An hour long radio documentary from Public Radio International’s America Abroad Media on Burma in the buildup to the elections later this year. First broadcast on Tuesday 7th April with my contribution starting at 27 mins.
Category Archives: Human Migration
The Salween River
First published in Vice, February 3rd 2015
The village of Baan Thatafang sits alone on a small hilltop by the edge of North Thailand. Below, the Salween River’s brown, treacle waters slowly wind south, the meandering current demarcating Thailand’s border with neighbouring Burma, whose dark green mountains dominate the village vista.
The view is breathtaking, yet Baan Thatafang’s idyllic setting belies a major issue that affects many more villages like it: human trafficking. Baan Thatafang has now become one of the latest ethnic minority settlements to be identified by local NGOs as being at threat from Thailand’s sprawling business in the trafficking of desperate people.
An estimated 1 million ethnic minority people live in North and West Thailand, but exact numbers are hard to come by. Many villages are informal; entire groups roam around large areas, surviving through swidden and subsistence agriculture. Most importantly, though, huge numbers of people are unregistered.
The hill tribe area of Mae Sam Laep
In the Thai Government’s last statement on registration, way back in 2005, its Interior Ministry estimated that some 50 percent of these groups remain unregistered under any legal status category. Without registration and ID cards, these peoples end up living in a limbo of “statelessness”.
UN research in these regions has long identified this lack of legal identity as the single greatest threat to these communities.
In a UNIAP (UN Inter-Agency Project on Trafficking) report from 2001, the risks of being officially “stateless” are made brutally clear. Without their legal status, these peoples are put under a cornucopia of constraints and handicaps. They are not permitted ownership of land, access to state medical care, suffrage, school or marriage certifications, free travel nor the ability to work outside their own province. These suffocating restrictions are key ingredients to the melting pot of desperation and easy exploitation that traffickers have long preyed upon.
Steps have certainly been taken at both the governmental level and on the international level, most notably the more decisive 2008 Anti-Trafficking in Persons Act and UNESCO’s Highland Citizenship and Birth Registration Project.
Yet in mid-2014, the US State Department’s latest Trafficking in Persons (TIP) report downgraded Thailand to Tier 3, the lowest grade, putting it among the likes of North Korea, Saudi Arabia and Iran. In the report, the US State Department specifically cited “…members of ethnic minorities, and stateless persons…” as being “at the greatest risk of being trafficked”.
The unregistered masses continue to be exploited.
Mickey Choothesa, COSA
“We know a few girls who work in the red light district now who came from our target communities, because they couldn’t find any jobs [due to their lack of registration],” explains Mickey Choothesa, founder of the local anti-trafficking organisation COSA (Children of Southeast Asia). “Usually, if they have opportunities to stay at school, a strong community base, or any other opportunities really, you find that they will not get mixed up with trafficking.”
Mickey has been actively working against the trafficking of young girls from hill tribe communities for nearly a decade with COSA. “We focus on girls who are being misled and don’t have that opportunity of choice,” he explains.
While we may think of trafficking through a Western mindset, which evokes scenes of midnight snatch-and-grabs (which do happen), Mickey explains that most of those trafficked from the hill tribes are simply economically desperate. Devoid of opportunity, they sell themselves – or their children – without fully understanding the debt bondage and slave-like conditions they will end up in. At COSA, Mickey tries to identify these vulnerable individuals and provide decent opportunities for them before the spectre of trafficking strikes.
Life at COSA’s shelter for rescued girls
Since its inception in 2006, COSA’s Chiang Mai base has slowly expanded to include a school bus service for isolated villages, outreach programmes in the hill tribes, educational programmes and a large shelter, where some 27 at-risk girls now live, and many more have found sanctuary in the past.
In his office, Mickey sits among a plethora of military-grade equipment – a reminder of his previous life as a US military photographer, and handy when working in the world of human trafficking. Bulletproof vests rest against a table heaving with first aid equipment. A small pistol peers out from a nearby bag. “You’ve got to be prepared, man,” he says with a shrug when I express my surprise.
Outside, a small group of girls trickle back to the shelter after finishing at the nearby school. Most have been taken in by COSA after their individual living situations were deemed “at-risk” to trafficking by Mickey and his social workers.
“For example, we have two girls whose mother is a sex worker. We found she just couldn’t take care of her two daughters,” Mickey explains when I ask how he identifies who is vulnerable. “They have never been to school, are always alone at home. We deem that to be a high-risk environment, so we got the girls out and into our shelter.”
As the years have progressed, COSA, like many other local NGOs, has found it necessary to work in conjunction with the local authorities. Unfortunately, these local forces are occasionally levied with charges ranging from incompetence to collaboration with the traffickers – a problem that local NGOs have experienced, too.
“It’s absolutely necessary to make sure you know who you are working with,” Phensiri Pansiri explains to me with regards to the authorities. As programme coordinator of FOCUS (Foundation of Child Understanding), previously TRAFCORD (Anti-Trafficking Coordination Unit Northern Thailand), Pansiri is in almost constant communication with the government and the local authorities for her work.
Lunch time at the COSA shelter
“We have had times before where we have given details to some police and the details were leaked. Then you know that person cannot be trusted,” she says.
“When you deal with human trafficking, you deal with a lot of corruption,” says Mickey. “These guys earn next to nothing and a little more money can be very tempting, it’s understandable to a degree.” Despite this, both Mickey and Pansiri talk of the importance of involving the authorities, saying that “building relationships” and “trust” is of the utmost importance.
Back in Baan Thatafang, Mickey and our (trusted) police escort, Captain Pauridet from the local vice and trafficking unit, slowly trudge up the hill towards the local primary school.
The local primary school where girls have been trafficked
“We heard of a few girls being trafficked here and have since been coming back and watching it closely,” says Mickey, gesturing to the various huts that dot the surrounding hills. “Normally, it’s the schools [who] tell us what has been happening, as they are with the children almost every day.”
Captain Pauridet explains that, usually, people are lured away with the prospect of working in the restaurant business in the cities for better money, and are then forced into other work. “Often, the girls end up in the sex industry,” he says.
Fifty years ago, Baan Thatafang was the setting for an outpost of the Border Patrol Police, a ruthless paramilitary unit created with CIA assistance to counter any perceived Communist threat from neighbouring countries. Today, the area is home to a few hundred villagers, mostly of Karen ethnicity. The majority are from the state of Karen just a few hundred metres away in Burma, and the signs around the village are still written in both Thai and Burmese. Other Karen families, however, have been calling this plot of Thailand home for centuries.
Artwork on the walls of the primary school
Baan Thatafang is about as isolated as they come. Located in a river valley among the mountainous Mae Sam Laep sub district of Mae Hong Son province, just getting there requires a dizzying drive through the mountains before a precarious dirt road forces us onto a boat for the final stretch.
Eventually, we make it to the primary school. The main hall of the school, I am told, was once the main office for the old BPP. Standing high on wooden stilts, flags from all the Southeast countries flicker in the light breeze.
Girls doing homework at COSA
Inside one of the classrooms, a couple of 13-year-old Karenni sisters sit anxiously. Mickey and another staff member from COSA greet them warmly and slowly get a conversation going. “How are you?” they ask the girls, who shyly mumble back.
“We’re meeting their family next week. They should be coming to COSA, it’s just not safe for them at their homes now,” explained Mickey, not wanting to elaborate further.
Children on the banks of Mae Sam Laep
The school only accommodates those up to the age of 13, and the next school is almost 40km away through the winding mountains and dirt roads. Unsurprisingly, many won’t undertake such a journey.
Outin, a teacher at the school for 12 years, tells me how the work of the UN and NGOs has helped register pupils, yet the numbers of unregistered remain shockingly high. “Right now I think we can estimate that it’s around 50 percent who remain unregistered,” she says, her colleague nodding his approval.
Her estimate isn’t far off what was found in the 2010 UNESCO survey on the Mae Hong Son ethnic minority highland peoples, which estimated that at least 40 percent of those in Mae Sam Laep have no ID card at all.
A man hassles a woman in a bar in a red light district of Chiang Mai, where some previously trafficked employees worked. There is no indication that any of the people in the photo are involved in prostitution.
“We’re very aware of the trafficking phenomenon, and the majority of kids here become vulnerable to it in different ways,” says Outin. “Those that are unregistered have less choices than if they have that card.” Mickey agrees wholeheartedly. “Without any sort of ID, they have zero opportunities. They won’t go to high school and they will soon be tempted by those who offer them easy money from outside.”
It is apposite that we meet at a school as, through his years of experience, Mickey is adamant that greater education is the key to battling trafficking. “We need to educate the older generation on what their rights are, as so many don’t know,” he says as we walk back to the boat. “Then we have to focus on the next generation.”
“My battle is one kid at a time, one village at a time, one day at time. I may help one girl, but that girl could go on to educate and save more. That’s my wish.”
First published in Newsweek in print edition 17/10/2014 and online on 8th October 2014.
Just 10km northeast of Jordan’s Mafraq city, some 20 tents are pitched next to a plot of agricultural land, the conspicuous greenery breaking up the otherwise flat, sun-bleached desert. In a faded blue font on the side of some of the tents are the words “UNHCR: The UN Refugee Agency”.
This small plot of land in the desert is the latest settling ground for Ahmad Al-Obeyd and over 100 members of his extended family, all refugees from the same rural Damascus suburb. For almost a year, Ahmad has been moving his caravan of tents around Jordan, following agricultural harvests in the hope of finding work. For the past five months, they have been based near Mafraq, on a dusty plot just two kilometres from the very country they once fled.
Al-Obeyd and his family all arrived in Jordan between December 2013 and March 2014. Carrying whatever they could, some of his family paid smugglers while others hitchhiked through dangerous territory, before finally walking the last few kilometres across the border. His family were registered in Za’atari camp. “It was very, very tough,” said Al-Obeyd, “I don’t like to think about that journey, but thank God we made it.”
Now, thanks to a recent change in Jordanian Government policy, Al-Obeyd and tens of thousands like him live under threat of eviction, incarceration, and even deportation back to Syria.
Since the start of the Syrian conflict in the early spring of 2011, over 608,000 Syrians have crossed the border, seeking asylum and refuge in Jordan. A recent economic study by the World Food Programme stated that the sheer number of Syrians coming in had “triggered major demographic shifts; tested infrastructure and pressured social services”. Today, Syrian refugees make up one tenth of the Jordanian population.
As a result, public opinion has slowly turned on the refugees, and in a speech to parliament on the November 3rd 2013, King Abdullah II stated that unless the international community quickly came to Jordan’s aid, he would “take measures to protect the interests of our people and country.”
The resident of Mafraq, for example, are keen to keep Syrians away from their communities – a September 2012 poll by the Jordanian Centre for Strategic Studies found that 80% of townspeople supported the idea of segregation of refugees inside refugee camps.
Then, in July of this year, the government and its new Syrian Refugees Directorate, SRAD, implemented a new policy. According to the new rules unregistered refugees, and those who choose to leave the confines of the camps without official authorisation, find themselves cut off from any humanitarian assistance, access to public services, and at risk of incarceration, eviction and even deportation back to Syria. The choice presented to theserefugees is simple: stay in the camps, or give up your access to aid.
The reality is more complicated: nearly 100,000 refugees currently live in one of Jordan’s two refugee camps, created in response to the Syrian conflict – around 85,000 in Za’atari camp and an estimated 12,000 in the new Azraq camp, opened on April 30th this year. The rest – the vast majority – live outside the camps; having registered with the UNHCR in urban areas, not registered at all, or having simply left without authorisation.
“If you are not going through the bail out procedure, UNHCR is no longer in a position to renew your documents and to officially recognise your stay outside the camps,” says Bernadette Castel-Hollingsworth, UNHCR’s Head of Azraq Camp’s Field Office. As partners of SRAD, few aid agency workers are willing to openly decry the new policy for risk of a government backlash that could in turn seriously hinder their efforts with refugees. Nevertheless, many quietly worry that the policy signifies a new hardline shift from the government, presaging a more coercive, restrictive future for refugees without the right papers.
In order for someone to obtain a bailout from Za’atari or Azraq today, Syrians need a Jordanian relative – “not necessarily a blood relation, but there has to be a justified relation” Castel-Hollingsworth adds – who can vouch for you and is willing to act as your guarantor while you try and start a new life outside the camp. She acknowledges that obtaining a bailout permit is incredibly difficult: “It is very restrictive in terms of the criteria you need to meet, in order to be able to apply, and then to actually get the permit,” she says, from her office in Azraq camp.
At the other end of Azraq, sitting in the shade of his corrugated metal shelter, Sabra, a 41-year-old Syrian refugee from Aleppo, describes his first stay at the camp: “I arrived in Jordan and came to this camp on May 2nd,” he said. “I escaped the camp on the 28th May.”
It took just two and a half months before police in Amman stopped and questioned him, and, with only Azraq registration papers, he was quickly returned to the camp. Sabra’s story resonates with many like him: “I tried [to leave legally], but I couldn’t,” he says. “I tried to get the bailout [through SRAD], but I don’t have any relatives in Jordan or anybody who could be my [guarantor].”
Azraq camp’s creation was a direct result of the huge number of refugees overwhelming Za’atari camp in 2012. With a maximum capacity of 60,000 Za’atari quickly swelled to 120,000 just over a year after opening. Refugees soon streamed out of the camps and entered Jordanian residential areas. Al-Obeyd and his entire family were among them. As was common at the time, they snuck out in the night. “We left slowly, my son-in-law leaving first, then afterwards, in small groups, the rest of us snuck out,” Al-Obeyd says.
“At that time in Za’atari, there were 2,000 refugees arriving per day,” says Castel-Hollingsworth. “The government and UNHCR realised…Za’atari could not cope.” In February, the government decided there needed to be another camp. Today, Azraq accepts 96-97% of all new arrivals into the country.
Azraq is unlike almost every other refugee camp in the world. Out of the gently undulating desert in central Jordan, Azraq’s rugged shelters sit in perfect rows. Today, close to 10,000 shelters have been built, each with a 5-person capacity. At 14.7 square km, the camp itself has the feel of peculiarly sparse, under-construction town. Everywhere is orange desert, grey roads and yellowing shelters.
“People say [it’s like planning a city], but yes it is urban planning. Yesterday I was approving the layout for a cemetery,” Castel-Hollingsworth says. Lessons have certainly been learned from the chaos of Za’atari, and Castel-Hollingsworth is proud of the fact there have been “no security incidents in the camp,” a serious issue that continues to plague Za’atari.
Yet there is much to be done. The camp itself has only one supermarket; no electricity save small, solar powered devices; no running field hospital; no floors in the shelters, and unlike Za’atari, practically no business opportunities for the refugees.
Castel-Hollingsworth considers these issues very urgent. “People say that if they get electricity, the hospital and the markets, people will come back from the urban areas to live here,” she says. Yet, in the mean time, the refugees continue to leave – bailed out or not.
Sabra says that leaving Azraq was a way of restoring his “dignity”. “There is only so long you can live off [hand outs]. I feel I am living half a life here.” It is a sentiment echoed by Al-Obyed: “In order to live in dignity, you have to work,” he says. “That’s why we prefer to live [outside], even with all the risks involved.”
An estimated 13,000 refugees, or around 50% of those registered at Azraq, have already left illegally. Almost all of them will fall foul of the new bailout policy. Al-Obeyd knows his family are at risk by continuing to illegally reside in what are termed “informal tented settlements” (ITS). “When the policy first started, we began hearing of mass evictions of people just like us,” says Al-Obeyd. “We were seriously considering moving back to the refugee camps before they had a chance to move us forcefully.”
To date, ITS evictions have been fairly piecemeal, but one aid agency worker in Jordan warns that, “It seems to be accepted by aid workers that [more wide-scale evictions] will inevitably happen.” Al-Obeyd calls the new policy “devastating”. Nodding in the direction of his family, he notes, “It is the poorest, the most desperate, who are most affected.” He explains that for the Syrian refugees, everyone has lost something, and some have lost everything. “If they evict us, destroy our things and send us back [to the camps] I would ask them to instead return us to Syria.” He pauses to consider what he has just said, before nodding, “Yes. That would be kinder.”