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Syrians in Europe

Hiking in Holland to Remember Father Frans

Feature
Keep pushing: Syrians help to get an old car started on a ferry across the river Meuse.
Keep pushing: Syrians help to get an old car started on a ferry across the river Meuse. Photograph: Anas Alsrouji

200 Syrians spend five days hiking in the Netherlands, following in the footsteps of Frans van der Lugt, a priest murdered in Homs in 2014. What brings these people from different European countries together?

What does Islam in Europe look like and how do Muslims in Europe see themselves and the environment they live in? This feature is part of our coverage that accompanies the zenith Photo Award, with the theme Islam in Europe.

 

“Ahlan wa sahlan, welcome.” Rita greets me at the parish office in ‘s-Hertogenbosch, a small town in the Dutch province of North Brabant. Around 100 people have already gathered in the garden, sitting on the grass under the flowering magnolias, talking to one another in Arabic, playing the lute and smoking hookahs. People who haven’t seen one another for months or years embrace.

 

Others like myself stand off to the side, a little shy. I was initially sceptical when my Syrian friend Rita enthused to me about Masir, the big Syrian hike: 30 kilometres walking per day and nights spent in gymnasiums along the way. The trip from April 7-12 has been organised by a group of young Syrian volunteers, most of whom live in Berlin, who call themselves Frans Hike.

Day 1: Abuna Frans

 

There is more to the five-day hike from Den Bosch to Nijmegen than sporting ambition and Syrian folklore. Masir begins with a memorial service on the third anniversary of the murder of Frans van der Lugt, a Jesuit priest who established this kind of hiking in Syria. As a youth, Frans went on his first hikes with his parish here in Den Bosch. Today, Syrian hikers and members of Frans’s family from the Netherlands fill the pews of St John’s Cathedral in Den Bosch. The three-hour service is carried out together by Jesuits and Syrian guests, a mix of Catholic liturgy and Syrian singing and lute music. There are many touching testimonies and remembrances of Frans in Arabic, English and Dutch. They show how many people the idiosyncratic priest, philosopher and psychologist touched and influenced during his life.

 

Abuna Frans – our Father Frans – as people here call him, went to Syria in 1976. It was on a plot of land in Homs that he set about realising his dream project, Al-Ard (The Earth), an estate where he planted vegetable gardens and a vineyard, and gradually developed a winery, a homeless shelter, chapels and a workshop for people with disabilities. In the 1980s, Frans started organising hikes in the area, and hundreds of people took part. The idea was simple: people of different faiths and ways of life from all over Syria should be able to meet here to discover unfamiliar parts of the countryside together, to test their physical limits and reach far-off destinations.

 The journey starts with a memorial service at the St. John’s Cathedral in Den Bosch honoring Frans van der Lugt, a Dutch Jesuit who was murdered in Homs.

The journey starts with a memorial service at the St. John’s Cathedral in Den Bosch honoring Frans van der Lugt, a Dutch Jesuit who was murdered in Homs.
Photograph: Eva Sperschneider

When civil war broke out in 2011, Frans refused to leave Homs, a city besieged and destroyed by aerial bombardment. He didn’t want to abandon the famished and desperate people who sought refuge within the city’s walls. In two mobile phone videos, he hauntingly addressed the world. “We don’t want to sink into a sea of suffering and misery. We love life. We want to live,” he declared. On April 7, 2014, Frans van der Lugt was attacked at his home in the monastery, dragged out into the street by a masked man and shot. Today, those who used to live in Al-Ard and walk through Syria’s valleys with Frans are spread all over the world. Some of them fled to Europe.

 

Father Frans van der Lugt started organising hiking trips in Syria in the 1980s. After his murder, Syrian refugees keep the tradition alive in Europe.
Father Frans van der Lugt started organising hiking trips in Syria in the 1980s. After his murder, Syrian refugees keep the tradition alive in Europe. Image: Frans Wandern

Rabia lives in Berlin. A vigorous young man with a bushy beard and long, dark hair, he went to Al-Ard as a youth after living on the streets for a year. There he had a roof over his head and benefited above all from Frans’s support, which gave him a new orientation in life. Rabia stayed on and worked with Frans in the guest house and as a nurse, until fleeing to Germany in 2014. While struggling with German language courses, residency permits and the unemployment office, Rabia came up with an idea. “I was convinced that we should continue Frans’s tradition, especially now, when Syria is sinking into chaos and we have had to flee to Europe. Hiking can bring people together and help us to integrate.”

 

Since spring 2015, Syrians have been following in Frans’s footsteps in Germany. They’ve hiked in Berlin, Potsdam, Tübingen, Trier, in the Elbe Sandstone Mountains and in Saarland. Now the hike is taking place in a different European country for the first time: in the Netherlands, Frans’s homeland. This is also the first time that more than 200 people are participating. The group is a colourful mix. Most people are between 20 and 30 years old, but there are also families with children, and there are Muslims, Christians, Alawites, Ishmaelites and atheists from many different regions in Syria.

Day 2: Like it was in Syria before the war

 

On the second day, we’re on our feet by 6:30am. Our first stop will be Heeswijk-Dinther, 27 kilometres from our starting point, Helvoirt in Den Bosch. We have a baggage shuttle, so we don’t have to carry too much gear – just two litres of water, and drums, violins and lutes, which are indispensable. The stage is a flat and for the most part asphalted bicycle path, which becomes tiring over time. I’m surprised how much energy everyone still has after 10 or 15 kilometres. There are groups playing music, and a woman in a wheelchair is pushed by different people. We can be heard from afar, and cyclists and passersby stop to wave and ask us where we come from. During each of our rare breaks, people break out in song and dance.

Rabia, one of the organisers of the field trip, is greeting students that have gathered along the track in the small town of Sint Agatha to cheer on the hikers.
Rabia, one of the organisers of the field trip, is greeting students that have gathered along the track in the small town of Sint Agatha to cheer on the hikers. Photograph by Eva Sperschneider

After more than four hours, exhausted, we reach a clearing where we stop for lunch. Different little groups gather in the grass, people nap in the sun and rest their feet, a young woman sings, a young man plays violin. In another spot, people are drumming and dancing. A group of young people breaks off from the others in order to dance to recorded pop music.

 

What I perceive to be Syrian culture is actually really diverse, as Dima explains to me. “These are songs from Daraa, from the south,” she says as two men start playing call and response songs with drums and everyone enthusiastically joins in. “We don’t understand the dialect either, but you only have to repeat after them and clap along.”

 

That was the idea of Masir: to give the Syrians a chance to get to know each other better. Before the war, Syrian society was strictly divided along religious and ethnic lines. A Kurd from the northeast, a Christian from Aleppo and a Palestinian from a camp near Damascus know hardly anything at all about one another. Their residential areas and schools were separated. During Masir, people meet who otherwise never would, and they discover places together. Christians, Muslims, Alawites, rich and poor, religious and non-religious, Syrians and people from other countries, they all walk, eat, sleep and party together. The only stipulation on the part of the organisers is that politics be left out of things.

After twenty kilometres of walking, there is still enough energy for an impromptu dance.
After twenty kilometres of walking, there is still enough energy for an impromptu dance. Photograph by Ayham Saed Aldin

In 2017, after war, destruction and escape, the hike has become like a big Syrian class reunion in exile, where people see old friends again and revive their traditions. Amer, a 22-year-old from Saarbrücken, never met Frans and only learned about Masir a few months ago by Snapchat. Now he never misses a hike. “In my city I can invite ten Arabic friends over, but it never feels like it did before the war, with our culture, our songs and dancing. You can only get that here.”

The hiking party walks for up to thirty kilometres per day. The common experience of exhaustion and perseverance is meant to boost mutual understanding and support to push one’s limits.
The hiking party walks for up to thirty kilometres per day. The common experience of exhaustion and perseverance is meant to boost mutual understanding and support to push one’s limits. Photograph by Eva Sperschneider

During this Masir, people tend to discuss migration routes, family in Syria, residence permits and language courses. The hikers now live in Germany, the Netherlands, France, Belgium, Sweden and Portugal. They speak good German, French or English with the few people from other countries like me. We are warmly welcomed and integrated into the group. Soon my head is buzzing with stories.

 

But after 22 kilometres, my knees start to ache and I have to hobble. The last five kilometres are unbearably long, even when Basel and Ibrahim support me as best they can in their exhaustion. “It’s even worse than in Serbia,” grunts Ibrahim, who fled to Germany via the Balkans in 2015. But we finally make it. Exhausted, I fall immediately asleep in spite of the concert of drumming and snoring in the Heeswijk-Dinther Gymnasium.

Day 3: Why do we have to walk so far?

 

The next day, everyone is pretty hungover. My untrained knees are even more swollen and I can still only hobble. When, along with two other invalids, I am transferred to the kitchen team, I cry and consider pulling out of the rest of the trip. It takes me a while to get used to my new role: we make hummus for 200 people, and boil 200 eggs and potatoes for lunch. I cut up countless piles of onions and garlic, and the food becomes tasty. Once my job is done, I lie in the sun and the Arabic children who also spent the morning resting teach me Arabic swear words.

 

We take the lunch into the forest in big baskets. The hikers are already playing music again, but they complain about the demanding morning. After 18 kilometres, they still have 15 more ahead until St Agatha, where they are due to be welcomed by the mayor. A few people grumble and hobble, about 30 people can’t continue the hike, our kitchen team grows. There’s a heated discussion in the car on the way back. “It’s just too far, it’s irresponsible,” Feras complains. “The most important thing is to have fun. Why do we have to walk so far?”

 

Rama and Rawaa, longer involved in the project, disagree. “That would mean totally changing the very concept of Masir. The whole idea is to test one’s own limits and that people help out those in need and really get to know each other.” My own doubts increase, for as much as I appreciate collective experiences, I’m actually quite happy with my limits as they are, and I feel like the weaker ones are literally falling by the wayside.

Drums, songs and dancing: The Masir trek also serves as a means of cultural exchange among Syrians who perform songs from their respective regions of origins in their local dialects.
Drums, songs and dancing: The Masir trek also serves as a means of cultural exchange among Syrians who perform songs from their respective regions of origins in their local dialects. Photograph by Rasha Yousef

In the evening we wait a long time for the hikers to arrive. It gets dark and the mayor is nervous. Finally, we receive phone calls from those still on the trail who can’t go on: the remaining 15 kilometres turned out to be 22. All available cars set off to look for the stranded hikers. Even the mayor himself has to make the trip three times. At 10pm, a few small groups of hikers arrive on foot, having made the whole journey. They rejoice and embrace us. “Hello, hello, have we made it to Europe?” one jokes.

Day 4: Ila al-amam

 

The next morning, the mood has completely changed. Yesterday’s anger and disappointment have yielded to fresh insights. At the meeting, people speak about the support and cooperation they experienced. Others apologise for their selfish behaviour. In a quivering voice, a young man explains how much this hike means to him. He used to be more withdrawn, he has no friends in the city he lives in, but here he has experienced friendship and solidarity. He breaks off in tears.

 

Karim, a 10-year-old boy who otherwise barely speaks, thanks us all and tells us how much he loves the dancing. It is totally impossible to remain angry while dancing. Almost everyone has tears in their eyes, and they hug each other. People cry when memories of Frans’s hikes in Syria are shared; they cry over Frans and everything that has happened since, out of grief and also out of joy at being here together.

 

‘Ila al-amam’ – onwards – was Frans’s motto during the hikes. And somehow this crazy idea seems to work. We walk and walk until we can walk no longer, then we walk even more and somehow make it to the end, full of wonder and grateful for the help from complete strangers. There is a method to the chaos, and it brings us closer together, even including the mayor of St Agatha.

Exhaustion takes over on day two. After dark, some hikers must abandon the trek and need a drive home.
Exhaustion takes over on day two. After dark, some hikers must abandon the trek and need a drive home. Photograph by Ayham Saed Aldin

Thankfully, today is a rest day. We hold workshops on the topic of our dreams for the future. My group bubbles over with ideas. Reem wants to become a graphic designer, Ashour a vet. But everyone is worried as well, because it is so hard to tell what is going to happen to them.

 

“In Syria they don’t need many vets, because there are so few pets,” Ashour says. Lilal encourages him to follow his dream nonetheless. Salim, who wants to work in film, thinks there are many more possibilities in Germany. “In Syria, our life was already marked out for us: you study, work a job, get married and have children. Here, you can start studying when you are 30 or take up something completely new.”

 

“People simply do what they want to,” Lilal agrees. A discussion ensues about how people in Syria also need such freedom. “We are the ones who need to spread the free way of life when we return,” Salim says. Morad, an older man from Salamia, chimes in and explains why that would never work in Syria: imperialism, hostile forces, oil... As the others begin to argue with him, I start to understand why there’s an embargo on political discussion, and why it is so hard to uphold.

Day 5: An integration course for the whole world

 

I’m finally back on the starting line, and today I will be taking part in the final stage to Nijmegen. The sunshine is glorious. There are wooded hills, pine trees, and sandy paths. We walk part of the stage in silence, which was also one of Frans’s traditions, and which is beneficial after seeing so much. 17 kilometres now seems like an easy stroll, and the mood is boisterous. I try to find someone with anything critical to say about Masir, but everyone is totally glowing. Finally Amer comes out with some criticism: “Masir is actually religiously neutral, but we only ever cooperate with Christian organisations. We should be just as open to others, Muslim as well as Christian. Frans would have wanted it that way.”

Late arrivals on the last stage to Nijmegen.
Late arrivals on the last stage to Nijmegen. Photography by Anas Alsrouji

During the evaluation of the trip that evening, many people say they have overcome prejudices and made new friends. Rabia, after days of non-stop work and sleepless nights, is satisfied and reflective. “In Syria, I was a bit worried about the people in Europe. But now I’m completely sure that we can live together. Frans’s idea works here as well; so many people have helped us out or came along with us. The hike is like an integration course for the whole world.”

 

I feel much the same. The trip has changed my view of Syrians. I got to know so many people, and I got to know myself better as well. The days flew by in a frenzied rhythm of eating, walking, sleeping and partying together. I’m filled with experiences and stories, and something Frans used to say comes to mind: “At the end of the trip it becomes clear: no one is unloved.” I travel back to Berlin with Majid on an over-crowded ICE train. He is wistful and reminiscent. Being a doctor, during the last few days he was able to help people who couldn’t go on. “It was like when we were on the boat. We all helped each other, no one was left alone. That’s a powerful feeling.” Majid has been learning German for almost two years now, and is still waiting for his medical studies to be recognised in Germany. He has already registered for the next Masir.

 

What does Islam in Europe look like and how do Muslims in Europe see themselves and the environment they live in? This feature is part of our coverage that accompanies the zenith Photo Award, with the theme Islam in Europe.

By: 
Eva Sperschneider