’t have time.” Maybe she was jealous, or maybe their family had conservative religious beliefs. Maybe Iyad was friendly with us in the beginning because he was alone, and we were helping him. It was a special case. Maybe the whole time it bothered him, deep in his heart, that we were non-believers.

Rateb’s family is now living about twenty minutes from here, in the countryside. We are still in touch with Rateb, his wife Rashab, Mahmoud, and the other children. We no longer think of ourselves as Rateb’s sponsors, but as his friends. They invite us on a regular basis to join them for dinner. We were just there last night, and we stuffed ourselves with Syrian food. Rateb’s wife, Rashab, is an excellent cook. During school vacations I take their boys to the public swimming pool. 

Because of the language barrier, it was almost two years until they could tell us the story of why they fled and how they made it across the ocean. When they told us the story, it was incredibly emotional, because we had known them for over two years. We began to appreciate how many dangerous situations they had been through. For instance, when they were in the no-man’s-land between Turkey and Greece, in the Aegean, the ship Rashab and her kids sailed on started not only to run out of gas, but to sink. And no one sailing past felt responsible for them. They texted their GPS coordinates to Germany, and from Germany someone was able to alert the Greek Coast Guard to go and get them. It was all very traumatic. They could have easily drowned. 

Rateb’s family is a real success story. The children have learned so much German. The oldest boy, of course, has the biggest disadvantage in terms of language. He’s very smart, but he was not performing well in school, so he left after the tenth grade and started to train as a professional electrician. He’s doing really well now; he’s very smart, and his boss likes him. He is considering going back to school for architecture after he masters his trade. 

Reactions

After our experience with these families, we can’t accept people slandering and accusing refugees. On the other side of our house, there is a Turkish family. The kids have lived there their whole lives, and they speak the local dialect. They sound local, but then you see the hijab—the head scarf. Some people think it “doesn’t fit.” The mother may sound local, but she still looks foreign. 

At one point this Turkish woman started talking badly about refugees. I thought, “What? Why are you saying that?” I eventually found out that other people from around here had mistaken her for a refugee. From her point of view, refugees were lowering her status, which was already low in our society. Suddenly there were these refugees coming in, and she believed they were pushing her further down.

Jan tried to debate with her, but she didn’t want to hear it. Her opinion was simple: the refugees had made her life worse. She didn’t like being mistaken for a refugee. She hadn’t met any refugees, but she had read that “the crime rate has increased,” and accepted some other common anti-refugee talking points. Among them is also the idea that refugees “drain our resources.” But in the budget of the German state, only a very small fraction is spent on refugees. It’s virtually nothing. Just a few years ago, we spent dozens of billions of euros to save big banks. The state declared them too big to fail, and billions of euros were pumped into them. This was German money being spent to save Greece and Portugal: a good, actual example of draining our resources, if you ask me.

Of course, not all of our engagements were negative. When we started, we posted a picture on Facebook of us with Abdulwahab and Mahmoud, the two kids. The caption was something like, “These are two Syrian refugees we are helping. If there is any project to support refugees in your town, please do something to help.” I got a lot of likes and positive comments. This was in the summer of 2015, when it was still fashionable to care about refugees, before the attacks in Paris and Colombe. 

The best reaction we received was from a friend whose family was originally Pakistani, but she had grown up in Germany and married a guy from Florida. When they saw my post, they immediately called us to ask, “What are you doing? How can we help you to help?” They sent money to us from Florida. 500 euros through Western Union! What a reaction! With that money we bought some winter clothes for the children, and we went to a park with them.

At that time my relatives were proud of us. They gave us a lot of clothes, including baby clothes. They were really interested in the story. They often asked us, “How is it going? How are they doing? How is Abdulwahab?” 

But then their reactions changed. My mother is still interested in our refugee friends, but not my sister. She lives in Spain, and in the context of Spanish culture, it is normal to be what we call racist. She says things like, “I don’t want to talk about that topic. I don't want to talk about refugees.” But then she’ll send me links to newspaper articles about immigrants from the Middle East murdering native Germans. The media makes these attacks seem far more frequent than they actually are. My sister thinks that refugees are bad, that they will destroy our continent. But just a couple of years ago, she was sending us baby clothes for them…

Reality and Recognition

Meeting our Syrian friends was important for me in finding my calling. At that time I taught at a university. But a year or two after I met our Syrian friends, I decided to work with refugees professionally. Now I work teaching German to refugees in the transition camps. I've gained a lot of language skills, cultural skills, and intercultural competence. I learned that I am able to connect to people, no matter their language or religion. And this helps me at work because people quickly feel connected to me. They feel comfortable, and this makes it easier for them to learn German. They feel like I understand them. 

Now Jan and I are both learning Arabic. I’m also learning Farsi. These days I have more contact with Iran and Afghanistan than Syria. Our first Arabic class was with an Egyptian, but he wasn’t a professional teacher, just a retired engineer teaching for fun. He was very old-school, with no training in education or didactics. He started his class with the alphabet, and the next lesson was on prepositions. We thought, “So, when will we learn how to say ‘Hello’?” We started a new class taught by a Syrian woman from Aleppo, and we like it much better. She is a professional teacher and knows a lot of languages: Hebrew, German, English, and Arabic. In our current class, we learn modern communication with an official book. We learn to say practical things, and also how to read and write. 

Jan and I have always liked to travel. However, before meeting Iyad and Rateb and working with refugees, we had only visited Western countries and South America. Working with refugees was our first real contact with Eastern culture, with the Arab world. I am so happy we did not miss this chance to broaden our horizons. Our relationships with refugees have enriched our lives. My world has gotten bigger. 

“We realized that our work had to be rooted in genuine relationships, and genuine relationships depend on recognizing the fullness of the other person’s humanity.”

When we began volunteering, we wanted to feel like good people, like we were doing something good for people fleeing violence and war. But if you really analyze this desire to help, it was more a selfish, internal desire to feel good about ourselves than a desire focused on other people’s needs.

In the beginning, we thought that doing good would feel good. But not every “good deed” we did was received as a good deed. Our interactions weren’t always positive. This made us think: “What is this really about? Are we helping because we want to feel good about ourselves? Or are we helping because we sincerely want to improve the lives of others and empower them?”

Before we got to know them, Syrian refugees didn't have individual names and faces. They were an abstract group of people. Then we internalized that these were actual people with names and personalities. We realized that our work had to be rooted in genuine relationships, and genuine relationships depend on recognizing the fullness of the other person’s humanity. Our work could not be a series of transactions where we do the giving, and they do the receiving. There had to be a real exchange. Refugees are not convenient receptacles for one-sided charity, no matter how well-intentioned it may be. They are people, people who, like anyone, want to be heard and accepted, and most importantly, loved.