TY - JOUR
AU - Lindholm, Helena
AB - Introduction and Aim: Out of Rhythm ‘This journey, it would not end,’ said Hassan, as he narrated his experience of escaping Syria to Sweden, encapsulating how refugee journeys are stretched in time. Building on the turn to ‘time’ in mobility studies, underlining temporal and spatial unlinearity (Bissell 2007; Gatrell 2013; Collins and Shubin 2015), this article intends to contribute to more nuanced understandings of the fragmentation and dissonances of temporalities in refugee journeys. The article aims to shed light on how the actual process of flight and refuge is manifested and represented as sharp time ruptures and contrasting temporal modalities—an aspect of the temporal construction of migration still sparsely acknowledged (Cwerner 2001; Page et al. 2017). The article also explicitly carves out the refugee journey as a unit of analysis, also infrequently focused in research (Benezer and Zetter 2015). Inspired by Lefevbre’s (2013) Rhythmanalasis and building on the contributions by Griffiths (2014, 2017) on divergences in temporalities, I emphasize that variations of speed and motion in refugee journeys need further scrutiny and more refined comprehensions. Mobility of migrants cannot be understood solely as a binary between mobility and immobility, but the varied tempos, speeds and rhythms are fundamental. As Marcu (2017) underlines, rhythm is ‘an important component of mobility’. Refugee journeys are uneven and indefinite in both time and space, including encounters with several places and several times, meaning that tempo and pace are crucial in structuring lived experiences through what Adam (2004) has called ‘time-scapes’ (cf. Page et al. 2017). The article brings forward how shifting temporalities, disparities in speed and pace, sudden rush and frenzied time (Griffiths 2014) interrupted by waiting, the stationary condition, the standstill (Conlon and Conlon 2011; GlickSchiller and Salazar 2013) are attached to the meaning-making of refugeeness. ‘Waiting’ in the form of an ‘embodied state of simultaneously constrained movement and stasis’ (Peteet 2017: 54) has been increasingly acknowledged in mobilities studies, but more rarely has the shifting rhythms. Focusing on temporal constructions during the journey itself, I aim to contribute to our understandings and conceptualizations of the arrhythmic (Edensor 2010; Lefebvre 2013) temporalities of the refugee journey (cf. Benezer and Zetter 2015) and how refugees manage and mitigate the journey as it unfolds and oscillates between rush and standing still, between frequencies and rhythms (Page et al. 2017). Journeys undertaken by Palestinian refugees are used as an example because of their hyper-refugee status in their oft-repeated refugee journeys. Sweden has been selected as a case of destination, as one country in the Global North where regulation of migration has turned into one of the most heated political issues. The overarching questions to be addressed are: How are refugee journeys constituted in terms of temporalities? What are the temporal constructions that compose the perilous journeys that refugees undertake? Analytically, the article builds on a conceptual framework related to contrasting times, paces and rhythms. A Note on Method: Narrating Journeys through Temporalities Methodologically, the article draws on narratives, understood as ‘a form in which activities and events are described as having a meaningful and coherent order, imposing on reality a unity which it does not inherently possess’ (Eastmond 2007: 250). Narratives were collected through 14 semi-structured interviews with Palestinians arriving to Sweden between 2007 and 2016 from the Gaza Strip, Syria, the Gulf countries, Libya and Iraq. Most (nine) were men; all were aged between 20 and 55 and were selected through a snowball sample. The initial journey is often undertaken by men travelling alone. All interlocutors appear anonymous in the text and have been given constructed names in a code system. Semi-structured interviews were conducted in English or Swedish in the cities of Gothenburg, Malmö, Stockholm and a smaller city in the southern parts of Sweden, between January and August 2018. Building on Bruner (1986) and defining narratives reflecting experiences as ‘life as told’ (Eastmond 2007: 249), the analysis is thus one of retelling disclosed realities and building conceptual categories from those told experiences. Conversations focused on the journey itself and how the journey was encountered by interlocutors. There was ample room for interviewees to structure their story in ways that they preferred. My role was to listen with a minimum of interruptions. The journey was in all cases told in a chronological manner so the article is structured in the same way. At times, memories were exceedingly painful and the interview had to be halted. Everyone has been able to read a transcript of their interview and make all changes that they have considered appropriate. From those stories, categories of rhythms and temporalities have been created in an inductive way, moving back and forth between the theoretical and conceptual considerations of arrhythmic time and the told experiences of interviewees. Although missing out on female voices, this article focuses on six of those male stories and how ideas and masculinities are interwoven in the narratives. Ethical considerations include reflections on the potential consequences of the unavoidable power relations and absolute hierarchies created through the fact that I am a native Swede, secure in my citizenship and place in society. Somewhat compensating for that imbalance is the fact that refugees are often urged to tell their stories in their own words, away from the bureaucratic and at times humiliating formalities of the interviews with the Swedish Migration Agency, and I have listened to their stories without questioning their truth. Three of the men whose voices are explicitly lifted forward arrived from Gaza (2007, 2012 and 2016), two from Syria (2012) and one from the UAE (2011). Seventy Years of Expulsion and Eviction Although research on Palestine refugees (cf. Sayigh 1979; Peteet 2007, 2009; Gabiam 2016) has mostly emphasized the uniqueness of their experience and explored Palestinian refugee life through the predominant perspective of al-Nakba (the great catastrophe) and the ‘ethnic cleansing’ of 1948 (Pappé 2006), other additional causes for flight and migration have lately begun to attract deeper attention (Fiddian Queasmiyeh 2012; Gabiam 2016). Today, the Palestinian refugee population is estimated to amount to 5.4 million people (UNRWA 2018). Palestinians fled at the time to the West Bank and Gaza, to the surrounding Arab states, where eventually refugee camps and relief structures were established through the formation of the UNRWA (United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East). Since the Palestine refugee situation is unresolved 70 years on and the fact of enduring statelessness, Palestinian precariousness is underlined through wars and violent change, thus producing new reasons for both ‘voluntary’ and forced migration. For Palestinians, migration is incessant in itself, as is the condition of awaiting the return. The legal status of Palestine refugees differs widely in different Arab countries and contexts (cf. Gandalfo 2012; Allan 2014; Al-Hardan 2016; Gabiam 2016), affecting possibilities of belonging as well as of asylum in new contexts. Generations have spent their lives in refugee camps, displaced but kept ‘in place’ (Hyndman and Giles 2011), whereas others have been forced into continued mobility, attempting to seek asylum or work opportunities, but frequently finding themselves immobilized and excluded from states in the Global North (cf. Conlon 2011: 355). For Palestinians, waiting is part of ordinary life and their ‘mobilities are relational, contingent, and hierarchized—one constrained, managed, and decelerated, the other accelerated and spatially expansive’ (Peteet 2017: 56). Sweden has been a destination for Palestinians since the late 1960s and there is an established and growing community whose members have arrived in different time periods, from different insecurities and contexts, and with varying legal conditions (Lindholm Schulz and Hammer 2003; Lindholm 2019). Palestinians in Sweden identify strongly as Palestinians, but early arrivals as well as members of the second generation are also confident in their Swedish citizenship. With more recent arrivals from the Gaza Strip in Syria, rifts and dichotomies appear to be growing, also related to a rise in racism and anti-immigration politics in Swedish society (Lindholm 2019). Frantic Time: ‘I Had to Get Out’/‘It Was Hell’ In the narratives, the journey starts in the very circumstances leading to the decision to leave. To flee or take refuge is preceded by a decision-making process characterized by fear, uncertainties and an ascending urgency related to the risks involved in staying. Reasons for leaving and the decision-making process are part of the exilic journey and, in this process, time is frantic and rapid. Hassan—a business accountant in his thirties, born in Syria to parents who were Palestine refugees from 1948, growing up and residing in Yarmouk, politically active with pro-Fateh groups—told how suspiciousness against Palestinians grew with the Syrian war and pending military service made his life in Damascus dangerous: I was supposed to be called to the military service, and I didn’t want to do that. I was always postponing it, but I reached a point when I couldn’t delay it anymore, so I had to get out (Hassan, 13 May 2018). Interlocutors from Syria described incessant violence and rising fears in Yarmouk, the largest Palestinian refugee camp (Interviews 2018). Respondents arriving from Gaza described persecution by Hamas, within the broader context of chaos and destitution. Being loyal to Fateh or the leftists has become a serious risk since the open conflict in 2007, when Fateh was ousted from Gaza (Amnesty International 2015): When Hamas took power in June 2007, then it was hell. The whole of Gaza was afraid. Except Hamas. You could walk the streets and sense the smell of fear […]. The feeling that ‘now it’s me, I am going to be next’. … Everyone was scared. People didn’t dare to talk. It was insane. It was the worst time in my life. And … the pictures you could see on TV that they killed people, they chained them and dragged them behind a jeep (Hadi, 23 January 2018). One night, on his way home from a friend, Hadi was threatened at gunpoint and forced to the ground by two armed and masked men from Hamas militia. The men told Hadi that he was lucky, since they had not yet received an order to kill him. The incident was described as frightening, humiliating and also interfering with Hadi’s pride and his perceptions of pride and masculinity: I wanted to die proud. No tears. I didn’t want to beg for my life. I wanted my family to know I died like a man and not with tears on my cheek. … And then I decided, no, I can’t stay in Palestine. I was 18 years. … So I said to my family, ‘I can’t stay here. I have to leave Gaza. Now’ (Hadi, 23 January 2018). For Hadi, this incident represented the turning point, when fear, chaos, dangers and life out of ordinary rhythm became unbearable to the point that he had to leave. Issa, with a story similar to Hadi’s, describes how this fear causes him nightmares still: ‘I hate Gaza’ (Issa, May 2018). Fear created a sense of time that was ‘hellish’ and still impacts on the life of refugees, years after escaping. After this crucial decision came the process of planning for the escape, envisioning a new place and a new life, involving considerable effort and time in the form of organizing, finding the right contacts, the funding and the right documents. Allan (2014: 166) illustrates the ‘hopeful’ expectations and anticipations among Palestinians in a refugee camp in Lebanon of how life could be constituted in another country—a new life and how risks and strategies were explored and investigated. In Between Frenzied and Frozen Time: ‘I Had to Run’ Chaotic Time The actual trails to Sweden were different, depending on when the journey was initiated, where one had been residing, on connections, economic opportunities, political situations, threats and risks, potential persecution, luck and fortune. For refugees from Syria, Turkey has been the main destination together with Lebanon and Jordan and was often initially thought of as the place to stay until it would be safe to return home, and many spent some time there, working or studying. To move on to Northern or Western Europe was often a later decision. The journey was continued, either on the infamous boat trips from, for example, Izmir or walking overland to Greece and crossing the river Evros—a path that was reduced in usage after the EU–Turkey agreement in 2016. The blockade imposed and upheld by Israel squeezes Gazans between being pushed to leave but forced to stay in an absurd condition in between life in stasis and motion (Bhungalia 2012). To leave Gaza requires special permits and thus connections in the Palestinian Authority, bribes or the use of the tunnels to Egypt from where to seek a way across the Mediterranean on overcrowded and unfit dinghy boats. Hadi’s way out of Gaza was through a study visa to Germany and connections with the Palestinian Authority (PA) in Ramallah: ‘The Palestinian Authority helped me. I had a friend whose dad was with one of the PA-ministries. … So, they helped me’ (Hadi, 23 January 2018). As in other cases, it is most frequently men who make the initial flight, as they are often more immediately threatened by political violence. The journey is costly and requires the using of savings and lending from kin, also meaning that it is often possible for only one family member to make the first attempts. The perils of the journey meant that women often stayed behind, waiting for husbands to arrive safely at a destination, eventually and hopefully enabling family reunification. The separation from family is painful and augments sentiments of uncertainty and disorientation (Interviews 2018), also gendering the experiences of the journey. Leaving is also a decision filled with potential guilt. As much as there are anticipations of a better life, free from war, persecution and economic destitution, there are doubts and anxieties, the guilt of leaving family members behind as well as potentially signifying a yielding of the right to return and a prioritization of individual versus collective ambitions (cf. Allan 2014: 173). Guilt is also inflicted by representations of manliness, as husbands could not safeguard their families. For Hadi, who entered his arduous journey at the age of 18, this was the first time he ad left the Gaza Strip in his lifetime. He portrayed the sorrow he felt in encountering the land that once belonged to his grandfather but was now controlled by Israel, experiencing the vast differences between Gaza and Israel, despite the short distance (Hadi, 23 January 2018). There was a bus organized for persons allowed to leave Gaza for various reasons, driving along the border to reach the entry point to Egypt. Hadi described this distance as ‘hellish’, but also explained how he felt that the Israelis treated the bus passengers in a more humane way than did the Egyptians on the other side: Maybe they are not monsters, like you had believed. Then, when we came to Egypt, then it was chaos. It was completely different worlds; it was real chaos. How they treated us, it was dirty, it was chaos (Hadi, 23 January 2018). This phase of the journey thus included surprises, exasperations, discoveries and shocks; life outside of Gaza or Syria was not necessarily as had been imagined, such as, for example separation from previous (family-based) systems of security followed. At the airport in Cairo, Hadi’s journey was interrupted and he entered a period of stasis or stationed condition as he was confined to an arrest from which he could not leave and, for example, buy a ticket or food unless he bribed the policemen. Eventually, he found his way to a smuggler who helped him with a flight ticket to Vienna. Hassan left Syria through a student visa to Turkey. The plan was to stay there, but he did not find a job and it became too expensive for his father to continue to support him financially, so he had to leave again: I found myself […] at the Turkish border to Greece in the north, and I had to swim across [the Evros] river, and it was really shocking for me. Only some months before, I was working in my office in Damascsus, and then, in Izmir I had a really good life, and then everything changed. It was like a rubber boat. … And when we reached the other side, I had to run, for three hours or more, I don’t know, because we couldn’t have our phones on, if the border police … if they saw the light from the phone, they could catch us. So, I was just running. … I don’t know what happened to the [others on the boat], I don’t know if they went back to the shore because the boat sank and I had to swim to make it to the other side. I was just running when I reached the shore (Hassan, 13 May 2018). Hassan’s journey was dramatic, uncertain and chaotic; he felt in between frenzied and stationary time and he had no information about what would be the next step after one sequence was successfully fulfilled. Again, the pace of the journey shifted dramatically and arbitrarily. Sequences of rush, frantic time (Griffiths 2014) and rapidity were followed by episodes of stasis and at a standstill, waiting for the next step to be made. Following the dramatic frenzy at the river, he had arrived in a remote village at night not knowing where he was, where he sneaked into a church for a few hours’ rest: ‘I was really super-tired, it was horrible’ (Hassan, 13 May 2018). Now, time slowed down. He did not know what had happened to his fellow passengers on the boat and he was alone. His bills had turned wet and he tried to dry them in the sun, to wash himself a bit and then to find a bus to Athens, only to understand that there was no such bus, only one to Thessaloniki. Pace Slowed down: ‘I Got so Disappointed’ The journey was often halted and then had to start again from new places, in spasmodic patterns lacking in rhythm. In Athens, Hassan stayed in a place ‘for refugees’. Here, a new disappointment, or ‘shock’, materialized as he understood that the continued journey to Sweden would not be as smooth as anticipated. When he told his room-mates that he was about to book a flight to Sweden, they laughed and explained how they had been living in the camp for months: I got so disappointed. I called my uncle, ‘Man, what have I done to myself!?’, and he said ‘It’s all about money and the others are maybe poor, we will pay for you, everything will be fine’, so he was just calming me down (Hassan, 13 May 2018). Again, however, speed changed and motion was replaced by waiting and standing still. As for the repeated shocks and disappointments, Hassan’s story is also one about times at ease, friendship and helping each other out, through the formation of a ‘community of displacement’ (Khoshravi 2017: 46). Such communities are formed in navigating ruptured time sequences. When time slowed, there was time to socialize and connect with fellow travellers and, in a frantic time, it became important to find people who could help. In Athens, Hassan met a man, an ‘African’, who helped him to find accommodation, booking tickets and navigating unknown time-scapes. This man served as an informal facilitator, also providing assistance with interpretation. In the building where he eventually stayed for 3 months, there was friendship and community: We became like a family in the accommodation, we cooked together and shared private stories etc. … It was a difficult time, but now it is also nice memories (Hassan, 13 May 2018). ‘Slow’ time varies; it can represent stationary life in limbo, when life seems frozen, and it can represent a more harmonic position of ease. Time was also characterized by repetition, as the journey had to be rebooted and attempts at boarding flights were replayed only to be rejected. Hassan made four failed attempts at coming to Sweden, going to the airport with false documents, only to get caught, whereas others were more fortunate and able to board aeroplanes without arousing too much suspicion. His fellow companions in the common accommodation found their way of handling this uncertainty through humour and jokes: So, every time I left to the airport, I said, ‘I am just going to the airport and give this passport to the police, so make breakfast for me because I’ll be back’ (Hassan, 13 May 2018). Humour became a way to fill time with meaning, to reduce its emptiness and to resist the current state of affairs. Thus, the journey also represented a narrative of new friendships, relations of trust and laughter as a strategy of coping; a story of resistance and agency in times at ease; a capacity to manage unruly time (cf. Page et al. 2017). Reboot: ‘Of Course She Knew It Was Fake’ On the fifth time of repeated attempts and rebooted time, Hassan was successful, even though, according to him, the false passport that he used was not particularly skilfully produced. This time, he had a French passport and a French driver’s licence. The attendant selling the ticket was communicating with Hassan in French but, as he could not answer, he made up a story of having moved from France whilst a young boy: She smiled. Of course, she knew it was fake. … But I really liked her smile, it was nice, it was as if she knew, like: ‘Just go, good luck’ (Hassan, 13 May 2018). When boarding the plane with the ‘cheaply faked’ passport, the flight attendant did not even glance at the passport, but let him through: ‘She went: “Have a nice flight”, and I wanted to ask her “Are you sure? Can’t you see it’s fake?”’ (Hassan, 13 May 2018). The journey was thus narrated and experienced as defined by happenstance and arbitrariness. These individual narratives also underline that failure or success and the temporal constructions were dependent upon whom refugees met, whether the ticket seller believed in the story or not, whether he/she cared or not and whether bus and train drivers, officials and fellow passengers reported the potentially suspicious and unwanted human beings on the run. It took bribes and smuggler fees, and the journey was lonely, unpredictable and fragmented into smaller units of decision-making. Surprises, shocks and uncertainty of whom you could trust, of how to spend your last money, of how to charge your phone, getting in touch with the right people and smugglers, and reaching out to family and kin were defining characteristics. Abuluela (2017) describes in his book the unevenness of direction and of pace, the arrhythmia, as a certain feeling of ease was dawning on the boat that he was travelling in from Izmir in Turkey to Greece: The sailing was smooth and pleasant and the despair, tiredness and hopelessness suddenly turned into enthusiasm and energy. I could feel the contained excitement of fellow passengers as the rising sun’s beams started to light the trees tops on the Greek island in front of us. There was a welcome cool breeze that had awoken us, our eyes glittering with hope as the young man who steered the boat said, ‘We are about to land. In 10 or maybe 15 minutes we will be there’. At the same moment, that seemed as if out of nowhere, we all felt the ominous presence of what was clearly a military ship. … Our boat looked so small, helpless and vulnerable beside the military ship. … From high above an officer addressed us …. ‘You are welcome to Greece. Don’t puncture the boat. You are safe and we have come to help you … Don’t puncture the boat. We will take you to the island. DO NOT PUNCTURE THE BOAT’ (Abuluela 2017: 53 ). After some time at sea, this journey was transformed from anxiety to calmness and relaxed expectancy, moving steadily forward, only to be disrupted by a violent encounter with Greek border patrols and time again became frantic. The passengers were not rescued or assisted at all by the Greek patrol, but the dinghy boat was dragged back into international water and forced to head back to Turkey. Fadel eventually found himself back in Istanbul in frozen time. The violent interruption of his journey by the Greek security patrol meant that Fadil was thrown back in both time and space, and had to restart and repeat. Reboots and repetitions were frequent. Hadi described the uncertainty of time and place: Then, I think we came to Germany. … We went by bus and then train and bus and train again. And then a big boat or ship. I think it was from Hamburg or maybe Kiel. The smuggler was with me and I think we were on an X2000. It was silvery, it was nice, it was fast. He told me that he was going to the restroom. He never returned to his seat. So, he brought me somewhere and then left. I think he took me to the border close to Malmö somewhere. … I am not sure. But I want to know so bad. I like such details. It becomes nostalgia. I don’t know which way I came. I would like to know my first steps (Hadi, 23 January 2018). Hadi illustrated how he really did not know the route, where he was in space or place: ‘it was just names’, but he regretted that he did not have the full information. The journey was thus not only fragmented and uncertain; it was also unknown. Different destinations and segments of the journey were concealed and hidden, left in the hands of smugglers or brokers/facilitators (cf. Gill et al. 2011: 308). Relief and Friendly Time: ‘It Was Unreal’ The primary reaction expressed upon arrival was one of utter relief, having assumedly reached a destination of safety. Most reveal that the first thing that was done was to get in touch with relatives, a brother or an uncle, providing accommodation, information, advice and initial guidance. Hadi explained how he woke up on the train in Gothenburg, at first not knowing where he was. Details from the first steps were often well remembered and narrated in detail: It was such a nice feeling to know that I had made it. It was unreal. And then I got out of the train. It was like … shock …. You had been thinking about this point the whole way. And then … I called my brother …. The first experience I had, it was birds. We usually don’t see birds on the ground in Palestine, because if they get on the ground, people catch them and slaughter them and eat them. So, they just fly. But those frigging birds, the doves. ‘You are rude, and you are really brave to come this close to me.’ I started to threw some crisps and maybe 15 birds flew at me. I panicked. Such little things. But I remember it so well. My brother came, he took me to Gårdsten. Everything was weird actually (Hadi, 23 January 2018). Like Hadi, Hassan told of the importance of meeting family and kin, persons dear and familiar, cushioning the first encounters with the new country. Time turned harmonic, relaxed and friendly; it was, finally, on your side: I called my uncle, from the plane, and I told him, ‘Man, the whole journey is done now, just two hours and I will be in Stockholm, just tell my brother to catch me from the airport.’ … Then I arrived at the airport, but it wasn’t Arlanda, it was maybe Skavsta, a small one. … I was waiting for my brother, but he didn’t show. I didn’t realize that I was at the wrong airport. … This journey, it would not end. But finally, I got to the centre, and finally I met my brother, someone I really knew. … And then that was the end of it. I found my brother, we went together, we bought some clothes for me. After two days, I went to Märsta, to the Migration Agency, and they took my finger prints, and I started the process (Hassan, 13 May 2018). A slow relaxation and a sense that time may normalize was dawning. Starting the process was, however, but a continuation of the journey, not an end or a destination, and the initial experience of relief and euphoria was soon replaced by a new standstill of frozen time. After: The Asylum Process and Frozen Life: ‘I am Thinking of the Days I Lost’ As migration and asylum politics in the Global North are increasingly restricted, securitized and criminalized (Huysmans 2006; Khosravi 2009; Fassin 2011; Hyndman 2012; Barker 2017), in ‘a toxic brew to limit if not outright block and punish the mobility of poorer, ethnic and racial minorities from the Global South’ (Barker 2017: 7), refugee journeys are prolonged and frozen in time. After a period of more humanitarian asylum politics in relation to primarily the Syria war, Swedish migration laws were tightly restricted from 2016 (Barker 2017), implying both stricter regulations of border controls, changing legislation regarding residence permits and longer time periods of managing asylum claims. Griffiths (2014, 2017) has shown how time is a managerial and bureaucratic mechanism in British immigration procedures and how ‘temporal governance’ affects ‘deportable’ (and ‘undeportable’) migrants. This temporal regime works through defining time requirements for applications, procedures and processes where things are supposed to happen. For my interlocutors, the first stage of relief was gradually turned into disappointment, frustration and a realization (cf. Allan 2014: 180) that the journey towards safety had not come to a closure, but was continuing and being stretched out in time, meeting with bureaucratic, managerial and technical politics, requiring their patience and that they ‘present themselves as passive victims, grateful for being granted whatever minimal tolerance they are shown’ (Schuster 2011: 402) and as subject to governmental techniques of managing temporality (Griffiths 2014, 2017). Categorizations, Registration and (Temporal) Bureaucratic Management Mechanisms of migration and (im)mobility regimes rest on categorizations, registrations and statistics in controlling or excluding migrants and refugees, the ‘undesirables’ and keeping them outside of nation-state borders (Malkki 1995; Agier 2011; Hassin 2011; Barker 2017; Khosravi 2017). The managerial counting and measuring, the ‘quantification techniques used by a range of agencies that count, code, classify and categorise migrants into various types, systems, groups and families’ (Gill et al. 2011), used to establish who belongs and who does not, are manifested in special ways for Palestinians representing a particular anomaly in this system. Grouping, arranging and sorting are also performed in different temporalities, affecting time, motion and waiting, and so categorizations and temporal constructs (Griffiths 2014, 2017) merge into a state governmentality of immigration. In Sweden, the time for waiting for asylum claims to be processed is known to be lengthy and arbitrary. There are time slots, delays, periods of waiting for interviews, decisions, new questions and, for those denied asylum, a 4-year period until an application can be again submitted. Detention centres and incarceration further infringe on time and, during the protracted process as a whole, time freezes. With the Swedish recognition of Palestine as a state in 2014, Palestinian citizenship has been accepted for carriers of Palestinian passports registered in the West Bank or Gaza. Statelessness can be de jure or de facto and holders of Palestinian citizenship may at times be considered as de facto stateless. Also, a person can be considered both a citizen of Palestine and an UNRWA-registered refugee (MIG 2015). Claims of the asylum of stateless persons are processed in relation to the situation in their former country of residence and not in relation to their original refugeeness caused by the Nakba. Instead, in accordance with the UN refugee Convention from 1951, ‘persons who are at present receiving from organs or agencies of the United Nations other than the United Nations High Commissioner for refugees protection or assistance’ (UNHCR 1951: Article 1d) are not entitled to refugee status, but need to prove that assistance from the UNRWA has ‘ceased’. In fact, Palestinians are frequently simply excluded from refugee status, due to the fact that they are registered as ‘Palestine refugees’, and their actual status of being double or multiple refugees makes them fall out of the international asylum regime, in what Quasmiyeh-Fiddian has called a ‘misapplication’ (2016) of the refugee Convention. According to praxis, the Migration Agency considers protection as ‘ceased’ when a person has been ‘forced to leave the operational areas of UNRWA due to external conditions outside of this person’s control’ and then ‘he or she shall instead automatically be provided the benefits of the Geneva convention without any examination of the reasons for protection’ (MIG 2013). Such was the situation for stateless Palestinians from Syria during the period between 2013 and 2016 (Interview Migration Agency, 19 February 2018). If an applicant ‘at the moment’ or ‘shortly before he or she submitted an appeal for asylum is under or have had protection or assistance from UNRWA’, this person is on the other hand excluded from refugeeness (MIG 2013). Time becomes important in relation to whether a person’s Palestine refugeeness is at all acknowledged. Another problematic situation of assessments refer to Palestinians arriving from the Gulf countries. Residence permits in the Gulf are always temporary and directly related to employment. A sponsorship system (kafala) requires migrant workers to have a sponsor in the form of an employer prior to an application for residence and work permits (Lifos 2018). Frozen Time: Life as ‘Hell’ During the time of processing, asylum applicants are not allowed to work or study at universities or colleges and life is put on hold. Asylum applicants witness life in limbo, or time as frozen, while waiting and not knowing when an interview may be held or how long it might take to receive the decision. Depicted as ‘hell’, ‘really difficult’ (Interviews 2018) and a period with a shortage of money and food, crowdedness and family members getting on each other’s nerves, there were also articulations of productive agency (Griffiths 2014), resilience and resistance, as is also acknowledged by, for example, Rotter (2016), and a capacity to navigate and mitigate detrimental temporalities (cf. Page et al. 2017). Respondents spoke of finding jobs in the black labour market, trying to acquire language skills, preparing for future work or education, keeping in touch with relatives, connecting with society, getting involved in sports and attempting to plan for the future. While waiting for the interview or the decision to be made, people navigate time and try to create meaningful activities and relations. In the narratives, important points in breaking the timeline of waiting were always the ‘interviews’ at the Migration Agency: ‘I had my interview, then I heard nothing for eight months’; ‘I was called for an interview’; ‘I haven’t been called for an interview yet, and it’s been 10 months’ (Interviews 2018). A great deal of energy is directed at this process of waiting and at those meetings, as you know how important it is that you get everything right. Interpreters may get pronunciation wrong and thus spoil the whole process, as happened for Muhammad from Gaza, who had to wait for 2.5 years due to a misinterpretation (Interview Muhammad, 23 January 2018). Issa described his sense of loss of time: When I first came to Sweden, I felt very safe, and very happy, but after two or three months I started to think about my permit. I am thinking of the days I lost; I can’t do anything here. And everything is new: new laws, new culture. I didn’t get a lawyer from the Migration Agency yet, they didn’t decide yet. My official at the Migration Agency has said that maybe I have to wait for 1.5 years (Issa, 7 May 2018). Hadi described the frustration during the process and how he started to question his decision to leave Gaza. He lived with his brother in crowded circumstances and they found themselves in conflicts with each other. He tried to find a job and eventually he was employed by a moving company in the black labour market, earning 100 SEK (approximately 10 US$) a day. His economic situation was dire because of debts created during the journey and the smuggling: I waited one year and two months for the decision. We had an interview in January 2008; my mom had arrived in December 2007. In January, I met my lawyer …. After that, from January to September, no-one saw me. Then they called me in September. So those eight months, that was hell for real. Because you don’t know and you begin to get a little used to live here. You are here (Hadi, 23 January 2018). Hadi reflected on the confusion of time, as ‘you are here’ and have become accustomed to ‘being here’, while at the same time not knowing whether you will be allowed to stay or not. Sentiments of homesickness emerged as well as frustration and boredom, and time turned utterly confused as migrants become accustomed to new contexts, yet disappointed by both time and space: It was after 1.5–2 months, and I started to come back to reality. This wasn’t paradise. Ok, my brother had told me that the weather is not good and that it is not like you believe it is and that the grass is not greener. But it is better than to die in Gaza. So, ok, I knew, but anyway, I hoped it would be better (Hadi, 23 January 2018). Hassan arrived as stateless from Syria in 2012 and ‘it was easier then’; his process took 50 days and he also described how lucky he was to receive a permanent permit from the start. Nevertheless, the days while he was waiting at the accommodation organized by the Migration Agency were like being ‘already dead’: Mariannelund, it was such a small place, nothing, no city noise, it was so quiet. … I was getting destroyed there, devastated, I was just sitting there, doing nothing, watching the ceiling, walking from the kitchen to the room, I didn’t know anyone, it was really hard for me (Hassan, 13 May 2018). Used to the city sounds and busy life of Yarmouk and Damascus, Hassan was worn down by the ultraslow pace at the accommodation in the small town of Mariannelund. When a positive decision was in fact made, a new phase of euphoria and being back in pace, space and time entered: It was like a birthday for me. Like a new life. Totally. Because I recognized everything is new, and I felt that this is the country where I will continue my life, because I can’t go back to Syria, and I got permanent residence from the beginning (Hassan, 13 May 2018). For Hassan, the residence permit represented time at ease and a restart of life, while Hadi had to wait for his decision and described how time was stuck (or ‘sticky’, with Griffiths 2014) and how he entered a stasis in life: I missed Palestine. And I thought, maybe it’s the weather. I decided to go and visit. … It was a great time. But at the same time, I felt like a stranger. … My classmates had completed their education, passed their examinations, and I still hadn’t have my grades validated (Hadi, 24 January 2018). As he was cemented in waiting, in struggling to continue his life while in the process of claiming asylum, learning Swedish, trying to become eligible to university studies, trying to keep the same pace, understanding the system, his friends in Gaza continued their lives. They moved on, they graduated, got married, while he was still in a transit position. Mobility/immobility takes different directions and Hadi together with many other of my respondents disclosed experiences of stationary life and losing time, lagging behind among people of the same age both in Sweden and those left behind. Years were taken from their lives, situated outside as they were of normal time (Griffiths 2014; Hainmuller et al. 2016). For those whose claims are denied but stay on in Sweden or cannot be deported, life freezes indefinitely. As many Palestinians from different destinations have not been able to return to, for example, Gaza, Iraq or the Gulf states, they need to apply for deportation impediments and, if that is approved, they enter a new category of ‘non-deportable’. During different occasions, Palestinians have entered into hunger strikes (eg. Lindholm Schulz 2014) in order to illuminate their Kafkaesque circumstances of not being allowed to stay but neither being allowed entry in countries of deportation. One such story is that of Khalil, who, as a refugee child in Gaza, migrated together with his family to the Gulf in order for his parents to find labour opportunities. After 40 years in the United Arab Emirates, a sudden change occurred in 2011 when he was called by the police and was notified that he was to be deported together with his family. The family stayed on and Khalil ended up in Sweden, after also being evicted from Turkey. Khalil’s application for asylum was declined by the Migration Agency and the decision was to deport him to Gaza, although he had no connections there and had never set foot in Gaza, as still stateless and with his only document of identity a refugee card from the UNRWA. Two years afterwards, there was no reply to his appeal (Interview October 2014). In the continued process, he had to seek confirmation from the UAE embassy that he would not be permitted to enter and he had to try to find a job in the UAE from his position in Sweden in order to prove that he could not receive a sponsor. Khalil moved from being an asylum seeker to the superfluous rank of the ‘undeportable’, as the decision of removal could not be executed. When I met him again in August 2018, he had, after a process that he described as painful beyond belief and being denied asylum or other reasons for protection as well as possibilities to enter the UAE again, just recently received a temporary-residence permit for 13 months. He had not seen his family for 6 years (Khalil, 13 August 2018). Experiences of waiting and arrhythmic time flows do not however end with the residence permit, but with mechanisms of integration into the labour market, including language training, validating the previous experiences being described as tedious, bureaucratic and time-consuming (Bucken-Knapp et al. 2018). Time is again slowed down; individuals are again thrown out of time. Even for those fortunate enough to have a relatively smooth and quick process of asylum, a brutal awakening often occurs. The arrhythmia of the journey hit at the core of people’s identities as they found themselves caught between frenzied and frozen time, not knowing where (and when) they were. Conclusions Refugee journeys are thus narrated as hyper-turbulent time-scapes of survival, overcoming and becoming, as experiences not only of time and space, but of different rhythms, deeply influencing the lives of the travellers. Listening to the narratives and mapping them out, it is striking how forceful and defining the arrhythmic aspects of the temporal frame of the journey are. Unreliable and messy temporalities seriously infringe on the potential agency of refugee travellers finding themselves caught in between rapid and slow tempos. Temporal structures are deeply sensed and experienced by voyagers as those modalities are out of reach, but simply have to be followed, lived and accepted. Rapid time could be frenzied, hectic and chaotic or it could be smooth and euphoric, while slow time could be frozen, ultraslow, dead or harmonic and relaxed. Both rapid and slow time could be hostile or friendly. Adding to the literature on variations in rhythm being important for understanding time-scapes of refugee journeys (cf. Gill 2011; Griffiths 2014, 2017), conclusions from this research contribute to unpacking how arrhythmia impacts on the meaning-making of the voyage, but also the ways in which refugees interact with the arrhythmic conditions through agency and coping strategies. The route to assumed safety is fractured into different fragments of reaching different destinations and spatial realities that, throughout the journey, become new departure zones from which a multitude of micro-decisions need to be made. The road starts with fears, violence, decisions, expectations, planning and organization; it is bumpy and lined with insights, discoveries, disappointments, frustrations, boredom, fear, progress and setbacks. The journey represents uneven and arrhythmic mobilities, in different and ‘interlocking’ phases (Gill et al. 2011: 302), beyond regimes of mobility/immobility, as the journey is one of simultaneous motion and stasis, of frenzy and frozen-ness. As such, the journey is constant, but its pace varies and is sometimes accelerated, rapid, hurried, pushed and sometimes retarded, slowed down or braked (cf. Gill et al. 2011: 308). Motion is sometimes calmer and more harmonic, friendly and on the side of the voyager, only to change into violent and sudden encounters with transporters, officials, police and security—representatives of the border-control machinery with the power to change the pace and the fate of the traveller yet again. At other times, the journey comes to a complete halt or standstill, as the travel is ‘often defined primarily by periods of waiting, queuing, preparing and hiding, punctuated by short and intense episodes of activity’ (Gill et al. 2011: 308). Asylum-seeking and integration processes imply further arrhythmic conditions and unknowns, throwing travellers yet again onto an uncertain road to an equally uncertain destiny. 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TI - Arrhythmic Mobilities and Fragmented Journeys: Palestinians Seeking Safety in Sweden
JF - Journal of Refugee Studies
DO - 10.1093/jrs/feaa027
DA - 2020-05-03
UR - https://www.deepdyve.com/lp/oxford-university-press/arrhythmic-mobilities-and-fragmented-journeys-palestinians-seeking-rcleS5dMLY
SP - 1657
EP - 1674
VL - 34
IS - 2
DP - DeepDyve
ER -