Europe’s migration crisis a decade later

10 years ago, 1 million migrants poured into Europe fleeing conflict and poverty. A scale of movement not seen in Europe for decades. For me, I want to work. I want to have a life. I want to have kids. To take them to the school without afraid that the bomb will come over them and kill them. Many had travelled for years in search of peace, prosperity or stability from Iraq, Syria and Afghanistan. They found many countries unwilling to accommodate them, slamming their borders shut to the tide of people. I just look for a safe place to live in and to do place for my child's schools for them to complete their education. And good life for me and my wife, that's it. In Germany, though, then Chancellor Angela Merkel took a different view. She allowed 900,000 asylum seekers to cross the border with a famous vow that Germany could do this. It's a decision that split opinion and the so-called refugee crisis of 2015 has shaped the politics of Germany and the rest of Europe ever since. To find out how far reaching that impact has been, we visit the German town economically transformed by the arrival of refugees, but were politically unease has grown. Ten years from the crisis, we look at how Germany is still divided over the issue and how beefed up security across Europe has pushed migrants' journey to increasingly dangerous routes. From Reuters, this is on assignment, I'm Reham Al-Kusa. I always wanted to share how I feel about Germany. Among my friends, I'm usually the one defending the Germans whenever someone tells me a bad story. I first came here at 23, with just $400 in my pocket, my entire life savings as a journalist from Syria. And honestly, it was love at first sight. I fell in love with the crisp air, Berlin's old Altbau buildings, the toll trees, the sense of openness, both physical and mental. That first trip was a dream. I came for a cultural journalism course with a Kuta Institute, a whole month in Berlin, exploring exhibitions, galleries, theatres, museums. I stayed in the Kurt, in the room of a kind German journalist who hosted me. She introduced me to my first Berlin adornat, took me on my first grocery run, and even made sure I got to my appointment on time, sometimes guiding me herself through Berlin's complicated transport system. Later, when I made the difficult decision to stay in Germany and apply for asylum, another German journalist from the course, Brang, welcomed me into his home, even though he had barely met. He refused to let me rent a lonely room in Charlottesburg with an elderly lady, insisting instead that I find a shirt flat in a lively neighborhood. That's how I ended up on the edge of Panko, where I lived for two years and gained a lifelong friend. From the start, I felt welcome. I didn't have to struggle to fit in. Brang invited me to his family's Christmas dinners for years, and through him, I met friends who are still in my life today. In October 2015, several buses arrived in Altena, a picturesque town south of Dortmund, in Western Germany. It's nestled amidst scenic-woded hills, a medieval castle looms over the town. On those buses, ten years ago, were 100 refugees the city had chosen to take in voluntarily, beyond its federal quota. The goal was to fill vacant homes, slow population decline, and test a community-led model of integration. Altena has been an industrial hub since the Middle Ages. It calls itself the birthplace of wire production. It even has a museum celebrating the industry. You can see bobbed wire, wire mesh, flourished wire, and learn that wire holds the world together, from egg cutters to space stations, from tea strainer to suspension bridges. But holding the community together has proved tough over the last few years. By 2015, many local businesses had closed as they struggled to compete, and Altena had become one of the fastest-windling towns in Western Germany. It meant fewer taxes being raised, making it difficult to keep basic amenities open. Schools closed because there weren't enough students to fill the classroom. Andreas Holstein is the former mayor of Altena, who suggested taking in more refugees and asylum seekers than the town's allocation. In so bad, she actually only motivated all politicians back the idea. The program in Altena, so each refugee family or individual, paired with a local Kumara or caregiver. Many residents volunteered to help raising donations for care packages, furnishing homes for the new arrivals, accompanying them to medical appointments, and helping with the paperwork. Data on the program is sketchy, officials said they did not track how many migrants exactly have come since 2015, and how they fared. By 2024, roughly half of the 100 additional arrivals that year were still living in Altena, according to the town's integration commissioner. They said most of the rest had moved to bigger cities, while a few Iraqis decided to return home. Inside the homes of Altena, there are stories of lasting bonds forged between those who did stay, and those who have lived there for years. It's so fun. 34-year-old Mamel Gobri is one of the Iraqi refugees who remained. Sa' next to him is Ursula Pankha, an 85-year-old retired nurse that he calls his "Omi" or "grandmother". The relationship flourished after Al Gobri helped her set up an art exhibition. Pankha became a mentor, encouraging him to try different vocational courses until he found his calling. He now works as a nurse himself at a nearby orthopedics and trauma clinic. She says people find it hard to deal with strangers and see foreigners as a threat. Despite what some people think, Al Gobri says the program was a success. He says the warm welcome in 2015 eases his fears. "They have also added us, but not everyone was so welcome." Anger over the impact of migration has led to an increase in support for the alternative for Germany or AFD. Germany's far right anti-immigration party. In fact, according to a poll published in August, it is the most popular party in the country. The Forza Institute for Social Research and Statistical Analysis found if have national election were held at that time, when 6% of Germans would vote for the AFD. And in Altena too, there is also Desquiet, with some residents telling us there are still too many migrants, and standing in the shadows of that imposing castle is class-slag. They have a deep parliamentary group leader in the Merkel-Chachai district council, which includes Altena. "Altena is a prime example of failed integration and failed politics," he says. "Adding all around us, it's going downhill." But whilst the AFD is now the country's main opposition party, it has little visible presence in Altena. It has no office, and is not fielding candidates here for the state's municipal elections. And former mayor Andreas Holstein remains convinced that Merkel was right. He says, "We can do this, but critics are right too. Germany cannot absorb those numbers in debt." "She said she would let me down and go home." And Holstein himself has experienced this backlash, personally. In 2017, he was stabbed in the neck at a cabab shop. Speaking shortly after the incident, then Mayor Holstein says that a attacker told him, "You let me dive first and you bring 200 refugees to Altena." My journey here was very different to the hundreds of thousands who arrived in 2015, and the thousands that have traveled here since. Whilst I was lucky enough to be invited to join this journalism training in Berlin that got me a visa back in 2014 to come on a plane to the country that became my home, many spend all their money paying trafficking gangs to get them across the border and across oceans. During this year, a fishing boat heading out to the Mediterranean Sea under beautiful sunrise. At the helm, Anos Marmarinos. This is the Greek island of Lesbos, and as dawn breaks across the birthplace of Powetsupple, Marmarinos is remembering the traumatic scenes he experienced here ten years ago. Marmarinos saw this kind of thing firsthand. Ten years ago, as thousands of migrants were arriving in wrecked boats every day, he would sometimes answer the call to rescue them, pulling women and children into his boat as their dengue broke apart. People suffering unjustly on those boats, women and children Marmarinos tells us. They didn't know where they were going. In 2015, Lesbos became the first stop for half of a million people on the move to Europe. Images of boats and live jackets on scenic beaches, of the chaos and tragedy on Lesbos, another Greek islands, filled front pages and media coverage around the world. One night, Marmarinos received a call about a dengue that was breaking up. He had already been on one rescue mission that evening, but was soon lifting people onto his boat. We would help again. I would be the first to, he says, but if he did do it now, he would be arrested, as attitudes and laws have hardened against the migrant flow. Ten years ago, the island was a hub for charities and aid workers, an assemble of Europe's solidarity towards people fleeing war and poverty. Today though, there is a very different mood, and Lesbos shows how far government responses have since toughened. Lesbos is situated just seven miles from the Turkish mainland. The Greek mainland is more than 40 miles away. An almost 700 miles south is Libya, from where many migrants still travel, heading for Europe on a different route. They are often intercepted by police officers, keeping them away from roads used by holiday goers. Charity workers need special permission from authorities to help them assure. Without that, they face fines or jail. It's one example of deterrence that have greatly reduced arrivals to Europe since 2015. Rights groups though say this has meant riskier journeys for those attempting the crossing. Since 2015, Greece's Coast Guard Service says it has saved 263,000 third country nationals in danger at sea. But that's in the Mediterranean, while far below 2015 level, are still common. The increasingly tough stance on illegal arrivals across Europe is driving numbers down. In fact, they fell by 20% in the first six months of this year. Those figures are from the European Union Border Agency, Frontex, which has credited the drop to increase cooperation with transit countries. But the Central Mediterranean remains the world's deadly sea border and experts warn that a regular migration will persist as conflict and economic hardship intensify. Migration researchers say it is impossible to know for certain how many people have died in the Central Mediterranean. Some migrants are turned back from Europe multiple times, while others slip across borders undetected. In August, Reuters produced a story about one boat's journey across the sea. On board Distinguy, 57 people trying to make their way from Libya to Europe. My name is Joanne Fauz, I'm a Reuters correspondent based in Barcelona, Spain. Joanne and the team reconstructed this journey by interviewing two people who took part in the rescue. In reviewing videos, photographs, emails and other records provided by the charities involved. What it shows that it's a bit like it's doomed in a way from the start. We didn't have any live vessel, we didn't have enough fuel. The boat had too many people on it, and then they were relying on someone else to rescue them. What it shows is that it makes you question whether this boat or any other boat would have the capacity to arrive by its own means to the destination of the Intenture, which is Italy or Malta in this case. We're still talking about the dangers of these crossings, and we're still talking about the risk that this migrant's face of dying at sea while they attempt the crossing in these boats that are not in proper shape for such a crossing. These risky routes have appeared as Europe responded to the crisis ten years ago. Greece called on the EU to help with millions of people transforming holiday islands into places of desperation and sometimes death. Pietro's Treaty Mass is from the Thompson Reuters Foundation and has researched Europe migration over the past ten years. I guess one of the main things was the EU and Greece in particular taking this very security first approach, which started to demonise migrants and refugees, and instead of them being people turning up looking for help, they became people who shouldn't be there and were locked away. This made these closed controlled access centres and it all kind of paints this picture then of people who were once arriving in a doorstep, needing help, needing shelter as actually being people who should be locked away and kept away. And that shift is evident in Germany. There has been a move away from Angela Merkel's open door approach. Islanded tax in Germany involving asylum seekers have also led to tougher immigration policies and increased anti-immigration public sentiment. When a new coalition was formed in Germany earlier this year, Marcus Zudor of the Christian Social Union said it was time to toughen up and return to the pre-2015 era. Reflecting on Merkel's "We can do this" call from 2015, during Chancellor Friedrich Mertz said Germany had obviously not succeeded. Germany is not alone though. Anti-immigration parties have seen a rise in support in the likes of the UK, France, the Netherlands, Italy and Poland. In Altena, while AFD support is rising, those who set bets for incoming refugees, prepared meals and collected donations, see it differently. Those I interviewed there who were involved in Germany's welcome culture all agreed that yes, Germany did do it and they did manage that in flux. Germany's impact on me runs deep. It didn't just turn me into someone who loves biking, swimming or back in stock. I fell in love with this system, it's logic, how things made sense once you figured them out. I even find myself defending German bureaucracy among my friends, because to me, it works. It's the system that allowed me to bring my family here, simply because I want them to experience the Germany I loved. Here, I built a career, a home, a marriage, a life that I'm grateful for every time. I try living somewhere else. Germany was never part of my plan as a Syrian. escaping war. But when every other door was shut, Germany was the one that opened. Thanks to everyone who contributed to this episode, our cameraman Stefan Neckar and the Kranz and Yoroll Dokhoftan. This episode of "On Assignment" was written and produced by myself Reham Elkusa and David Spencer. Music composition and sound design is by Josh Sommer. Our podcast team also includes Joe Negrein, Kim Vannell, Sharon Greichgarson, Christopher Wal-Jasper, Gail Issa and Abousseau Adelussi. Our senior producers are Tara Oaks and Carmill Krimmins. The executive producer is Lila DeKritzer. For daily news from across the globe, listen to Reuters' World News 7 Days a Week. Subscribe or ask your smart speaker to play the latest news from Reuters. 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