Stolen Things and a Stolen Lifetime
How can time be stolen and who steals it? How is time be taken away from migrants and how does it affect lives in the long term? The anthropologist Sharam Khosravi1 has indicated that deportation regimes systematically deprive refugees of their saved, spent, and invested time; time spent on working, on depositing into social welfare, and of course, time spent on making friends, and on building homes and families. These efforts are taken away by dint of uncertainties due to temporary residence permits, by the Dublin Regulations2, which keep many asylum seekers in Europe in circulation for years, and of course by deportations.
While I was reading Khosravi’s short article on stolen time, the life story of Arif Ibrahim3 appeared before my inner eye. Together with my colleague Maliheh Bayat Tork, to whom I owe this contact, I met Arif in Friedland in December 2018 for a first interview. In this and subsequent encounters, the story of Arif unraveled – a long, grim, and bitter biography at odds with Arif’s friendly character and his seemingly endless patience. He had to cultivate this patience to survive thirteen years of back and forth; thirteen years in which he had regularly lost everything and started again from scratch in different countries and places; thirteen years in which he learned languages, created and lost relations, and lost his entire family. It was also a time in which he had survived several life-threatening attacks by Greek neo-Nazis in Athens, as a result of which he still suffers from organ damage.
Fleeing Pakistan via Iran and Turkey, he spent seven years in Greece working as a cook before he was forced to leave the country, due both to the financial crisis in general and threats against migrants in particular. He managed to make his way to Belgium, where he was “initially registered”. However, living conditions were so desperate – he was homeless, slept under bridges, sometimes Pakistanis sheltered him for a night or two – that he decided to move to Germany, where he planned to build a more promising livelihood. On account of his initial registration, some German federal states argued about the responsibility of his case, and he was returned to Belgium several times. “For five years now they kick me like a football,” he comments.
Despite these difficulties, he managed to find a full-time position as a chef in an Italian-Rhineland Palatinate restaurant for 18 months. He rented a flat, bought himself a bed and a wardrobe – “everything,” he said. For the first time in years, Arif had a home.
However, when he tried, as usual, to extend his exceptional leave to remain (Duldung) in the foreign registration office, the extension was rejected. The revoked permission cut the legal basis for his recently established home and Arif had to leave his apartment. He had no choice but to put every single item – all the furniture he had purchased – on the street. It was just bulky waste now. The most painful thing he had to give away was the flat-screen TV that the restaurant owner had given him as a birthday present. He gave it to a distant friend and once again started from zero.
After this incident, he tried for several months to settle in Northern Italy. However, he was forced to leave the country and decided to apply for asylum in Germany once again, making his way to the Friedland transit camp in November 2018, only the latest station in an endless limbo with no prospect of improvement. How could he carry on under such circumstances, and what was the role of material objects in this case?