A look into Basmane, a neighborhood in the city of Izmir in Western Turkey, that has become a haven for refugees.
By FRANCESCO MOISES BASSANOA typical alley in the Basmane neighborhood, Izmir(photo credit: GIACOMO SINI)
As we approach Basmane, we spot a street vendor whose sign displays a list of items for sale in Turkish, Arabic and Kurdish. Even the slightest knowledge of these three languages is a sort of passport to enter the neighborhood.Basmane maintains the original multicultural soul of Izmir, a city where Greeks, Armenians, Europeans and Turks lived in harmony before and after the catastrophic fire of 1922.More than 300,000 migrants of Kurdish and Arab Syrian origin fleeing conflict regions have sought refuge in Izmir since the immigration agreement between the European Union and Turkey.The migrants join Kurds from southern Turkey and the Roma who have been living here since the days of the Ottoman Empire.Basmane is a tangle of steep streets that climb up the hill where some old houses are maintained and others are in ruins, collapsed into smelly landfills.Its illegally constructed houses – called gecekondu (overnight cutlery) in Turkish – are inhabited mainly by Kurds. Parts of the neighborhood were recently destroyed in the wake of the many projects of “urbanization” – and what some refer to as “gentrification” – that the Turkish government has been implementing across the country.A family of Kurds from Mardin, southeastern Turkey, in front of their house in the neighborhood (photo credit: GIACOMO SINI)THE BEATING heart of Basmane is Kapılar, a social space now open for about a year where workshops for children are held, Turkish and English language courses are offered, cultural events take place alongside dinners in the Open Kitchen, and thanks to volunteers, legal and language assistance are provided.The center is home to many organizations that help refugees in Izmir. Its aim is to overcome isolation and foster inclusion, reaching out to the Kurds and Arabs that live in the neighborhood and facilitating encounters with the Turks.“The important thing is for the immigrants to enter into relationships of trust with the neighborhood and the city, but it takes a long time for this to happen,” explains a local woman who works at Kapılar.The Kapılar Collective – which works within the Kapılar center but is independent – seeks to encourage debate on issues that in Turkey sound almost heretical, such as feminism, ecology and the rights of minorities.On the upper floor of the center sits Yalchin, a textile worker of Afroturk origin, who handles the collection and distribution of food and clothing for the most deprived people of the neighborhood.He shows us a list of supplies required by state schools, branded products that many families cannot afford.“In this district where child labor is rampant and refugees are paid half the salary of a Turkish worker, it is important to encourage these families to send their children to school,” says the volunteer. “The refugees are victims of racism, which often results in attacks.Many Turks are resentful and believe that the state aids the refugees more than it aids the natives.”In the wake of the agreement with the European Union and the closure of European borders, many refugees are now inclined to remain in Turkey, hoping to obtain citizenship one day. But as Selin, another volunteer, says, the refugees face many problems: economic, educational, and lack of documentation.Language in particular, she says, is a significant obstacle. “There are special schools for the Syrians but not for the Kurds.”Some claim that pro-Turkish government NGOs try to stir up conflict between the two groups – Syrian and Kurds – but other types of organizations also operate in the district.A meeting in the garden of the social center (photo credit: GIACOMO SINI)JULIE, A Dutch woman who decided to stay in Turkey to work with humanitarian organizations after her student exchange program was over, says that informal refugee camps still exist, but they are often moved from place to place in order to avoid the attention of journalists. Sometimes landowners pay the police to ensure that certain fields are chosen instead of others, to facilitate the employment of migrants as laborers in the vegetable fields that are littered across the country.It is not easy to get in touch with families that live in Basmane. After the coup of July 15 in Izmir, which here was mainly seen on television, many are afraid to talk to journalists and photographers. Since several assistance centers for refugees were shut down on charges of having links with the coup leaders, there is a general tendency on the part of refugees to demonstrate their allegiance to the government by participating in public events.Nour, a 27-year-old Syrian woman of Palestinian origin, has no fear and invites us into her house. She lost the use of her legs due to an infection, yet managed to escape from Damascus with moth- e r and brother. Her dream is to get to Germany where maybe her spine can be operated on, and perhaps she can even continue her criminal law studies.Nour is very determined.“One day I wall visit the Vatican. I love churches. I studied three years in a Christian institution.” As she speaks, a TV broadcasts the recapture of Aleppo by Assad’s forces, punctuated by gunshots and bombings. Nour stops talking with her usual enthusiasm and asks her mother to kindly change the channel. From another side of the small room comes a Skype call, which her brother picks up. It is Nour’s father who is still in Damascus. There are few words, but many smiles and hopes.A textile worker who organizes supplies for refugees living in the neighborhood (photo credit: GIACOMO SINI)NASER IS a 50-year-old former Iraqi soldier who arrived in 2014. Two of his six children are HIV positive and one has cancer, probably caused by chemical weapons used by ISIS. Naser lives in Buca, another suburb of Basmane.“I could not stay in Basmane,” he says. “The children needed more light and the air was unhealthy. Here rents are higher, 500 pounds a month, and I have to pay for electricity and gas. Fortunately, the neighborhood helps us with food.”One of his children has been confined to bed for months. His body rejects all kinds of medications and local doctors offer no hope.“He might have a chance if I could go to Holland. I have a brother there with Dutch nationality, but the Turkish government will not let us move because we made the request as refugees here. I have tried for months to contact the UN offices without getting any answer,” laments Naser.According to the laws in force here, before an asylum application is examined, refugees can be temporarily placed in one of the 20 official refugee camps or one of 28 Turkish cities, including Izmir, for the long wait to be resettled in a third country. In no circumstances may asylum seekers leave the assigned city. Requests to leave the country are almost never accepted because many of the applicants were registered as refugees in Turkey prior to the agreement. Meanwhile, the Turkish government does not guarantee assistance.BUT THERE are also other, more optimistic stories in Izmir. Aisha, a 21-yearold Syrian who mastered Turkish, helps her compatriots deal with bureaucratic issues. Youssef, a 24-year-old Kurd, freed after spending two months in the prisons of Syrian President Bashar Assad, has finally managed to continue his medical studies in the town’s university.The streets surrounding the Basmane train station are abuzz with restaurants, stalls and activities of Syrian refugees.The prices are lower than elsewhere, and perhaps those who feel nostalgia for the Damascus and Aleppo destroyed during the civil war can find some solace on these roads. The shop windows that used to display life jackets for people intending to attempt to go beyond the Aegean Sea – now sardonically called “The Dead Sea” by refugees – have almost disappeared.Whereas for some, like Youssef or Aisha, Izmir has come to represent an opportunity to rebuild their future, for others Europe is even more distant – as is the dream of freedom it represents.Francesco Moisés Bassano is a freelance journalist and a student of humanities. Giacomo Sini is a freelance photojournalist. Both are based in Italy.
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