Tending to a Tide of Refugees
Frustrated by Bureaucratic Hurdles and a Difficult Language
Stray a few blocks beyond Weimar’s historic center and you are in a working- class sprawl of chipped pavement, weedy courtyards and bursts of graffiti. That is where Anas Alkarri, his wife, Aya, and their young son, Zaid, settled — in a dim top- floor apartment in one of the better-maintained buildings among hundreds of white-walled housing blocks.
Like others, he hoped to take advantage of free language lessons and quickly land a job. But also like others, he found German difficult and was frustrated by the bureaucratic hurdles and internships most newcomers must clear to hold a job in Germany.
“They teach you the rules, and then they teach you the exceptions, and the exceptions are more than the rule,” he said of the language classes he received from the city and local university students. “The dog is a he,
She first spotted him at the Open Sunday Café, a weekly gathering of Germans and refugees in the remains of a former schoolhouse. It was a couple of days after the new year in 2016, and he was absorbed in an intense game of chess.
“I was with some of my friends, and Omar was there with some of his,” recalled Sarah Zdun, 26, a social worker at a home for unaccompanied Afghan teenagers.
Their relationship grew slowly. They saw each other now and again at the cafe; then Omar’s refugee friends and Ms. Zdun’s German friends began hanging out together around the city. By late spring, the two were dating.
“I don’t want people thinking that I have lost myself here in Germany,” explained Omar, 28, who spoke on the condition that his last name not be used for fear of retribution against his relatives still in Syria. “I don’t want them to think that I have changed.”
Omar left his family in Syria in 2013. He languished in Lebanon for more than two years. Finally, in summer 2015, he got himself to Turkey and then, using a smuggler, across the sea to Greece and through the Balkans by train, bus and foot.
Ms. Zdun grew up in Leipzig and landed in Weimar after college in the Netherlands when her marriage to a student from India faltered. She took a job with a local foundation that helps troubled young people, and hung out at the Open Sunday Café.
In summer, the couple set out to rent an apartment together. They found that many landlords are leery but the table is a she. They have no logic.”
Refugees are required to take roughly 700 hours of classes in German language and cultural orientation in exchange for benefits. At the end, if they pass a language test, they are eligible to hold a job and remain in the country permanently.
In the first six months of 2016 — the most recent available figures — 278,404 refugees were enrolled in integration courses across the country, 434 of them in and around Weimar. Nearly 64 percent nationwide passed the test needed to continue studying or pursue vocational training.
Mr. Alkarri was an accountant in Syria but gave up on that career in Weimar. “The training here is clearly superior,” he said. “Given the choice, even I would hire a German over a Syrian.”
Instead, Mr. Alkarri was one of 18 refugees paired with 18 Germans in a summerlong course helping them of renting to refugees.
Things were going better with their families. Ms. Zdun’s brother bonded with Omar, and her mother, Angelika Zdun, 55, also a social worker, gave her blessing. Sarah’s mother lived in a corner of what had been East Germany, fertile ground for the anti-immigrant right wing. “Sometimes I hear people talking in my office about refugees, and I have to go into the other room,” said the mother. “I can’t listen to it, and I don’t want to argue with them. It is really difficult to change people’s minds.”
By September, the integration workshop Omar was in along with Anas Alkarri had finished. Eric Wrasse offered jobs to some of the refugees, but many thought the low pay not worth the time away from family or language lessons.
“I would like to be an integration optimist, but if I am honest, I must say that I am less optimistic now than when we started,” Mr. Wrasse said. “I think the labor market is going to be very difficult for them. I become workshop leaders, a potentially lucrative field as demand rises for programs related to the refugee experience.
Mr. Alkarri recalled an intense discussion at one of the workshop’s weekend gatherings about homosexuality, something he called “the monster in the closet.”
“We told them that, worldwide, the majority of people are opposed to homosexuality,” Mr. Alkarri said. “But the Germans, they want you to be cool with it. Be cool, be easy. But many of us cannot.”
Eric Wrasse, 41, the head of Mr. Alkarri’s program, organized a field trip as a bonding exercise, with refugees and Germans visiting the Neukölln district of Berlin, a longtime immigrant enclave. Their Syrian guide complained about being forced to live with 39 other men in a cramped shelter and described a “killer bureaucracy” in Germany. At least back in Syria, he said, one could don’t tell them, because I don’t want to dismay them, but they will be in competition with Germans, and they will meet a lot of prejudice from employers.”
At least Ms. Zdun and Omar finally did find an apartment — on a street of grand residential buildings a few blocks from the main train station, on the top floor. They gave a party to celebrate.
At one point, there was a playful jostling for space on the new Ikea sofa. Five crowded on, then six, until there were more than 10 refugees and Germans tangled around one another in a human knot.
“Look,” Mr. Alkarri said. “We are integrating!”
Omar beamed and rested his arm on Ms. Zdun’s shoulders. pay a little money and get to the head of the line.
“Are you advocating corruption?” asked Mr. Wrasse.
“You benefit from the rule of law in this country,” Mr. Wrasse added. “You have to trust the system.”
“That is the problem,” Mr. Alkarri explained. “We don’t trust the system.”
Mr. Wrasse said, “You have food, a home, all because of the system.”