No thank you, no nothing.
To give you an idea of what we do here and what an afternoon can look like, this is a snapshot of five hours. And if you get tired just reading this, keep reading. Then you’ll understand something, just a very small part, of why we are sometimes truly empty on this side.
I (M) run into a family. Roma from Ukraine. Father, mother, two small children. They arrived yesterday. Slept one night in the refugee shelter. This morning, they were back outside. At least that is what they tell us.
Neither parent can read or write. They only speak Ukrainian and Russian. The father is in full panic. He asks if they can sleep with us. They have no money for the train to, well, to where exactly? That remains unclear. Maybe money tomorrow. Maybe not. The mother is empty. Exhausted. No energy left. The children are restless. They feel everything.
We call Esther to translate over the phone. The story comes in fragments. Incoherent. Sometimes contradictory. Every conversation takes a detour. Russian to Dutch, Dutch to German, and back again.
Every conversation takes time. A lot of time. And you feel the pressure on all sides. Not because people do not want to help, on the contrary. But because you are dealing with different institutions, different desks, different people. People doing their jobs, carrying responsibility, handling dozens of other situations at the same time. People who have to work efficiently. And you feel that pressure in every conversation, in every silence, in every new explanation that has to start again from zero.
Slowly, it becomes clear they are on their way to another refugee center. A city whose name remains unintelligible.
But something does not add up. When you are transferred from shelter A to shelter B, train tickets are arranged. Always. This family has nothing. No tickets. No clear instructions. Only papers in German that they cannot read. We call again. Translate again. Start again.
Then it becomes clearer. They entered Germany through city X. That is where they were registered. That is where they are supposed to stay. You cannot simply travel to another city and start over. That is not how the system works. Cultural difference. In their world, there was always a way to arrange something. Here, just arranging it does not exist.
Meanwhile, we call the immigration police again.
Their answer is clear. They brought the family to the refugee center yesterday. That is where they must be. That is where they must ask their questions. That is where any train tickets must be arranged. And the police are not a taxi. Clear.
Except that refugee center is a two-hour walk from where we are standing now. Two hours. With two exhausted parents. Two small children. No food. No energy. No overview.
Meanwhile, the police are literally standing next to us. Three officers. The conversations go back and forth. Police to me. Me to Esther. Esther to the family. And back again. Over and over. The same circle.
Eventually, we are advised to walk to the refugee services office, fifteen minutes away.
So we do.
When we arrive, it turns out that without an appointment you cannot get in. The appointment must be made online. The security guards stop us. But they give us a tip. This family must report to location Y. There they might be able to help. Might.
We decide to call first. Experience has taught us that otherwise people are sent on their way again with no guarantee. Good decision. Location Y immediately says do not send them here. They are for general refugees, not Ukrainians. For that, we must go to location Z. So: not the refugee center. Not the refugee services office. Not location Y. Location Z.
Translate that over the phone while a father panics and trusts no one.
We arrange coffee. That is part of it too. But you have to manage it in the chaos. Something small that helps someone feel human again, instead of a dossier.
After five hours of calling, walking, waiting, explaining, and starting over, we arrive at location Z.
There everything changes.
They speak Russian there. They understand the situation immediately. They know what to do. The family is taken down a long hallway. They disappear into the system that will hopefully take care of them.
No goodbye. No thank you. Not because they are ungrateful, but because they simply have no space for anything other than survival. And that is okay.
Meanwhile, we also arranged food for them. We ourselves have not eaten. That is what we will do now. My phone is almost dead.
Five hours. Dutch, German, Russian, broken English. Dozens of conversations. Multiple pots of coffee. We are completely exhausted. But they have a place, and that is what matters.
And let this be clear: the people from all the institutions we spoke to were helpful. Truly helpful. Everyone did what was possible within their role, within the rules, and within the limits of the system. The problem is not the people. Everyone involved was doing their best. The friction comes from the differences between worlds, and the people who stand literally and figuratively in between.
