A personal reflection on the Syrian Refugee Crisis

This last decade has been a catalyst for many topics concerning asylum seekers, whether they be political, economic, or refugees. As a Dutch citizen with Turkish roots, I’ve experienced both sides of the coin; I’ve been the immigrant and the local in a nation dealing with an influx of immigrants.

My grandparents were immigrants to a nation that was dealing with a heavy inflow of immigrants at the time. Although now the expats are not so rare, in the mid 20^th century it was still a new issue, and though Turks have assimilated into the Dutch nation as a minority, the fact remains that Turks, along with Moroccans, Surinamese, and Vietnamese, who despite being born and raised in the Netherlands are still collectively called “allochtonen” (from Greek, alien earth, i.e. foreigners), rather than, well, Dutch. Despite racism and discrimination being rare, and despite my integration with Dutch daily life, there remains a sense of distance that no matter the passage of time will be able to bridge. And so, introspectively, how would I react to a situation that is all too familiar to me?

What is the difference between an expat and an asylum seeker or a refugee? Is it the choice and an underlining sense of independence associated with the word expat? Or the hopelessness that shadows a refugee? The difference is that an asylum seeker has no choice; is this not enough ground for us to bathe them in our sympathy and kindness? Yet we dispute and quarrel over which country has to deal with the dehumanised collective named them, i.e. the refugees.

I always took pride in my Turkish identity. Even though I knew there was no real Turkish ethnicity, my sense of self was never shaken, until I found out my ancestry. I realised then, truly, what it meant to be Turkish. And so, as someone who has experienced what I have and who has the ancestry I do, I was surprised to reflect back on myself and to find traces of contempt toward the crisis Turkey was dealing with. I spent two weeks of my summer in Istanbul, and the contrast between the Istanbul I saw in 2016 and the one I saw six years ago rattled me. Hundreds of Syrian beggars were scattered across the streets of Istanbul, grateful for a single lira. Signs in Arabic strewn here and there. Even the spoken language was changing. During my time in Munich I wouldn’t even recognise my own mother tongue until I’d eventually the occasional Turkish phrase I’d recognise from my own family banter. Stemming from the pride and security I felt towards my Turkish heritage, I was uncomfortable with the change that was going on. It felt as though turkey was losing its roots; its identity. Yet the irony was that Turkey never an identity of its own. It has always been an amalgamation of multiple languages and ethnicities. A melting pot of cultures, fused into one. I’d embraced these differences so much that I’d failed realise my reluctance to embrace something foreign. So, I understand the rampant fear that much of the western world has against refugees, yet we mustn’t forget our own past. No nation is “pure”. Our cultures are constantly changing, and it’s hard to realise this because we are very much concerned with the present, because we must look back into the past and realise that our cultures, languages, and societies are very different than what they were 10, 20, 100 years ago. We must learn to be less afraid of what is outside of our comfort zone, and instead of fearing our differences, embrace them. Change is inevitable and denying it serves no good. We must look ahead into the future and work with it, rather than against it.