August 06, 2015
DIYARBAKIR â€" The two men kill time by playing backgammon in the shade of an acacia tree. Behind them, on the other side of a fence, rows of white tents are lined up under the burning sun.
â€œNobody cares about us,â€ one of the men, Merad Moussa, complains. â€œOur land was taken one year ago and no one is getting it back."
This 35-year-old construction worker, his face crossed by a Gallic-like moustache, a child sleeping on his lap, says life as a refugee is a mix of hopelessness and insecurity. Suddenly his backgammon partner, Said Sedou, 28, speaks up: â€œEven here in Turkey, we donâ€™t feel safe. ISIS could find us here!â€
The two men have been sheltered for almost a year with thousands of others in an amusement park transformed into a refugee camp near Diyarbakir, in southeastern Turkey.
One year ago, on Aug. 3, 2014, both were forced to flee their village of Degureh, located by the Sinjar Mountains, in northwestern Iraq. As Yazidis, members of a thousand-year-old sect, they were targeted by the Islamist troops of ISIS, narrowly escaping death as some 5,000 Yazidis were massacred that day. Merad Moussaâ€™s uncle was among the victims, while the jihadists also kidnapped his 15-year-old niece. She has since been freed, but â€œsuffers from mental disorders,â€ Moussa says.
One goal: Europe
The 4,000 Yazidis living here, under these tents set up in squares in the middle of the steppe, were received by the Turkish Kurds who make up most of the local population, and with whom they share the same language.
But most of the Yazidis have only one goal: reaching Europe. â€œWe want European countries to help us,â€ Merad Moussa says. â€œWe donâ€™t understand why they are remaining silent.â€
Dalef Ali Khider, wearing an immaculate dress, knows exactly where she wants to go: â€œI have four sons in Germany, as well as a brother, I want to join them.â€
On June 30, a group of the refugees here decided it was time to act: they bought food, chartered coaches and headed West. In total, 2,100 Yazidis, who left different camps of the region, Batman, Urfa, Sirnak, Siirt, attempted to reach Bulgaria, 1,400 kilometers away. In vain. They were all stopped on their way by Turkish police. Some were just a few kilometers away from the border. It was a mysterious and impromptu exodus that went almost unnoticed and intensified the refugeesâ€™ feeling of abandonment even further.
â€œFor this trip, we sold everything, our gold, our bracelets, our jewels. For those who had no money, we joined together. We donâ€™t have anything left,â€ says Moussa.
Why leave so suddenly en masse? There are different versions. They all thought the doors to Europe would open before them. Some even say they received guarantees from public officials. â€œWe formed a delegation that went to the Bulgarian consulate in Ankara, as well as the European representation,â€ says Moussa. â€œThey told us: â€˜come to the border, weâ€™ll let you in.â€™â€
It is a version that Bulgaria strongly refutes: â€œItâ€™s simply wishful thinking. We never promised them anything. We never even met them,â€ a diplomat says. â€œRegarding refugees, we apply international laws. We have no specific policy for such or such group.â€ Others mention the unclear role of smugglers as well as Turkish authorities. What was the aim of those who convinced them to take to the road?
At the root of this attempted westward escape: fear. The refugees of the camp are still traumatized by what they went through, a year earlier. â€œIâ€™ll never forget that August 3, 2014,â€ says Porshe, a 16-year-old, wearing a light veil that covers her fair skin. â€œOur village was surrounded. We fled into the mountains. We stayed there for nine days, without water or food.â€
Her friend, Nahla, 18, adds: â€œWe saw families taken hostage, children decapitated, women committing suicide so they wouldn't end up as prisoners.â€
Even if the Kurdish fighters managed to liberate her village, she doesnâ€™t see herself getting her former life back. â€œThe Arab villagers betrayed us,â€ she says. â€œThose who attacked us were our own neighbors.â€ Among the attackers, Porshe recognized her teacher. â€œHe knew us all. He knew where we lived. Itâ€™s the 73rd time in history that the Yazidi people are forced into exile. If we go back home, Iâ€™m very scared about having to flee again.â€
The two teens make slippers and jewels in a womenâ€™s home, built next to the camp. A tapestry representing the Peacock Angel venerated by the Yazidis decorates the room, next to the portrait of Abdullah Öcalan, the Kurdish leader imprisoned by Turkey. â€œIn my village, in addition to my studies, I was a hairdresser,â€ Nahla explains. â€œWeâ€™re bored here, we have nothing to do. No work.â€
Two months ago, one of her brothers tried his luck. â€œSmugglers helped him cross the border. He was stopped by Bulgarian police officers. They wanted to send him back to Iraq," Nahla recounts. "He was confined in a center, but managed to escape after a month. He walked to Germany. I spoke to him on the phone two days ago. He just arrived.â€
Sukran, one of the people in charge of the camp, says basic safety is still foremost in people's minds. â€œTheyâ€™re still in a state of shock and fear that ISIS will chase them right up to Turkish territory,â€ he says.
Turkey, which already shelters 1.8 million Syrians driven out by the civil war, wants the 30,000 Yazidi refugees on its territory to return to Iraq. As for the West, which one year ago appeared so moved by the fate of this small community threatened by extinction, there is nothing but silence.
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A neo-Nazi has been buried in the former grave of a Jewish musicologist Max Friedlaender – not an oversight, but a deliberate provocation. This is just one more example of antisemitism on the rise in Germany, and society's inability to respond.
Eva Marie Kogel
October 24, 2021
BERLIN — If you want to check the state of your society, there's a simple test: as the U.S. High Commissioner for Germany, John Jay McCloy, said in 1949, the touchstone for a democracy is the well-being of Jews. This litmus test is still relevant today. And it seems Germany would not pass.
Incidents are piling up. Most recently, groups of neo-Nazis from across the country traveled to a church near Berlin for the funeral of a well-known far-right figure. He was buried in the former grave of Jewish musicologist Max Friedlaender, a gravesite chosen deliberately by the right-wing extremists.
The incident at the cemetery
They intentionally chose a Jewish grave as an act of provocation, trying to gain maximum publicity for this act of desecration. And the cemetery authorities at the graveyard in Stahnsdorf fell for it. The church issued an immediate apology, calling it a "terrible mistake" and saying they "must immediately see whether and what we can undo."
There are so many incidents that get little to no media attention.
It's unfathomable that this burial was allowed to take place at all, but now the cemetery authorities need to make a decision quickly about how to put things right. Otherwise, the grave may well become a pilgrimage site for Holocaust deniers and antisemites.
The incident has garnered attention in the international press and it will live long in the memory. Like the case of singer-songwriter Gil Ofarim, who recently claimed he was subjected to antisemitic abuse at a hotel in Leipzig. Details of the crime are still being investigated. But there are so many other incidents that get little to no media attention.
The grave of Jewish musicologist Max Friedlaender
Crimes against Jews are rising
Across all parts of society, antisemitism is on the rise. Until a few years ago, Jewish life was seen as an accepted part of German society. Since the attack on the synagogue in Halle in 2019, the picture has changed: it was a bitter reminder that right-wing terror against Jewish people has a long, unbroken history in Germany.
Stories have abounded about the coronavirus crisis being a Jewish conspiracy; meanwhile, Muslim antisemitism is becoming louder and more forceful. The anti-Israel boycott movement BDS rears its head in every debate on antisemitism, just as left-wing or post-colonial thinking are part of every discussion.
Jewish life needs to be allowed to step out of the shadows.
Since 2015, the number of antisemitic crimes recorded has risen by about a third, to 2,350. But victims only report around 20% of cases. Some choose not to because they've had bad experiences with the police, others because they're afraid of the perpetrators, and still others because they just want to put it behind them. Victims clearly hold out little hope of useful reaction from the state – so crimes go unreported.
And the reality of Jewish life in Germany is a dark one. Sociologists say that Jewish children are living out their "identity under siege." What impact does it have on them when they can only go to nursery under police protection? Or when they hear Holocaust jokes at school?
Germany needs to take its antisemitism seriously
This shows that the country of commemorative services and "stumbling blocks" placed in sidewalks as a memorial to victims of the Nazis has lost its moral compass. To make it point true north again, antisemitism needs to be documented from the perspective of those affected, making it visible to the non-Jewish population. And Jewish life needs to be allowed to step out of the shadows.
That is the first thing. The second is that we need to talk about specifically German forms of antisemitism. For example, the fact that in no other EU country are Jewish people so often confronted about the Israeli government's policies (according to a survey, 41% of German Jews have experienced this, while the EU average is 28%). Projecting the old antisemitism onto the state of Israel offers people a more comfortable target for their arguments.
Our society needs to have more conversations about antisemitism. The test of German democracy, as McCloy called it, starts with taking these concerns seriously and talking about them. We need to have these conversations because it affects all of us. It's about saving our democracy. Before it's too late.
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Die Welt ("The World") is a German daily founded in Hamburg in 1946, and currently owned by the Axel Springer AG company, Europe's largest publishing house. Now based in Berlin, Die Welt is sold in more than 130 countries. A Sunday edition called Welt am Sonntag has been published since 1948.
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