This portfolio article is the first in a series looking at the human consequences of the outsourcing of European migration policies to the Balkans, entitled: “Rivers are deadly if you’re not on the right side”. It was first published on Mediapart, Le Courrier des Balkans and visioncarto.net. Our warmest thanks to the visionscarto team for their work in proofreading and editing this text.
The first stop on this mission was the canton of Una-Sana in north-west Bosnia-Herzegovina, the last step before the Schengen area for those attempting to cross to Croatia. Here, the oppressive atmosphere of the border towns and camps contrasts with the lightness of the booming tourist industry.
Let us hear from local residents, shopkeepers, cab drivers and police officers.
From Korana to Una: tourists, locals and exiles
Nesting between the Velebit massif and Mount Dinara, which forms the border between Croatia and Bosnia, the Croatian Lika region reveals its high karst plateaux in the muted light of spring. Honey and cheese stalls alternate with herds of racy cows and horses. There is also a bear sanctuary where nature-loving volunteers from France and Austria try their hand, alongside tourists from all over the world who flock to visit the famous Plitvice Waterfalls and Lakes National Park [1]. The colour of the landscape, a sombre note, comes only from the numerous ruined farms, reminding us that it was on this stretch of the border that one of the fiercest episodes of the Serbo-Croat war was played out, from 1991 to 1995 [2]. In the calm that has returned, who could suspect that these high mountains are still the scene of violent and sometimes deadly hand-to-hand combats?
My gaze lingers on the Dinara and I set off along the banks of the Korana River. The number of Croatian border police vehicles increases as I head towards Bosnia-Herzegovina, as do the checks in the Bosnia-Croatia direction. Near Plitvice Park, the police simply checks the identity of travellers and asks them where they are going. Names are sometimes written down on a piece of paper to keep track of people and vehicles that have already been checked: border controls must not get in the way of this early tourist season.
I make my way up the mountain, approaching the pass that marks the border at Ličko Petrovo Selo (Croatia) / Izačić (Bosnia-Herzegovina). Here are many more border police vans, some stationary, others on duty. A policeman patrols one of the countless derelict buildings – properties of the Serb populations who lived there before the military “Operation Storm” launched to reconquer Krajina. Through the openings in the collapsed walls, one can already guess that some of today exiles might be taking refuge there. But the effects of the sordid “cat-and-mouse” game that takes place at nightfall are only felt once the mountain pass has been crossed, on the Bosnian side.
The “game” is the cynical name given over the last few years to the constantly reinvented attempts to cross borders and join the European Union (EU). The Bosnian canton of Una-Sana has become one of the theaters of this game, since the closure of the officialized Balkan corridor in 2015-2016 [3]. Located in the extreme north-west of Bosnia, this region represents one of the most direct routes from the southern Balkans to the Schengen area. From 2017 onwards, with the reinforcement of the Serbian-Hungarian and Serbian-Croatian borders, exiles on the Balkan routes were more clearly oriented towards Una Sana, from where they could hope to reach Slovenia, about one hundred kilometres away. Since Croatia joined the Schengen area at the beginning of 2023 [4], this theoretical area of free movement is on the other side of the mountain that can be seen from Bihać, the administrative centre of the canton.
Over the last twenty years, Croatia application to join the EU and then Schengen implied a drastic increase in the resources allocated to fortifying the Bosnian-Croatian border, in terms of human, technological and financial resources [5]. On the Bosnian side, the regions bordering Croatia have thus become one of the priority areas for migration control before Schengen borders: the EU deploys devices to consolidate a filtering “buffer-zone”, intended for separating the wheat from the chaff – i.e. migration deemed acceptable from the one deemed undesirable [6]. This process of externalization is exerted under constant political and financial pressure in the context of Bosnia-Herzegovina application to join the EU – the candidate status of which was confirmed by the European Council in December 2022, almost seven years after the Bosnian authorities applied for membership [7].
In the canton of Una-Sana, the “buffer-zone” function attributed to Bosnia-Herzegovina is based upon the specific geography of the region: this semi-enclave in the shape of a pocket forms a genuine bottleneck for people whose journey is stopped there [8]. As can be seen at other EU borders which are kept closed, it is common to see groups walking along the road for the fifteen kilometres which separate the town from the border crossing point of Izačić, either just turned back by the Croatian police, or heading towards the border to try a new game.
In the town of Bihać, residents have been witnessing for seven years now repressive strategies to push these exiles out of Croatia and fix them in the canton; the peak, in terms of border crossings and violence [9], being reached in 2018. A shopkeeper in Bihać recalls:
Until Covid, it was really tough, people were sleeping all over the place around town, in the forest, in places that weren’t suitable at all. We saw a lot of people from Afghanistan, Pakistan, Kurds, blacks from African countries too, and often families with very young children. We ourselves cannot help but understand people fleeing countries at war or having to live in camps: we lived through the war, four years of siege in Bihać [10]. »
The rhetoric of openness and compassion intersects with local discontent: for example, the discontent that led to the closure in October 2020 of the Bira camp, which until then had been located in the centre of Bihać [11]. At the height of the management of the Covid-19 pandemic, some of the people housed there were transferred to another camp located 27 kilometres from the town, in a remote rural environment far away from the Croatian border [12]. In the spring of 2024, it was the sole official accommodation for single men: only families and minors were accepted in the city, in the Borići camp known among exiles as “the family camp”. The transformation of this former student residence into a camp has mobilised a European budget of one million euros, both for its reconstruction and its operation since 2018 [13].
The Borići camp is planted in a pine forest that gives it its name (“borova šuma”, in Bosnian) and its facade was refurbished in the summer of 2022; this peaceful atmosphere could almost lead to forget the anxiety felt every day by the people housed there. Although categorised as “vulnerable” by humanitarian institutions and organisations, these isolated women, families and children are subject to violent refoulement every time they make an unsuccessful attempt to cross the mountains into Croatia. For those who have already tried the crossing, the camp is a place of eternal return, a temporary but fragile respite, since the senses are entirely turned towards the prospect of a new attempt. A member of one of the families I met was recovering from an injury sustained on the Balkan routes; for them the time for crossing the border had yet not come, “not tonight”.
I get on the road again in the direction of the Lipa camp. Along the banks of the river Una, the tourist signage is a reminder that this region, synonymous of dull anxiety for some, is a place of discovery and fun for others. In the Una national park, as on the Croatian side, private “apartmani” are filling up for “the season”, while the first groups of tourists are revelling in the spring atmosphere at the water sports sites and waterfalls.
The Bosnian Ministry of Security has clearly stated its intention to reconcile this freedom of movement with “European standards” of migration control [14]. In recent years, Bihać and the canton of Una-Sana have thus become one of the many border areas in the world where a “bipolar differentiation” is taking shape [15], between the world of welcome and profitable migration of tourists, and the one of undesirable migration, made up essentially of people from the Middle East, Asia and Africa fleeing violence, war, persecution or untenable socio-economic situations.
A few subtle signs of these profound inequalities in mobility stand out in the idyllic landscape... At the last junction leading to the Lipa camp, on the roadside tourist signage, stickers indicate the omnipresence of taxis and the existence of a “pushback map”.
In the EU camp in Lipa:
who benefits from the game?
As I approach the Lipa camp, one word springs to mind: lunar. In addition to the remoteness from the town, access is made difficult by a winding track almost 3 kilometres long, a series of potholes through the mountains leading to an uninhabited plateau. In front of the camp, the desert atmosphere contrasts with the architecture of fenced enclosures and the overlooking video-surveillance system. The omnipresent signs forbidding entry and picture taking are reinforced by the language repeated by all the members of the police security force, who warn that “the entire camp is video-protected”.
The will to isolate exiles is palpable here; it is in line with the interests of the Bosnian and Croatian police, who thus keep men at a distance from the border, to deter them from undertaking the game. For the municipal authorities, the sidelining of the migrantnd from living areas is an assumed strategy, as the Lipa camp has periodically been used to evacuate exiles from abandoned buildings in the town, as announced by the mayor of Bihać in the spring of 2021:
There are still places where migrants are staying (...) which we will also empty, clean and seal in the coming days [16]. »
Furthermore, the camp location is in line with the expectations of the EU, which has financed its infrastructure and operation through its “EU support to Migration and Border Management in BIH” program. Lipa is part of a series of camps set up in Bosnia-Herzegovina between 2018 and 2021, along with those in Bira, Sedra and Miral (since closed), and those in Borići, Ušivak and Blažuj, still in operation in spring 2024. The European grant that financed these “Temporary Reception Centers” (TRC, as they are officially known) totaled 100 million euros in expenditure over the years [17]. This sum is regularly used as a sledgehammer argument to put pressure on the Bosnian authorities; in January 2021, for example, the EU High Representative for Foreign Affairs and Security Policy Josep Borrell seized this financial argument to urge the Bihać and Una Sana authorities to get the Bira camp up and running again [18].
In practice, however, these funds have been allocated to the International Organization for Migration (IOM), a UN agency and partner of the EU, which has been given the task of coordinating and managing the camps as part of the “Inter-Agency Migration Response” strategy. IOM has thus captured the bulk of funding from the Instrument for Pre-Accession Assistance for migration management and border control, establishing itself as a key partner in these areas [19]. However, this configuration has changed since 2021: in line with the European Commission goals, which Bosnia-Herzegovina is reminded of in the Commission monitoring reports for its accession to EU [20], the IOM is now moving towards what it calls a “plan for a transition to a state-owned migration response” – a formula that leaves little doubt about the previous interventionist strategy [21].
In the view of a handover of this mission to the Ministry of National Security, management of the Lipa camp has been transferred since November 2021 to the Service for Foreigners’ Affairs (Služba za poslove sa strancima, better known in the field by its English acronym SFA). As one of the Service’s officials put it, Lipa is “the first center to be managed entirely by national institutions in Bosnia-Herzegovina [22]” , and represents a sort of pilot project in the transition plan expected by the EU and IOM. In 2021, the EU financed the construction of a dedicated detention area, transforming Lipa into a “Multi-purpose Reception and Identification Centre [23]” . This explains the tension that leads to restricting access to the camp, and the pressure not to provide information to outsiders – according to several exiles encamped there in the spring of 2024.
This is why geographer Louis Fernier has used a spatial reconstruction method in order to map the living space of the camp, based on evacuation plans and testimonies [24].
In 2023, the people encamped at Lipa spoke of relatively good conditions, compared with camps in other countries (hence the term “VIP” camp on Louis Fernier’s map). However, the remoteness of the camp, coupled with the inadequate resources of daily life, contributed then to what he analysed in his PhD as “spatial offenses” [25] against exiles.
In spring 2024, the talks about poor living conditions are more numerous and vehement. Despite the rather clement accommodation conditions at this time (between 348 and 603 people registered at Lipa, for a capacity of 1,512 beds), exiles seem to lack in the camps everything that the EU and its delegation in Bosnia-Herzegovina pride themselves on funding. These words contrast with the “good-natured” atmosphere described in the IOM fortnightly reports [26].
Inside the Lipa camp, the contrast is all the more striking, given that the EU logo is everywhere, alongside those of the IOM and of the dozen or so NGOs authorized to intervene in the camp to guarantee minimum reception conditions. As S* explains: “The doctor only comes for an hour on Mondays and an hour on Thursdays. If someone is about to die, what are they going to do?”. Such descriptions echo the opinions of many observers: indeed, these precarious housing conditions motivate the regular presence of collectives such as No Name Kitchen, with volunteers trying to make up for the shortage of foodstuffs or Non Food Items (clothing, hygiene kits, etc.).
The access road to the camp is another evocative symbol of this contrast. On this dusty, cracked, unmaintained road, visitors come across all-terrain vehicles and vans emblazoned with the EU logo. The latter are the result of expensive donations: in particular, black all-terrain vehicles worth 370,000 euros were donated in March 2023 to the Directorate for the Coordination of Police Forces (which took over responsibility for camp security the previous year) [27], and white pickups and vans were donated in February 2024 to the Border Police to “support operational actions in regional offices”, like the one in Bihać, amounting to 500,000 euros [28].
On the other hand, segregation and destitution are good opportunities for some local shopkeepers. Several stores are tolerated on the wasteland adjoining the camp: needed by the encamped people, the products sold there are also appreciated by the police officers who come there daily to buy bread, cigarettes... Several derelict sheds suggest an important past activity; among these is the trace of a store with a cynical name: the “Game shop”.
In the main private shop still in operation, one can find “everything for the game”: warm clothing and walking boots for men; sleeping bags; and SIM cards that can only be used for internet in Croatia, Slovenia and Italy. One of the salesmen describes the profits made locally from migrants:
People here are generally not happy about the migrants’ presence, they accuse them of the slightest theft or criminal act. But, at the same time, the locals make a big business out of it. Just imagine, if you think of the sales, the accommodation, the taxis! [29] » .
In fact, in Lipa there is also a steady stream of taxis taking turns to transport the encamped men to the centre of Bihać. “It’s non-stop work, 24 hours a day”, one of them tells me. Trips into town are frequent, to get supplies, to see relatives in the family camp, or to try the game. There are always one to five cars waiting to be boarded: each journey costs 20 euros, so travellers try to get together to share the cost. In front of the camp; taxi business cards carpet the dirt floor.
Some drivers make no secret of the fact that they generate a very lucrative business and “use migrants for money”, in the words of one of them. Another, more measured, describes at length a not-so-profitable and rather risky business:
with the fuel, or anytime you don’t end up in the right place, in the end you just break even. (...) Five or six years ago, if you took someone in your vehicle even as far as the bus stop, let alone to the border, they could arrest you and put you in prison; it was the case for my colleague, and I had a trial. This is the only place where they can lock you up for trafficking without you even having crossed a border! [30] » .
The Bosnian legal framework has in fact made it possible to penalize the transport of illegal migrants, resulting in several prison sentences for taxi drivers. It has also largely contributed to criminalizing any type of aid given to exiles outside the channels of the humanitarian organizations partners of the authorities: spontaneous actions by the local population and distributions organized by unauthorized NGOs have been repressed in various ways (administrative barriers, prosecutions, confiscation of passports, expulsion of foreign volunteers) [31].
Recently, the transport of exiled persons has been governed by a decree which seems to regulate the ban in a more flexible way: transport is only tolerated in the context of the professional activity of a taxi, and the amount of the financial fine remains low enough for the activity to be considered profitable (around a hundred euros). As a result, more and more residents of Bihać have recently taken up this activity, with over a hundred new taxi licences issued by the end of 2024 [32].
In spite of local utilitarianism, the cordial atmosphere between some of the men encamped in Lipa and the drivers gives credit to the empathetic words I gathered:
We help them, it’s for money, but we help them. They have enormous problems crossing the border. The Croatian police beat them up, take their money and phones and send them dogs. I’ve seen this violence first-hand »
Indeed, exiles who have been rejected at the border by the Croatian police and want to reach the official camp at Lipa have to get there on their own: either after a two-day walk, or by calling these drivers, who sometimes accept payment for their journey (around 100 euros) at a later date.
Like most of the inhabitants of Bihać, the taxi drivers thus find themselves in outposts to observe the repressive practices of the Croatian police, and the EU control strategy on its south-eastern borders.
To be continued in this series on the human consequences of EU migration policies in the Balkans: the survivors of the European geostrategy, the illegalities of the Croatian police and the murky game of Frontex, mortality at border rivers and the impact of the new Pact.
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