Germany
/ Opinion
Germany’s
refugee crisis has left it as bitterly divided as Donald Trump’s
America
Konstantin Richter
Friday 1 April 2016
07.00 BST
We
thought we could handle the migrant numbers – I invited them into
my home. Whatever happened to our welcoming spirit?
Last autumn, when
Angela Merkel opened Germany’s borders to refugees, my wife and I
decided we would be happy to have some of them stay with us in our
Berlin apartment. Mostly they would come and stay for just one night,
arriving late and leaving at dawn to register with the city
authorities.
One night the
voluntary organisation that placed refugees with German families
called us after midnight and said it had a Moldovan who needed a
rest. So we Googled Moldova. We were OK with Syrians coming for a
sleepover. But what about Moroccans, Eritreans, or the citizens of
former Soviet republics? Well OK, we thought, why not?
Six months have
passed since then. The EU has struck a complicated deal with Turkey
that is meant to reduce the influx. It may or may not work. But
whatever happens in the coming months, Germany’s Willkommenskultur
– the belief that we should welcome refugees with open arms – has
arguably come to an end. What’s more, the nation that took in more
than a million people seems irredeemably changed by the experience –
and not for the better.
Germany is bitterly
divided on the refugee question. Neighbours and families are divided.
The poisonous atmosphere has been fuelled by rightwing hatemongers.
But the adherents of the Willkommenskultur, in my view, are also to
blame. Where did it all go wrong?
Looking back, the
events of September 2015 seem strangely unreal. Hundreds of Germans
gathered at Munich’s central station to applaud incoming refugees.
A smiling Merkel posed for selfies with Syrians at asylum-seeker
homes, and ordinary Germans opened their doors for “welcome
dinners”. I remember feeling both excited and a little nervous.
Something extraordinary was happening and we were there to witness it
first-hand.
Helping people who’d
escaped from a brutal civil war seemed an unquestionably sound thing
to do – and Germans embraced their role as moral leaders of the
western world. Collective narcissism may have played a role too.
Other nations have long respected and envied Germany for its economic
success. But we have not exactly been considered warm-hearted or
lovable. Now, all of a sudden, millions dreamt of coming here – and
we felt flattered. The refugees made us feel good about ourselves.
We also thought we’d
benefit economically from our popularity, much like the US did in
preceding centuries. Call it Germany’s American dream. A massive
influx of young workers was just what the ageing nation needed, we
argued. Besides, Merkel wasn’t a crazy idealist. When she made her
move in September, we thought she knew what she was doing. She was
known to be a cautious, risk-averse politician. So there had to be a
plan – and an alternative if the plan didn’t work.
Were we naive?
Perhaps. Most of the refugees who stayed at our home were men in
their 20s. They didn’t talk much. Some never even said “thank
you”. One seemed to feel genuinely sorry for us because we have
three daughters and no sons. Another asked, apropos of nothing,
whether my wife was “a Jewish girl”. We tried not to read too
much into these experiences, limited as they were. But they did
suggest that the relationship between Germans and refugees would not
be as easy and straightforward as the enthusiasts had suggested.
Some of the broader
assumptions we as a nation made also seem wildly optimistic now. Many
economists who were initially in favour of Merkel’s policy have
changed their minds. They say that, even in the medium term, the
costs will outweigh the benefits. And the experiences of companies
that hired refugees as trainees have been disheartening. Most people
they took on lack even the basics of a high-school education.
Still worse, we’ve
lost trust in our institutions. When Merkel said, “We’ll manage”,
she appealed to Germans’ pride in their own efficiency. We think
we’re pretty good at getting things done; we know how to
manufacture luxury cars and other complex engineering products. But
when it came to handling the refugee crisis, our government
institutions – such as Berlin’s much-criticized Lageso authority
– turned out to be anything but well-oiled machines.
Applications for
asylum are being dealt with at a snail’s pace, and hundreds of
thousands of refugees are languishing in temporary shelters. Last
month the head of the migration office admitted that up to 400,000
people had not applied for asylum. Which means we have no idea who
they are or where they are from. It wasn’t supposed to happen like
that.
Then there’s
Merkel. Her decision to open the borders in order to avert a
humanitarian crisis in Hungary was a courageous one. Quite possibly,
it was also the best option on the table. But in the aftermath Merkel
made some mistakes that seem oddly out of character.
She didn’t
coordinate her plans with European partners, leaving Germany isolated
in its pursuit of a common EU solution. She never asked parliament to
vote on her policy. And she didn’t even try to convince all those
Germans who were sceptical. “If we have to apologise for showing a
friendly face in an emergency, this is not my country any more,”
Merkel said somewhat haughtily. She also suggested that Germany’s
borders couldn’t be secured by any means, which needlessly
alienated conservative voters – and aided the rise of the rightwing
party Alternative für Deutschland (AfD).
The mood started to
shift in late 2015; and when hundreds of women were assaulted on New
Year’s Eve in Cologne, it turned ugly. By then, my wife and I had
left Germany for a long trip abroad. Friends told us we’d find the
country much changed on our return. And so we did. Germany, a nation
with a political culture based on compromise, suddenly felt as
divided as Donald Trump’s America. People with different views
didn’t listen to one another any more, they just hated one
another’s guts.
The rightwing
populists bear much of the blame. The AfD ruthlessly took advantage
of the Cologne assaults. It also incited hatred towards the
left-liberal elites it holds responsible for the Willkommenskultur.
Its derogatory term for political opponents is Gutmenschen, which
translates as “good people” but means the opposite.
Unfortunately, the
Gutmenschen have been just as intolerant, denouncing anyone who
opposes an open-border policy as racist and worse. Nazi slurs used to
be weapons of last resort in Germany’s political rhetoric. But it’s
become common to compare the AfD’s conservative base to the
millions of Germans who supported Hitler in 1933.
The nature of
political debate has changed, writer Peter Schneider said recently.
“When I argue that refugees are welcome but not an unlimited number
of them, my opponent will respond by saying that I sound like the AfD
and that I’m xenophobic and probably a racist.”
What now? The EU’s
borders are pretty much closed, at least for the time being. We don’t
have people calling any more asking us to host refugees. And if we
did get another call, I’m not sure I’d happily say, “OK then,
why not?” That doesn’t mean we’ve turned into barbarians.
Getting the refugee
thing right will be Germany’s biggest challenge in coming years,
and we want to make a contribution. But the spirit of the
Willkommenskultur – taking in people randomly, exuberantly, without
getting to know them and establishing a meaningful relationship –
doesn’t feel right any more.
Sem comentários:
Enviar um comentário