was sixty-two when he was uprooted from his farmstead in the Krajina. When the crisis came, he got his family away without mishap. On their arrival in Belgrade, they registered as refugees and were eventually transferred to Pristina. Other options had been mooted, but in Belgrade they were promised that if they moved to Kosovo, they would be housed by the Republic of Serbia. That seemed to clinch it. Marinkovic, his wife, their daughter and her two children became the willing victims of Milosevic’s forlorn attempt to shift the demographic balance in Kosovo in favour of the Serbian minority. By the mid-1990s, several thousand Krajina Serbs had been dumped in the province like so much ethnic ballast.
Marinkovic’s life had been a long, fumbling, painful descent into the basement of Europe and, after three years in Kosovo, he was ready to admit that he was in the dark – that everything had gone wrong. He told me that he had been interned in a Croatian camp for Serbs in 1941; that in the same year his father had been murdered by Ustashe guards; that his older brother, a Partisan, had been killed in the course of duty and that his mother had become a drunkard. As a boy of nine or ten, he said, he had worked with the Partisans, setting fires in the fields to guide in Allied planes. This, in turn, put him in mind of how the enemy had laid false fires to mislead the pilots – and the memory of these fires brought him round to the subject of Milosevic, the deceiver; the man that he, Marinkovic, should never have taken at his word. In Kosovo there was nothing. The old man lived in miserable conditions, surrounded by angry ethnic Albanians; he received a pittance as a guardian on a building site; his family depended on a regular international aid package of basic foodstuffs.
In the summer of 1999, after the Serbian withdrawal from Kosovo, I looked for Marinkovic in Pristina. Before the bombings, there were two places, apart from the cramped barracks, where you could find Krajina Serbs. One was a miserable hotel, permanently under guard, the other a stone building up towards the city’s mosques. Since Nato’s entry under the guise of KFOR, the hotel had changed hands and the stone building had been boarded up. Where the Marinkovic family had lived, the sun beat down on the charred remains of the huts. A large radio mast in the police complex had been targeted during the sorties. It lay lengthways in front of the ruins.
The Marinkovic family had not been long in Kosovo – a little less than four years. Now, in all likelihood, they had been pushed back into Serbia proper, along with hundreds of families driven out under the new dispensation, and scores of Roma. As the Serbs headed north, hundreds more Roma – also targets of ethnic Albanian fury – began heading west, replacing Kosovans on the boats from Albania or making their way by other routes towards France and Britain, to join the tide of ‘human sewage’ in which Dover, a town of some 35,000 inhabitants hosting around a thousand refugees at the time, imagined it was foundering.
Kosovo was a severe weather event in the prevailing climate of crisis and asylum. As it passed, the issues that were pressing during the 1991 Gulf War and the conflict in Bosnia became visible again. The names of places like Blace in Macedonia and Kukes in Albania have already been replaced by others, while both new and older dispossessions coexist on UNHCR’s agenda: in 2012 there were nearly half a million refugees in Dadaab, north-east Kenya, and more than 1.7 million internally displaced persons in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Meanwhile millions of Iraqis fled their country after the Bush/Blair invasion in 2003: the tally by 2007 was two million, but it may now have reached five million. The numbers of Kosovans on the gommoni from Albania have already diminished, but by 2011 Puglia and other parts of southern Italy were taking in large numbers of people from the Maghreb.
Governments in ‘receiving countries’ have to hold to the belief that at some time or other the forced movement of people can be reduced, especially in a world where a new ideology of human rights and ‘good governance’ has begun to hammer at old bulwarks of impunity such as national sovereignty. But there is nothing to suggest that they will. In the meantime, the same sovereign status that was challenged by military means in the former Yugoslavia can be challenged by law in the wealthy democracies, above all in the EU, where recourse to the European Court of Human Rights may produce outcomes that go against an individual state’s preference for minimal intakes of refugees.
Chapter 2
‘You have no idea of the cost of forged documents, Mr Latimer. There used to be three recognised sources of supply: one in Zurich, one in Amsterdam and one in Brussels … You used to be able to get a false-real Danish passport – that is, a real Danish passport treated chemically to remove the original entries and photograph and then filled in with new ones – for, let me see, about two thousand francs at the present rate of exchange. A real-false – manufactured from start to finish by the agent – would have cost you a little less, say fifteen hundred. Nowadays you would have to pay twice as much. Most of the business is done here in Paris now. It is the refugees, of course.’
Eric Ambler, The Mask of Demetrios
The central international instrument designed to protect refugees is the Convention of 1951 (it was extended beyond its original geographical limitation to Europe by a Protocol in 1967). The definition of a refugee is to be found in Chapter 1, Article 1, which states that the Convention shall apply to anyone outside ‘the country of his nationality’ as a result of a ‘well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group or political opinion and is unable or, owing to such fear, unwilling to avail himself of the protection of that country’. The question is how a contracting party goes about the business of interpretation. The wording of Chapter 1, Article 1 might be taken to mean that only persecution by a state makes an applicant eligible for ‘Convention status’. This would rule out persecution by a warlord or a rebel insurgency and so, for example, hundreds of thousands of Angolans who lived in terror of Jonas Savimbi’s Unita movement during the 1980s would not have qualified for Convention status, though followers of Unita – largely drawn from one ‘ethnicity’ (indeed, one ‘social group’) – who were threatened with retribution by the Angolan Army, might well. Again, an Algerian journalist who feared for her life at the hands of the Groupe Islamique Armé would be less likely to qualify than someone who was known to have voted ‘Islamic’ in the early 1990s and was at risk of summary justice from state paramilitaries.
These are extreme examples, but the notion that state persecution alone defines a Convention refugee predominated in France and Germany during the last part of the twentieth century. Other countries, such as Canada, the UK and Ireland, have taken the broader view that Convention status should apply to people whom a state is unable to protect – which would mean not only that the potential victim of a Unita atrocity in Angola and an Algerian journalist were eligible, but that a victim of sexual harassment or domestic violence might become a Convention refugee. (Canada has given Convention status to Chinese families as a result of the ‘one child only’ policy.) And it could well be, according to a signatory’s interpretation, that the term ‘social group’ covers broad minorities such as gays, or women under attack by a particular regime – the Taliban, for instance, before the invasion of Afghanistan and most probably in the future, after the US/Nato withdrawal. In Britain, the Home Office has been forced by the courts to consider women fleeing persecution under customary marriage laws as plausible asylum seekers.
Interpretations of the Convention reflect the political priorities of signatory states. Above all, they give an indication of how a state views immigration in general. A country such as Canada, with a more obvious use for migration than a country like Britain, is likely to take a more generous view of asylum. The real effects of this difference are remarkable. In 1996, Canada decided that 76 per cent of applicants from the Democratic Republic of Congo (Zaire at the time), 81 per cent from Somalia and 82 per cent from Sri Lanka qualified for Convention status. In the same year in Britain, only 1 per cent of applicants from Zaire, 0.4 per cent from Somalia and 0.2 per cent from Sri Lanka were considered eligible.
In Europe in the 1990s, governments were awarding other kinds of status to those they felt were endangered but did not qualify as Convention refugees. Often these dispensations were underpinned by international
