By Takis Würger, Der Spiegel, June 28, 2013
Kilian Kleinschmidt walks into the camp armed with a 6-inch stainless steel hook. “I hate refugee camps," he says. He is holding the hook in his hand like a dagger.
It is getting dark, and a military policeman tells Kleinschmidt that under no circumstances should he go into the camp at night. Kleinschmidt walks through the gate in silence.
The Zaatari Camp houses 116,000 refugees who fled to Jordan from the war in Syria. They live in trailers and tents with the letters UNHCR imprinted on them in blue. The UNHCR, or United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, is Kleinschmidt’s employer. The refugees arrive in buses from the border in this stretch of desert in northern Jordan, and their numbers are growing by the day. The local Bedouins say that before the refugees came, the only resident of this desert was the devil. Not even scorpions lived there.
Kleinschmidt’s job is to ensure that the refugees survive in the Zaatari Camp. He wants to give them back their dignity, and he is supposed to create order in the camp. Kleinschmidt is German. A German can restore order—at least that’s the gist of the plan.
The refugees receive water, food, shelter, toilets and warm blankets for the night. They could be satisfied. Instead, they stormed a trailer where detergent was being distributed, and broke an aid worker’s foot with a rock. Kleinschmidt was caught in the middle of a battle between the military police and refugees, and his throat still hurts from the tear gas. Refugees also pulled a police officer from his obstacle-clearing tank and beat him on the head with a rock.
Every day, four buses stop at the camp to collect people who want to travel back to Syria. The refugees stand in line in the morning, and when the buses arrive, they fight over seats, because they would rather live in a war zone than in Zaatari. For Kleinschmidt, the camp is a place where the devil still lives today.
In March, the UNHCR assigned him to rescue Zaatari from chaos. He was flown in from Kenya, put in a trailer in an area secured with fences, barbed wire and guards, and given a stack of business cards that read “Senior Field Coordinator," indicating that he was in charge at the camp.
Kleinschmidt spent 10 days touring the premises. Speaking to the people there, he determined that the aid workers had managed to save the lives of all the refugees and satisfy their basic needs, but no one had been able to make the refugees happy. Kleinschmidt thought about it and concluded that Zaatari must have two problems. The first is the refugees, and the second is the aid workers.
Before Kleinschmidt embarked on his nighttime walk, he passed through the camp where a number of aid organizations are located. He walked by the trailers housing the offices of: UNICEF, UNHCR, the German Federal Agency for Technical Relief (THW), the International Medical Corps, Mercy Corps, Save the Children, International Relief & Development, the World Food Programme, the Norwegian Refugee Council, the United Nations Population Fund, the Noor Al Hussein Foundation, the Jordan Health Aid Society, Oxfam, the International Rescue Committee, Relief International, Reach, Japan Emergency NGO, and the Japan International Cooperation Agency.
It was night and almost all the trailers were empty. The workers had finished their work for the day.
Everything had been different a day earlier. The parking lot was full of SUVs. Aid workers who didn’t normally work in the camp had arrived from the Jordanian capital Amman. The European Union Commissioner for Enlargement had announced a visit. Politicians are important to aid organizations, because they have access to money and bring along journalists who tell stories that are heard by people with money.
Kleinschmidt shook the EU commissioner’s hand and said: “Welcome to Zaatari. I’m the mayor here."
The commissioner, accompanied by the military police, visited a school built by UNICEF. He was followed by many young people who spoke excellent English and wore the vests of their aid organizations like parade uniforms. A few women were wearing heels, which sank into the desert sand. Kleinschmidt, wearing a dusty shirt, stood in the crowd and said: “Most of the vests will have left by this afternoon."
He too has a sky-blue UNHCR vest. It hangs on a chair in his office, and he sometimes uses it to wipe the sweat from his face. He believes that aid workers wear vests to dazzle people with big letters.
Kleinschmidt is a little like a bulldozer, flattening everything he doesn’t like in the camp. But his job is actually to do the opposite, by both developing and keeping the peace in Jordan’s largest camp for Syrian refugees.
On the day of the EU commissioner’s visit, two young women stood in the crowd of aid workers, wearing brown vests with UNESCO stitched onto them in blue letters. UNESCO, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization, is known for dealing with global cultural heritage. Kleinschmidt had never seen the women and had no idea what sort of cultural heritage they could be concerned about in Zaatari. “What are you doing here?" he asked.
"We’re doing a mentoring program for children," said one of the women, handing him a business card with the words “Project Manager" on it. Kleinschmidt replied: “It would be nice to know exactly what you’re doing here, because I’m the camp manager."
One would think that the camp manager is someone who manages this camp. But it’s all much more difficult than it sounds, says Kleinschmidt.
He doesn’t know how many aid workers are in the camp. According to a list on the UNHCR website, 139 organizations are helping the people in Zaatari. Doctors Without Borders is there, and so are Electricians Without Borders and Gynecologists Without Borders. Clowns Without Borders, which performs in crisis zones to cheer people up, has already left.
Private donors from Saudi Arabia brought in several hundred residential trailers without discussing it with Kleinschmidt or his team first. South Korea spent $20,000 (€15,300) on a soccer field that no one uses. There is a Dutch guitar group, although Kleinschmidt has no idea what they are doing there. And the Korean ambassador in Jordan plans to offer Taekwondo lessons for the children in Zaatari soon.
An aid worker says: “Imagine UNHCR was Nike. We build an athletic shoe and have suppliers make the individual parts of the shoe. Each part of the shoe comes from a different supplier, the sole, the laces, the leather, and each supplier works according to his own designs. Try to imagine what that shoe ends up looking like."
Kleinschmidt was brought in because he has the reputation for solving impossible tasks. Some worship him for his work, while others feel that he would be better suited for the Foreign Legion. He wears a chain around his neck with a silver pendant his wife designed. The symbol means “warrior," says Kleinschmidt.
He used to be a pacifist and wanted to work at a vineyard. After graduating from high school in Berlin, he drove to southern France to pick grapes. Then he and his friends bought a herd of goats and made cheese. Then he learned to slate roofs. He also raised a few rabbits and made pâté. He fell in love and got married, and he and his wife had a daughter together. When the marriage ended, Kleinschmidt bought a motorcycle and drove into the Sahara.
In a bar in Mali, he met a man and a woman who were aid workers, and after many glasses of whisky they asked Kleinschmidt whether he’d like to help them build a school in the desert.
He says that he has learned the meaning of freedom, adventure and purpose. He became an aid worker, and in the course of his life, he says he has heard many nice responses to the question of why people choose this profession, but few honest ones.
He went to Uganda, South Sudan, Kenya, Somalia, Kosovo, Sri Lanka and Pakistan, and he was amazed to survive it all. He chose to subordinate everything else in his life to his work. Kleinschmidt himself lives like a refugee.
In the mid-1990s, his boss called him from UNHCR headquarters in Geneva and said that 100,000 Hutu refugees were lost in the forest in Congo and afraid of being slaughtered by the Tutsi. Kleinschmidt put together a team, flew to Congo, found an old railroad built by the former Belgian colonial rulers, had it repaired and drove into the bush with a steam locomotive pulling the train. He found the refugees and rescued many of them.
Kleinschmidt falls silent when asked why he does what he does. “I just do it," he finally replies. He does it because he is obsessed, and there can be many reasons for that, but two are especially obvious: he is obsessed with saving lives, and he is also obsessed with risking his own life.
Today, at 50, Kleinschmidt has a stepson and five children with three different women, spread across Europe and Africa. He no longer drinks whiskey or smokes cigarettes, but he does see a military psychologist regularly to cleanse his soul. It stands to reason that there is little in the realm of the living or the dead that could still shock Kleinschmidt, but the camp in Zaatari has done it. “These are the most difficult refugees I’ve ever seen," he says.
He marches past a fenced complex where newly arrived refugees are sitting. He could sit down with the women and listen.
One woman says: “My neighborhood in Damascus was bombed, and people were murdered."
Another says: “First I fled to Lebanon. There were Hezbollah fighters who tried to break into my house."
One woman says: “My father is in prison. I don’t know if he’s still alive."
Another says: “They said on TV that my husband is a terrorist. His nickname is ‘The Bird.’ He was arrested."
Another says: “They told my husband to go to the police station and bring along sweets. He never returned."
There are probably 116,000 explanations for the rage of the 116,000 refugees in Zaatari, but Kleinschmidt believes he has been able to isolate three important explanations.
First: These people come from a country where the elite are their enemies. Now they have fought for their freedom and don’t want the next set of elites to tell them how many lentils they are allowed to eat. Second: Many refugees believe that the international community owes them something, because it isn’t stopping the killing in Syria. Third: The mafia.
Kleinschmidt is only gradually able to identify the criminals that are working against him on the other side of the barbed wire, but he thinks he knows what they want. They want to keep the camp in an unstable state, and for free trade to remain forbidden so that smuggling continues to be worthwhile. They also want to prevent the aid organizations from installing a power grid, so that they can continue to sell illegally tapped electricity. And they want police to fear entering the camp, so that the mafia can go about its business without interruption.
There are men in Zaatari who take advantage of chaos to acquire power—some of them mean well and some are evil. One of them, perhaps the most powerful, is called Abu Hussein.
He is sitting in a trailer on a sofa with a floral pattern, serving strong Turkish coffee. His wife places nine ashtrays on the table. There are two Nokia mobile phones on the carpet, one red and one pink. Hussein’s children are sitting in an adjacent trailer, where an air-conditioner keeps the temperature at around 18 degrees Celsius (64 degrees Fahrenheit), watching “Hero Turtles" on TV. “If I wanted to, I could have the entire camp burning in five minutes," says Hussein.
The 48-year-old keeps his beard neatly trimmed, and his hair is either blow-dried into shape or possesses some sort of natural tension that keeps it elevated from his head. He says that before becoming the most powerful man in Zaatari, he lived in the Syrian city of Daraa, where he worked in a school, teaching a subject called “Air-Conditioning and Heating." When the people revolted against Syrian President Bashar Assad, Hussein joined the rebel fighters and became commander of a special unit of the Free Syrian Army, the “Falcons of the Tribe of the Prophet Mohammed." The Falcons specialized in mines, says Hussein. “I killed people."
Then he got scared and fled. When he reached Zaatari on Aug. 5 of last year, he was the 60th refugee to arrive at the camp, when a cold desert wind was blowing, he says. Hussein asked the aid workers for blankets for the women and children. When one of them refused, Hussein said that he had killed 73 people and that number would reach 74 if the worker didn’t comply with his request. The aid worker gave him the blankets. From then on, he says, he was “the Akeed," or ruler.
As ruler, Hussein is accustomed to controlling the conversation. It’s difficult to ask him a question and get a straightforward answer. Or perhaps he is too clever to respond directly to the questions.
What do people give him for being the boss?
"The only ruler is Allah."
But doesn’t he, Abu Hussein, have a say here?
"I control 21 streets. My men patrol day and night. I have 10 barbers who will give free shaves to anyone who wants one."
What do the people give him in return?
"Just their love."
How can a refugee like him afford three trailers and an air-conditioner?
"Politics is like an ocean. Not everyone can swim in it."
What is his assessment of the work by the aid organizations?
Hussein takes a few drags from his cigarette and then inhales deeply, as if he were about to go diving. Then he slams his fist on the carpet, so hard that the coffee pot shakes. He begins to shout. “I went to the World Food Programme and said that I wanted a piece of cheese. They told me that someone in Geneva had to make that decision. I wonder who is sitting in Geneva deciding whether I can eat a piece of cheese?"
He continues to shout for half an hour, talking about corruption and Jews and cheese. He complains about the fact that some of the male aid workers have ponytails. Finally, he shouts that Mister Kilian is the only halfway decent one of the lot.
Kleinschmidt paid a visit to Hussein one day to find out whether he was dealing with just another braggart. Five men wearing red Palestinian scarves on their heads sat with them. One of them said: “I’ve seen you walking through the camp at night. I’ve thought about having you kidnapped."
Kleinschmidt, who was there with a colleague, smiled and thanked Hussein for the invitation. The colleague was a young Irishman who had only been working in the camp for a few days and eyed the beverages in Hussein’s trailer as if they were hand grenades. There is a diarrhea epidemic in Zaatari. Kleinschmidt chugged two cups of coffee from the same cup as Hussein and ate two pastries stuffed with spinach. Hussein said: “We have the feeling that the aid workers are heartless."
Hussein lives in a trailer that cost $3,000. The air-conditioner runs with electricity he is tapping from the Italian hospital. The water for his tea is from canisters provided by UNICEF. He hasn’t worked, paid or thanked anyone for any of it.
Kleinschmidt concealed what he was really thinking. Before the meeting, he had said that what mattered wasn’t the content of the discussion, but the fact that it took place at all. He drank tea and listened. After two hours, Hussein said: “You are a clever man, Mister Kilian. We should work together."
Kleinschmidt says that this camp can only become a place where refugees can regain their dignity if he manages to get all the anarchists out there to respect him.
He works 18 hours a day so that the aid workers respect him. He doesn’t give orders, but instead tries to convince them of his idea, which is to view Zaatari as a city and not as a camp. He divided the city into 12 administrative districts and sent a member of his staff to each district to meet with the street bosses every day. He visited the military police commanders at home, ate lamb with them and convinced them to begin deploying night patrols. He had a ditch dug to prevent the smugglers from getting into the camp, and when that didn’t work, he had excavators build a two-meter earth wall.
He met with politicians and explained to them that he needed more money, which he got. He gave interviews, waved his steel hook and argued that journalists should be brought to Zaatari. Most of the workers with the other organizations now give him reports on their activities. His colleagues have started spending nights in the camp with him. More and more of them are leaving their offices and following Kleinschmidt to the other side of the barbed wire.
He takes walks at night so that the refugees will respect him, and so that people will see that he is one of them. He had streetlights installed in the section of the camp where the refugees arrive, to make sure they can see where they’re going. He has hot tea served to the new arrivals. He announced that the refugees would soon be given vouchers to buy their own groceries in supermarkets. He believes that in three months no one will have to live in a tent anymore. And, when he recently met with a group in the most dangerous of the 12 administrative districts, a few men said that they would like to plant olive trees.
One could see Kilian Kleinschmidt as a Rambo-like figure and disagree with his management consultant approach to the refugee camp. But before he came to Zaatari, no one there would have thought to plant an olive tree.
In the evenings, when the other aid workers are already asleep, Kleinschmidt says that he misses his wife so much that it hurts. He hopes to return home soon, to his children and his grandson. He says that he has applied for an office job in Strasbourg, but fears he’ll eventually be sent to another crisis zone.
When he feels unobserved, he puts his hands on childrens’ heads and listens to the concerns of their mothers. In the end, he points out that the hook he carries around is merely a tent hook. He would never hit a person with it, he says, and only carries it to counter his own nervousness. He really only keeps it with him in the company of journalists, who like to photograph him with it, he adds.
Kleinschmidt understands that donors want a strong man, so he plays along. He also understands that the aid workers need a leader, so he gives them one. He understands that the refugees only accept him if he behaves like a mayor in their presence.
What he doesn’t admit to anyone in the camp is that when he calls his wife in the evening, he sometimes tells her how burned-out and shaken he feels. He tells her that he doesn’t know if he can last another week. He says: “I hate refugee camps, because they deprive people of their dignity."
On a holiday in June, when he was in Amman, he received a text message from a colleague in Zaatari. He receives text messages every day, but they’re normally about how many stone-throwing incidents there were or what the refugees have stolen. But this message consisted of only three letters: NTR. Nothing to report.
