In Bavarian town, Syrian sisters get to
grips with Germany's freedoms
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[February 22, 2017]
By Michelle Martin and Ameenah Sawwan
SCHILLINGSFUERST, Germany (Reuters) - More
than a year ago, Mayar and Nawar Ballish escaped car bomb attacks in
Damascus. Now the Syrian sisters, both students in their twenties, go to
school by train past neat gardens and farms in the quiet hills of
Bavaria, southern Germany.
They have lived there since October 2015. Their story shows what a
cultural leap such migrants face, and how hard it can be to match the
aspirations of those seeking shelter with Germany's own goals.
Around half a million Syrians have arrived in Germany over the past two
years, part of a record influx of more than a million people. Most new
asylum applicants have been men, a few of them violent or, according to
the security services, covert jihadists.
Some Germans feel it is a duty to welcome asylum-seekers. But violence
by a few has fueled hostility. There are attacks on asylum-seekers'
homes more than twice a day on average, according to the Interior
Ministry.
The sisters, who have leave to stay for three years, are more
westernized than some of their compatriots. They wear jeans and choose
not to wear the veil. Last Eid, they spent days making and delivering
homemade cards to everyone in their town as a gesture of friendship.
Even so, says Mayar, "most people ... don't really get the fear and the
situation that we left behind in Syria."
The government stresses that Germany needs to import labor. A study
published in 2016 by the Cologne Institute for Economic Research said
that without migration, the German working-age population would probably
fall by around 500,000 a year between now and 2035.
The country needs skilled workers in technical jobs such as automotive
and metal engineering, plumbing and software development as well as
health and nursing.
The problem is: That's a mould the sisters don't fit. Like around one in
five recent Syrian arrivals in Germany, they are educated to a high
level. They hope to go to university, but people in the school system
have pressured them to follow a vocational course.
"The worst part is that ... people ... think we're dumb, useless
refugees who aren't going to do anything," Mayar, 21, said.
"IDYLL OF NATURE"
Back in Syria, the sisters were at Damascus University. Mayar was
studying English literature. Nawar ranked in the top five in her
interior design course. Their mother went to university with them and
studied French literature. Their father, who is 53 and is called Moneer,
worked for the government as a technical design teacher.
In 2012, Moneer was passing a courthouse in Damascus as a car bomb
exploded. He removed 27 pieces of shrapnel – mostly bits of windscreen –
from his face and chest. The next year, another car bomb ruined the
family's fourth-floor apartment.
The sisters left Damascus with their mother and brothers in August 2015.
Their father followed; they were reunited last Christmas.
The government housed the family in Schillingsfuerst, a quiet place with
around 40 refugees and an average age of 41. The Ballishes are the only
Syrians in the town, which has a population of 2,275. It sits on
Germany's Romantic Road, a holiday route which one promotional website
says "unites culture with wellness, recreational activities and the
idyll of nature."
Mayor Michael Trzybinski says he would like some refugees to stay
permanently: "There are people among them who do great work and people
who really want to completely integrate."
Last March Horst Doellinger, who owns the family's apartment, arranged
for Moneer to do an internship at his architects' office. He enlisted
one of his staff to help with bureaucracy. He hopes he might be able to
employ Moneer in future. But first, he said, "these people need to find
their feet."
The Ballishes' apartment overlooks a grassy field and modern yellow,
pink and blue houses. The family gets 1,024 euros ($1,080) from the
state each month and a German woman gave them things including
furniture, a laptop and guitars.
Local volunteer Gerald Baer first met the family at a Christmas party in
2015 where he was dressed as Santa Claus. They are learning German fast,
he said. "They're also very open and cheerful and reach out to other
people, and I think that's a big advantage."
Soon after arriving, Moneer and his wife went to exercise classes with
older people. But she had a bad back and stopped going. When he realized
he would be the only man, he stopped too. He set up a Facebook page to
try to boost understanding between Syrians and Germans.
'DAS,' 'DER' OR 'DIE'
The sisters started German lessons at a technical school in November
2015 and play volleyball at a local club.
In some ways they have found Germany shockingly free.
to top of second column] |
Syrian refugees Mayar (L) and Nawar Ballish get ready in a changing
room for volleyball practice at their club in Schillingsfuerst,
Germany, May 31, 2016. REUTERS/Ameenah Sawwan
On the way to school, they noticed a girl who seemed to be forever
changing her hair color - green, purple, pink, and blue. They were
surprised to see women wearing short shorts, or with their midriffs
exposed.
"People here don't have limits, don't have rules for clothes and you can
wear whatever you want and dye your hair," said 22-year-old Nawar. "That
makes us think about whether it is good or not."
In one class, a teacher showed them a photo of Conchita Wurst, a drag
queen who won a Eurovision Song Contest. "He was wearing a dress but he
had a beard too," said Mayar. Her dark eyes widened.
Nawar had mastered masculine, feminine and neuter in German. "He's not a
woman and he's not a guy," she said. "He's 'das,' not 'der' or 'die!'"
Other Syrians have responded dramatically to such permissiveness, but
Mayar thinks she will get used to living with freedoms like
homosexuality.
"At first when I heard of it I thought: 'Huh? This is crazy, this is
really stupid, no one in the world would do it,'" she said. "But then I
think 'OK, they are a little bit weird' ... Maybe a year later I will
say, 'yeah that's OK, nice!'"
Hans Emmert, a retired teacher in Schillingsfuerst, said he understands
the sisters' response. He admires their moral steadfastness and believes
many other Germans do too.
"I think that might even provide positive impetus," he said. The
family's moral code contains values "that we have unfortunately lost."
Not everyone has been understanding. When the sisters were giving out
Eid cards, Mayar greeted a woman watering plants. The woman frowned and
turned her back, telling Mayar to go away and saying she did not want to
talk to her.
A few people worry that refugees are getting attention that native
Germans need. Rita Tanevski, the girls' volleyball teacher, said she
knows one unemployed man who said, "'The refugees get all the help, they
have time to help them find a job but I get nothing.'"
STRUGGLE FOR LEARNING
The Ballishes' top priority is education. They know people in Sweden,
their father says, but came to Germany in the hope it would be better
for the children's studies. Mayar wants to teach English or American
studies at university level.
However, Germany generally puts heavy emphasis on vocational training.
In 2015, only around 30 percent of 30 to 34 year-olds in the country had
any kind of university degree, according to Eurostat. That is one of the
smallest shares in Europe: In Sweden, it is 50 percent.
There is no data on how many refugees study at German universities, but
the German Academic Exchange Service estimates that between 30,000 and
50,000 of the refugees who arrived in 2015 came with qualifications to
enter university.
Germany's Education Ministry has pledged 100 million euros to 2019 to
help refugees prepare. Medicine, business, mathematics, computer
science, natural sciences and technology are in high demand, a
spokeswoman said.
The girls' technical school teachers told them they should spend two
years learning German and then three years learning a skill or a
vocation. The school took them to a jobs fair in Nuremberg and they saw
people sewing, cooking, fixing cars or building roads. None of it
appealed.
"I have a headache now whenever I hear the words 'Beruf' (profession) or
'Ausbildung' (vocational training scheme)," said Mayar in June. "I want
to go to university."
Germany, like other European countries, has always focused on what role
refugees could play in the labor market, said Jochen Oltmer, a professor
specializing in historical migration at Osnabrueck University. He thinks
the government and universities need to do more to help those who want
to study.
Last September the sisters finally found German classes at a nearby
university. They started to feel they were on the right track.
"We lost a lot in Syria," said Moneer. "We lost Syria, but we don't want
to lose their future."
(Edited by Sara Ledwith)
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