April 12, 2016
IZMIR — It is both hard and easy to talk about death with a religious man.
We have been chatting for awhile when, sensing a kindness in Ahmet Altan that would prevent him from perceiving my question as an insult, I finally ask him: Are there ever times when you want to rebel against all of this?
Altan has been an imam working at cemeteries for 35 years. For the past six months, he's been at the Dogancay Cemetary at Bayrakli, Izmir, near the western coast of Turkey.
The coroner's car takes us up the hills, covered in the green of spring and the yellow of weaver's broom, to the potters' field. Lot no. 412 has been set aside for the graves of refugees. These are marked with five-digit numbers on black plaques. Most are for those refugees who did not survive the boat ride they embarked on with dreams of reaching European shores.
Does Altan rebel when he sees the bodies of those who've fled from war, risking everything en route to Europe in pursuit of the simple dream of a better life? Does he rebel after saying funeral prayers for the three-year-olds and five-year-olds he must bury all too often?
He hesitates. "When I see them, I am ashamed of my humanity," he says. "Those who think only of their own children tarnish the future of other children. We are sending those who should be running and playing to their graves. That is not humanity."
A different path
Altan has lived in Izmir for 40 years. Originally, his dream was to teach Arabic or train hafizs — those who have memorized the Koran — but he ended up becoming an imam and choosing to serve cemeteries. "Anyone," he says, "can be an imam at a mosque."
His uncle, also a man of religion, had advised him long ago: "You will see people coming from the mosque and others coming from the bar. Treat them equally."
Altan reserves a special care for his work in the refugee section of the cemetery, and has personally developed a planning system there that he hopes will become more widely used. He isn't aware of anyone else doing the same thing.
The cemetery plots are organized according to a map section system, but sometimes as many as 500 graves can be squeezed into a single section, leading to mix-ups, especially in the potters' field. Altan shows me how, using his system — which carefully documents forensic science reports, labeled boxes and hand-drawn maps — people may one day be able to reunite with loved ones, even if it means doing so at a grave site.
We open the book of records for the dead, and check the boxes that say "unknown." Altan is proud when all the numbers match.
He shows me the marble-covered graves of two brothers, one eight months old, and the other two years old. They were eventually identified by relatives. In spite of it all, Altan seems to find some comfort in assigning names to tombstones, and he wants me to know that.
Just then, his phone rings: He learns that he will need to recite funeral prayers for a one-month-old Syrian girl. Her 23-year-old father, Mohama from Damascus, is waiting down the hill. The newborn, named Lean, was his first child, and she was born sick. Mohama is unemployed and just getting by in Izmir's Esrefpasa neighborhood with some extended family. A friend is found, and the baby is laid to rest with a funeral prayer said in the presence of two people, marking her brief time on this earth.
The coast guard delivers corpses to the prosecutor's office, and they are then transferred to the forensics office for DNA and other tests. Bodies remain there for 15 days in case relatives turn up to claim them. After that, the dead are sent to the Dogancay Cemetery.
Women and children
Altan says there are 330 dead bodies known to be at the bottom of the Aegean. There are 136 "unknown" people buried in the refugee section of the cemetery, while the total number of refugee graves there is more than 400. Eight people whose names were initially unknown were later identified thanks to DNA tests. Seventeen members of the Ismetullah family sailed the Aegean, for example, and four of them died, later to be located at the cemetery's lot 412.
Two children and a woman were buried here just last week. In fact, Altan says 60% of the dead are women and children. There was, he recalls, a woman who got pregnant in Aleppo, gave birth in Konya, drowned in the Aegean with her child and was then buried at this cemetery. He will never forget it.
Many of the graves are recent, from this year. Altan showed me some forensics reports in which even the gender of the dead was undetermined because fish had eaten the corpses.
The imam has saved a separate area of the cemetery for children under age two. "Otherwise, they would get squashed by the grownups," he manages to say. This sort of statement is impossible to respond to.
"Truthfully, I am affected by this a lot," he says. "I thank my wife for providing me with psychological support." Altan has four children of his own, two of whom are married.
Why do these people risk their lives to go to Europe, when they have already managed to reach Turkey? I ask him, wondering how he sees this. "Isn't it so sad?" he says. "Muslims are fleeing from a country of Muslims. We should think about that. They say it is to save their children, so they risk everything."
Why can't they save their children here?
"Don't get me started on that," Altan replies. "My job is not to bring people here, it is to take good care of them once they arrive. The rest is politics. I should keep quiet."
In a supportive tone, he mentions the name of Izmir Mayor Aziz Kocaoglu a few times. Then he mentions Izmir governor Mustafa Toprak. Perhaps Altan's choices and status as a civil servant bring that kind of balance. His pain must truly be deep, since in the course of our conversation he also says the officials "can negotiate over people's lives."
The refugee graves have regular visitors, especially on Fridays and Sundays. There are also people who bury their own dead and then visit the refugee graves. The Aegean Sea is at the other end of the valley from the cemetery, the World Peace Monument lies in between.
"The peace in their country did not happen. They set sail in search of serenity, which they also did not find," he says. "Now they lie here across the sea and before this monument for peace."
Turkey's deal with the EU regarding the deportation of refugees has been in effect since March 20 and, combined with harsh weather conditions, it has contributed to a decrease in the number of boats sailing for Greece in the past week.
Now, a new era is beginning. How will the process of returning refugees to Turkey work? Will new routes emerge in the Aegean as Europe surrounds itself with barbed wire, and the poverty inside refugee camps increases?
Altan believes people will try to reach Europe no matter what. He thinks those who have nothing to lose will do anything.
He also knows this much: When people are brought back to Turkey from Europe, some who left their dead on the shores of the Aegean will arrive here searching for their relatives' graves. Altan will check his map and tell them where to look.
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Early detection and accessible help are essential in the fight against domestic violence. Hairdressers in the Dutch province of North Brabant are now being trained to identify when their customers are facing abuse at home.
Daphne van Paassen
November 30, 2021
TILBURG — The three hairdressers in the bare training room of the hairdressing company John Beerens Hair Studio are absolutely sure: they have never seen signs of domestic violence among their customers in this city in the Netherlands. "Or is that naïve?"
When, a moment later, statistics appear on the screen — one in 20 adults deals with domestic violence, as well as one or two children per class — they realize: this happens so often, they must have victims in their chairs.
All three have been in the business for years and have a loyal clientele. Sometimes they have customers crying in the chair because of a divorce. According to Irma Geraerts, 45, who has her own salon in Reusel, a village in the North Brabant region, they're part-time psychologists. "A therapist whose hair I cut explained to me that we have an advantage because we touch people. We are literally close. The fact that we stand behind people and make eye contact via the mirror also helps."
That intimate contact is one of the reasons why The Netherland's Child Abuse Taskforce and the Sterk Huis (Strong Home) aid organization want to make use of hairdressers to detect domestic violence. People often go to the same hairdresser for years, exchange remarkably intimate stories, and feel a strong bond of trust. A lot of experience has already been gained in Anglo-Saxon countries and thousands of hairdressers have been trained.
In front of the room, today's trainer is moving restlessly, one hand hidden in her sleeve, the other rubbing a leg. She tries to teach the hairdressers to recognize signals and open up a discussion about them through role-playing. They find it difficult: someone with a bruise could have fallen, couldn't they? How do you start a conversation? The trainer helps them: "Don't start with your feelings or judgement. Emphasize what you hear or see."
On November 25, the United Nations campaign against violence against women started for the 21st time with its tagline "Orange the World" and buildings lit up in orange to draw attention to the issue. But despite years of awareness-raising campaigns, task forces and national programs such as 'Geweld hoort nergens thuis' (Violence has no place in the home), violence rates are hardly decreasing.
According to figures from The Netherland's Central Bureau of Statistics (CBS), 5.5% of adults have been victims of domestic violence at least once in the past five years. It happens to both women and men, but when it comes to structural partner violence, women are six times more likely to be victims than men. Women are also more likely to suffer serious injuries, sometimes fatally. Of all murdered women in the Netherlands, 80% are killed by their partner or by a family member. That is why it is called femicide. Reports from social workers show that 119,000 children (3% of the total number) have experienced child abuse. In reports that ask children directly, the figure goes up to 12%.
Why are domestic violence and child abuse (which often go hand in hand) so difficult to tackle? And are there new methods that do work?
An intimate relationship
Domestic violence is an immensely complex problem, according to researchers and social workers. It hardly ever involves a single blow being dealt. "It has so many forms," says Nelleke Westerveld of the Movisie center for social development. It ranges from physical violence to psychological violence, from intimate terrorism — in which the man usually exerts far-reaching control over the woman – to stalking, sexual or honor-related violence. "Some forms of violence are clearly based on stress and risk factors, such as poverty, addiction or psychological problems," says Westerveld. "But power also plays a role. Care workers must therefore properly map out the situation, because all these forms require a specific approach. At the same time, it is not written on someone's forehead what kind of violence they are dealing with."
"You often see that people have been in a situation of violence for years, on average seven years, before they finally decide to ask for help," says Teun Haans, cluster manager at Sterk Huis, which together with the Child Abuse Taskforce organizes the training courses for hairdressers. "We also know that the longer the violence lasts, the more difficult it is to change the situation. So you have to get to it much earlier. The environment, in particular, can play a crucial role."
Research also shows that people who are close to the victim have the biggest impact. "Neighbors, teachers, sports coaches or caretakers who replace a door for the third time. They should ask themselves: what is going on here?"
Too much respect for privacy
In the southern region of North Brabant they are aiming for a broad approach: domestic violence should not be an issue that only professionals deal with, but one for society as a whole. So far, the fire brigade and the housing association's caretakers have been trained, and this month is the turn of hairdressers. Whether this training leads to more reports is yet to be investigated.
But what Haans does know is that 'Veilig Thuis Midden-Brabant' (Safe Home Central Brabant), the regional department of the national organization that reports and advises on domestic violence and child abuse, is the only organization in the Netherlands that did not receive fewer reports during the lockdowns. In the rest of the country, that number did drop. Not because the violence decreased (there is every reason to assume that it actually increased because of being locked down together), but because the police, social workers and teachers no longer visited people.
We Dutch people have the thickest front doors in Europe.
The idea for the broad approach was developed together with Experts By Experience. For years, social workers spoke about the victims. But nowadays, those who have lived experience of abuse are the new experts who are sitting at the table and contributing. "They told us over and over again: the baker, the teacher, the neighbor, they all knew, but nobody ever asked if they could do anything," says Haans. "We Dutch people have the thickest front doors in Europe. We are terrified to interfere with someone's private life."
Hairdresser in Rotterdam, Netherlands
Daniëlle (34, a self-employed accountant) is an Expert By Experience. As a child, she was neglected by her mother, who suffered from mental health issues and locked her up out of powerlessness. When she was with her father, her stepmother would beat her and drag her down the stairs if she did something wrong. "The worst part was not the blows, because I knew: those will be over soon.
The permanent fear, that was the worst." She believes in the Brabant approach: "I had totally ruined teeth because nobody taught me how to brush them, yet the dentist never noticed something else was up." According to her, bystanders often think they must save you, that they have to solve the problem, which is why they prefer to look away. "But they don't have to. It would have helped me so much if someone had pointed out to me that this was not normal, and that I did not have to blame myself."
Daniëlle experienced the power of such a gesture once. Her internship supervisor at a travel agency had noticed that she did not offer clients coffee. "I said I couldn't do that because I was sure I would drop the cup. I didn't mention it was because, as a child, I got beaten up if I dropped anything. 'What if I drop the cup?' I said. 'Then we'll just get a new one,' she replied. She not only taught me that I could serve a cup of coffee, but — more importantly — that I could change something."
It's about opening the conversation, Haans explains. "That can be the start of a change." The hairdressers are also urged to do so. It is not the intention that they start calling Veilig Thuis hotline as soon as their customers have left. When Sterk Huis, the organization Haans works for, posted a call on Facebook for the hairdressers' training, it caused a commotion: were hairdressers going to 'report' their clients? Of course, that's not the intention, says Haans. "But you can let them know that they can chat and call Veilig Thuis for instance, and you can bring up the topic again the next time they get a haircut."
Fast help needed
Does this broad approach help to bring down the figures? Based on a 2020 report (The long-winded issue: can domestic violence and child abuse really be stopped?), one could make a cautiously optimistic prediction. Researcher Katinka Lünnemann and her colleagues at the Verwey-Jonker Institute followed over the course of three years 576 families who had been reported to Veilig Thuis. In one third of the families that received help, the violence eventually stopped. The violence also decreased in families that, for some reason, did not receive direct help (but were monitored), but to a lesser extent. According to Lünnemann, an explanation for the latter is that the report alone may have set something in motion: the silence is broken, "and we know that awareness is the first step towards change".
The Netherlands was shocked
At the same time, despite the help, serious and frequent violence still occurs in 50% of families: both partner violence and child abuse. And that is serious, because the longer the violence continues, the more harmful it is. Chronic stress causes changes in the brain, which makes it harder for children to learn and solve difficult problems. They are also more likely to become stressed even when performing normal tasks.
One of the problems is that, in the Netherlands, many institutions such as Veilig Thuis and the Jeugdbescherming youth protection agency do not provide any help themselves. "Victims are often directed to other organizations," says Lünnemann. "There is a lack of fast, concrete help."
This was also one of the conclusions of her research into the situation in Rotterdam. In 2018, the city was rocked by the murders of three young women, including 16-year-old Hümeyra, in close succession. The Netherlands was shocked. How could things have gone so wrong?
With the formation of Veilig Thuis in 2015 and the decentralization of youth care to the municipalities, it was precisely the intention to organize help that was closer to the people. But an extra layer was added. In Rotterdam, citizens cannot go directly to the community team; they need a referral form from, for example, Veilig Thuis. A lot of expertise was lost as a result of this organizational change," Lünnemann concluded.
The danger of the broad approach in North Brabant therefore lurks in the follow-up process, Lünnemann fears. "I hold Sterk Huis in high esteem, but we are already seeing a shortage of real assistance. So if you start training all kinds of groups in society to recognize domestic violence, there will be more reports and you have to make sure that the extra help is ready." That extra help is not there yet, confirms Haans of Sterk Huis.
The broad approach is good for raising awareness in society, that is indisputable according to Lünnemann. But the real solution lies in the recommendations she made for Rotterdam: there must be more actual help, real cooperation and, perhaps most important of all, accessible physical places where women at risk can go.
At the Schiedamsedijk in Rotterdam, such a place became available recently. Those who report to the municipal health services desk with the code phrase "I'm here for Filomena" are taken by hostess Gaby to a bright living room with pastel-colored furniture and a playpen with baby toys and plants. Only the large posters of the traveling photo exhibition on domestic violence give away that this is no ordinary living room.
Not only is this the only place in the Netherlands where victims can walk in without an appointment, but all parties — the police, a forensic doctor ("Many victims take photos of their bruises themselves, but these are not legally valid"), Veilig Thuis, a psychologist and a trauma specialist – are under one roof. This way, the case manager, together with the victim, can literally 'check all the boxes', and can complete the entire investigation in no more than seven days, instead of the usual months. "The victim does not have to tell her story over and over again," says care manager Christine Clement of Filomena, Centre for Domestic Violence and Child Abuse. "And there is no talking about the victim in her absence: she is always there."
A woman comes forward to make her first report in the presence of her friend: she tells her story for the first time. She has no injuries at the time, but her partner has attempted strangulation before. "That's when all the alarm bells go off, because that is often a signal that there is a risk of femicide," Clement says later. The woman faces intimate terrorism and reveals that she has a tracker on her phone: her partner keeps an eye on where she is. With an excuse that she had to be in this neighborhood, she got away.
there is no talking about the victim in her absence: she is always there.
The woman has an hour at most. Veilig Thuis makes a safety assessment on the spot and determines what needs to be done. "At a time like this, you can see why it's so important that everyone is here," says Clement. "Because sometimes you have to act quickly." It is decided that she will go home, as not to arouse suspicion. All contact will be through her friend because the partner checks the victim's phone. In the meantime, Filomena arranges for a place in a shelter.
Three days later, she is taken to that safe place "somewhere in the Netherlands," so that there is less chance of her partner finding her. She has a new mobile phone and gets help to cope with the effect the violence has had on her, Clements says. "And of course, she has the support of the other women in the shelter."
*With the cooperation of Monique van de Ven. For privacy reasons, some interviewees are only referred to by their first name. Their full names are known to the editors.
**This article was translated with permission of the author
If you are in an unsafe situation or are looking for help, here is an international directory with the names and links of organizations dealing with domestic abuse around the world.
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De Volkskrant (The People's Paper) is a Dutch daily headquartered in Amsterdam. Founded in 1919, it was originally a center-left Roman Catholic publication, it took on a clear left-wing stance in the 1960s and later evolved to a more centrist stance. It was named the European Newspaper of the Year in the category of nationwide newspapers in 2013.
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