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Tunisia Facing Unprecedented Migration Crisis

Migrants navigate on a metal boat as they are spotted by Tunisian coast guards at sea during their attempt to cross to Italy, off Sfax, Tunisia April 27, 2023. REUTERS/Jihed Abidellaoui
Migrants navigate on a metal boat as they are spotted by Tunisian coast guards at sea during their attempt to cross to Italy, off Sfax, Tunisia April 27, 2023. REUTERS/Jihed Abidellaoui
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Tunisia Facing Unprecedented Migration Crisis

Migrants navigate on a metal boat as they are spotted by Tunisian coast guards at sea during their attempt to cross to Italy, off Sfax, Tunisia April 27, 2023. REUTERS/Jihed Abidellaoui
Migrants navigate on a metal boat as they are spotted by Tunisian coast guards at sea during their attempt to cross to Italy, off Sfax, Tunisia April 27, 2023. REUTERS/Jihed Abidellaoui

Bodies of drowned migrants wash up most days on Tunisian beaches, lie unclaimed in hospital corridors and fill morgues, evidence of a surge in people seeking to cross the Mediterranean that has been accelerated by a government crackdown.

Coastguard patrols return to the port of Sfax crammed with migrants stopped at sea in flimsy, overcrowded boats from making the perilous voyage to what they hope will be a better life in Europe.

The number of migrants embarking upon the Mediterranean has risen overall, but the number leaving Tunisia has exploded, with more caught by coastguard patrols than in any previous year, senior National Guard official Houssem Eddine Jebabli said.

The Coastguard told Reuters it has stopped 17,000 people at sea in the first four months of 2023, compared to 3,000 in the same period of 2022.

The numbers spiked after a crackdown on migrants from Sub-Saharan African countries in February that President Kais Saied announced using language the African Union condemned as racialized. Many migrants reported suffering racist attacks.

"Let us go! Your president expelled us but now you are stopping us leaving," shouted a man from the Ivory Coast, who gave his name as Ibrahim, taken aboard a Coastguard ship with his wife and two infant children after they were stopped at sea.

"We were evicted from our home, people threw stones at our house," he said, explaining why they had to leave Tunisia. His comments were echoed by other African migrants Reuters met after their boats were intercepted.

Within minutes of Reuters boarding Coastguard Ship 3505 in Sfax, the captain registered a likely migrant boat on the radar on a course for Italy's Lampedusa island, the main migrant destination.

Over the following hours, Reuters watched the Coastguard stop five boats and track four others it did not have time to chase.

As the crammed boats emerged in the darkness, some with children on board, some migrants begged to be left to continue their voyage. Others tried to resist or evade capture.

On one boat, Reuters saw migrants throwing metal bars at the Coastguard, fighting them with sticks and threatening to throw themselves into the sea. On another, the Coastguard disabled the engine by smashing it with poles.

The tactic of smashing engines has been criticized by migrant rights groups who say some boats have been left rudderless at sea, prey to the waves and in danger of sinking.

Jebabli, the National Guard official, denied imperiling migrants and said Coastguards were increasingly threatened at sea when stopping migrant boats.

Back on the main ship, the captain fired a weapon into the air trying to quell a protest by 200 migrants on board as many angrily demanded to be allowed to go on to Italy.

Some threw confiscated boat engines at the 10 Coastguards on board. Others threatened to set themselves on fire. One man jumped into the sea and was hauled out.

The cost of an illicit voyage is falling as migrants rely less on Tunisian fishing boats and buy their own metal craft made cheaply and meant for only a single journey.

Passage to Italy was previously 5,000 dinars ($1,600) but is now only 1,000 dinars, a police official said, with migrants evenly splitting the cost of the boat and engine.

It costs only 2,000 dinars to make a metal boat that can be sold for 20,000 and ever more people near the coast are doing so, a resident of Sfax's Jebiniana district said, showing Reuters houses that had recently been used for the purpose.

Migrants Reuters interviewed coming off the Coastguard boats said they would try to cross again soon.

But on a stretch of Sfax coastline Reuters saw five bodies that had washed up, one a young boy in jeans and a white T-shirt. The Coastguard recovered four others nearby.

The main city hospital was storing 200 bodies, most outside the small morgue lying stacked in bags on the corridor floors.

Patients complain of the terrible smell. "We cannot bear it anymore," said a nurse.

Regional health chief Hatem Cherif said authorities would build a new cemetery for migrants. "We bury dozens every day," he said.

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In Assad's Hometown, Few Shared in His Family's Fortune. They Hope they Won't Share in His Downfall

A defaced portrait of ousted president Bashar al-Assad hangs on the wall of a building in the capital Damascus on December 17, 2024. (Photo by Sameer Al-DOUMY / AFP)
A defaced portrait of ousted president Bashar al-Assad hangs on the wall of a building in the capital Damascus on December 17, 2024. (Photo by Sameer Al-DOUMY / AFP)
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In Assad's Hometown, Few Shared in His Family's Fortune. They Hope they Won't Share in His Downfall

A defaced portrait of ousted president Bashar al-Assad hangs on the wall of a building in the capital Damascus on December 17, 2024. (Photo by Sameer Al-DOUMY / AFP)
A defaced portrait of ousted president Bashar al-Assad hangs on the wall of a building in the capital Damascus on December 17, 2024. (Photo by Sameer Al-DOUMY / AFP)

On the walls of the palatial mausoleum built to house the remains of former Syrian President Hafez Assad, vandals have sprayed variations of the phrase, “Damn your soul, Hafez.”
Nearly two weeks after the ouster of his son, Bashar Assad, people streamed in to take photos next to the burned-out hollow where the elder Assad’s grave used to be. It was torched by opposition fighters after a lightning offensive overthrew Assad's government, bringing more than a half-century rule by the Assad dynasty to an end, The Associated Press said.
The mausoleum's sprawling grounds — and the surrounding area, where the ousted president and other relatives had villas — were until recently off limits to residents of Qardaha, the former presidential dynasty's hometown in the mountains overlooking the coastal city of Latakia.
Nearby, Bashar Assad’s house was emptied by looters, who left the water taps running to flood it. At a villa belonging to three of his cousins, a father and his two young sons were removing pipes to sell the scrap metal. A gutted piano was tipped over on the floor.
While the Assads lived in luxury, most Qardaha residents — many, like Assad, members of the Alawite minority sect — survived on manual labor, low-level civil service jobs and farming to eke out a living. Many sent their sons to serve in the army, not out of loyalty to the government but because they had no other option.
“The situation was not what the rest of the Syrian society thought,” said Deeb Dayoub, an Alawite sheikh. “Everyone thought Qardaha was a city built on a marble rock and a square of aquamarine in every house," he said, referring to the trappings of wealth enjoyed by Assad's family.
In the city’s main street, a modest strip of small grocery stores and clothing shops, Ali Youssef, stood next to a coffee cart, gesturing with disdain. “This street is the best market and the best street in Qardaha and it’s full of potholes.”
Families resorted to eating bread dipped in oil and salt because they could not afford meat or vegetables, he said. Youssef said he dodged mandatory military service for two years, but eventually was forced to go.
“Our salary was 300,000 Syrian pounds,” a month, he said — just over $20. “We used to send it to our families to pay the rent or live and eat with it" while working jobs on the side to cover their own expenses.
"Very few people benefited from the former deposed regime,” Youssef said.
So far, residents said, the security forces made up of fighters from Hayat Tahrir al-Sham — the main group in the coalition that unseated Assad, and which is now ruling the country — have been respectful toward them.
“The security situation is fine so far, it’s acceptable, no major issues,” said Mariam al-Ali, who was in the market with her daughter. “There were a few abuses ... but it was fixed.” She did not elaborate, but others said there had been scattered incidents of robberies and looting or threats and insults.
Al-Ali called Assad a “traitor,” but she remained circumspect about her Alawite community's position in the new Syria.
“The most important thing is that there should be no sectarianism, so there will be no more blood spilled,” she said.
Dayoub, the Alawite sheikh, described “a state of anticipation and caution among all citizens in this area, and in general among Alawites,” although he said fears have started to ease.
At the town’s municipal building, dozens of notables sat on bleachers discussing the country' s new reality and what they hoped to convey to the new leadership.
Much was centered around economic woes — retired public servants' salaries had not been paid, the price of fuel had risen, there was no public transportation in the area.
But others had larger concerns.
“We hope that in the next government or the new Syria, we will have rights and duties like any Syrian citizen — we are not asking for any more or less,” said Jaafar Ahmed, a doctoral student and community activist. “We don’t accept the curtailment of our rights because the regime was part of this component.”
Questions also loomed about the fate of the area's sons who had served in Assad's army.
Since the army's collapse in the face of the opposition advance, residents said several thousand young army recruits from Qardaha have gone missing. Some later turned up on lists of former soldiers being held at a detention center in Hama.
“These are young guys who are 22 or 23 and they never took part" in active combat, said Qais Ibrahim, whose nephews were among the missing. Over the past few years, active combat was largely frozen in the country's civil war. “We send our children to the army because we don’t have any other source of income.”
Um Jaafar, who gave only her nickname out of fear of reprisals, said the family had no information about the fate of her two sons, stationed with the army in Raqqa and Deir Ezzour, though one son's name later turned up on the list of those imprisoned in Hama.
“My children got the best grades in school, but I didn’t have the ability to send them to the university,” she said. “They went to the army just for a salary that was barely enough to cover their transportation costs.”
Syria's new authorities have set up “reconciliation centers” around the country where former soldiers can register, hand over their weapons and receive a “reconciliation ID” allowing them to move freely and safely in Syria for three months.
But Ahmed, the doctoral student, said he wants more. As the country attempts to unify and move on after nearly 14 years of civil war, he said, “We want either forgiveness for all or accountability for all.”
Ahmed acknowledged that during the war, “rural Latakia was responsible for some radical groups,” referring to pro-Assad militias accused of widespread abuses against civilians. But, he said, opposition groups also committed abuses.
“We hope that there will be either an open process of reconciliation ... or transitional justice in which all will be held accountable for their mistakes, from all parties," he said.
"We can’t talk about holding accountable one ... group but not another.”