The Economist - USA (2020-08-29)

40 Europe The EconomistAugust 29th 2020

2 particular have struggled, especially those

from cultures that think their place is in

the home. Many newcomers, especially

from countries like Eritrea and Iraq, were

functionally illiterate when they arrived

and are still years away from entering the

job market. Control for age, and average

migrant earnings are around two-thirds

the native German level.

Migrants were dispersed all over Ger-

many; most live outside cities. That was a

test for Germany’s decentralised govern-

ment, which gives lots of power to local of-

ficials. (“In Berlin integration is just an ab-

stract question,” grumbles Rolf-Georg

Köhler, Göttingen’s mayor.) A study of 92

municipalities funded by the Robert Bosch

Foundation found that many were quite

adaptable, for example launching their

own language courses while waiting for the

bureaucratic wheels to turn in Berlin. Civil

society was crucial. Mr Köhler credits the

local sport association with speeding inte-

gration: the language of football is univer-

sal. Over half of Germany’s population has

worked in some way with refugees. “We

can activate a whole network if we need to,”

says Bettina Briesemeister, who runs a ref-

ugee housing centre in Göttingen.

The flip side is confusion and ineffi-

ciency. Officials are sometimes unclear

which layer of government is responsible

for a policy, and states and municipalities

swap ideas surprisingly rarely. More than

600 under-resourced “foreigners’ offices”

are responsible for matters like work per-

mits and deportations. The bureaucratic

maze is disconcerting. “Ask any refugee

what they fear most, and it’s the letterbox,”

says Mr Kabbani: it invariably contains de-

mands, appointments or warnings from

official bodies they have never heard of.

Like many European countries Ger-

many has struggled to deport failed asy-

lum-seekers. More than 200,000 people

have been granted Duldung (“tolerated”)

status, meaning they have no right to be in

the country but do not face immediate

deportation. Perhaps a further 50,000 have

no legal status. To stop them from slipping

into idleness or worse, under new rules

some may work or take on apprentice-

ships. But insecurity persists. One such re-

jected asylum-seeker, Mohammad Wali-

zada, an Afghan who had worked with an

American de-mining firm in Kabul, now

has a legal job in a phone shop on Sylt, a

North Sea island. But he has given up on his

goal of getting a doctorate in Germany. “I

have no hopes, it’s just survival,” he says.

“There is a huge difference in integra-

tion outcomes between people that receive

protection and those that are in Duldung or

rejected,” says Victoria Rietig of the Ger-

man Council on Foreign Relations. Just 3%

of those with Duldung status can move

freely throughout Germany, which is no

help when looking for a job. And because

Germany has no birthright citizenship

rule, their children are usually given the

same status, and risk being deported to a

country they have never known. “It’s this

population we should be worried about,”

says Ms Rietig. Germany seems afraid both

of enforcing its rules and of making it too

easy for failed asylum-seekers to find alter-

native ways into German society. As the

numbers grow, the dilemma worsens.

Yet the country remains paralysed by

the political battles of five years ago. The

migrant crisis jolted the radical-right Alter-

native for Germany into third place at the

2017 election. A poll last year found a ma-

jority of Germans thought the country

should accept no more refugees. These

days the borders are quieter and the issue

has gone off the boil, but fresh waves of mi-

grants from Europe’s troubled neighbour-

hood can hardly be ruled out. “Mama” Mer-

kel, as she is known to many refugees, long

ago abandoned her “Wir schaffen das” man-

tra for a more paradoxical claim: that her

decision to leave the borders open was cor-

rect, and must never be repeated.

Ahmad Denno, a well-integrated Syrian

who is completing a degree in Berlin, iden-

tifies three types of German: those who

treat him normally; racists who want him

to leave; and those for whom he is perma-

nently on probation. Asked if he could ever

feel at home here, he shrugs. “For some, I

could never be German. For others, I al-

ready am. I don’t feel like an outsider here.

I’m just looking for a normal, safe life.” 7

I

fyouareenjoyinga succulentpieceof

fresh fruit in Europe this summer, the

chance is high that you have a Bulgarian

to thank for it. Every year tens of thou-

sands of workers from the eastern Balkan

country fan out to pick, pluck, dig and

water on farms in Britain, Germany, Italy,

Spain and elsewhere. When covid-19 shut

borders this spring, western European

farmers panicked, and governments

rapidly surrendered to their demands to

let the Bulgarians in.

Most Europeans assume this migra-

tion began after the cold war, when

Bulgaria freed itself from Soviet dom-

ination. In fact, says Marijana Jakimova,

a historian, it dates back to the late 17th

century. The Ottoman empire, which

then ruled the Balkans, employed Bul-

garians to accompany its troops and

grow vegetables for them. The Ottomans’

invasion of central Europe was beaten

backatViennain1683,buttheirBulgari-

an camp-followers began a lasting tie to

the region’s agriculture.

In the late 19th century, as Vienna and

other Austro-Hungarian cities boomed,

Bulgarians set up market gardens on

their outskirts. In 1918 Austria-Hungary

collapsed but, anxious to keep Vienna

fed, the Austrians granted privileges to

their Bulgarian gardeners. The interwar

years were a golden age for them. They

left home in spring to work in Austria,

Czechoslovakia and elsewhere, and

returned home as the nights grew long.

A gloomier chapter of the story began

in 1938, when Adolf Hitler signed an

agreement with Bulgaria to send farm

workers to the Third Reich. During the

war thousands more came to replace

Germans sent to the front. After 1945,

many of those who returned to newly

communist Bulgaria were executed as

collaborators. But others settled as refu-

gees in Austria’s Burgenland, estab-

lishing farms which supply Viennese

markets to this day.

The communist decades were actual-

ly a hiatus in this Bulgarian tradition of

seasonal work abroad. (It even has a

name in Bulgarian: gurbet.) After 1989

Bulgarians resumed the practice, at first

illegally in Spain and Italy, later with

work permits, and finally without hin-

drance after their country joined the eu

in 2007. These days Bulgaria itself faces

labour shortages, and wages are shooting

up. Still, picking peppers at home earns

only the national minimum wage: €1.87

($2.21) per hour. The hourly wage for

harvesting asparagus in Germany is

€9.35. Long live gurbet.

Constant gardeners

Green-fingered Bulgarians

Bulgarians have been Europe’s seasonal farmers for a long time

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