Author: Winnie Lin (Page 1 of 2)

Berlin’s Russian and Palestinian communities reveal something migration statistics cannot capture: people can live in the same city while inhabiting radically different relationships to the past and future. For some Russians who left after February 2022, exile may represent a rupture with a country they hope will one day become recognizable to them again. For Palestinians whose families have experienced displacement across Lebanon, Syria, and Gaza, separation from home may extend across generations, shaped by political circumstances no individual decision to migrate can resolve. There different migration histories raise the question of how does the possibility—or impossibility—of return shape life in exile?

For Russian journalists who fled the Kremlin’s repression, Berlin can become more than a place of refuge. It can provide the institutional and professional space to continue reporting on a country they have physically left but have not stopped trying to understand. Publications such as Meduza and TV Rain illustrate how journalism continues to cross borders even when at the onslaught of governments potentially targeting these individuals. Exile does not necessarily end political participation; it can transform its methods. A newsroom outside Russia can still contest the Kremlin’s account of Russian society, even as its journalists confront the consequences of losing access to the country they cover.

For Palestinians, the relationship between displacement and political identity follows a different, equally complex trajectory. Families may be distributed across Berlin, Gaza, Lebanon, and Syria, with separation sustained by war, borders, legal status, and unequal freedom of movement. Home is not necessarily a place someone can choose to revisit when circumstances improve. It may also be a family history transmitted through stories, relationships, and memories to people born far from the places their relatives left. The present conflict can reopen older experiences of displacement without making every Palestinian’s experience identical.

These differences come about when public narratives often compress prolonged histories into immediate events. Russian newcomers can become shorthand for opposition to Putin; Palestinians can become shorthand for demonstrations over Gaza. Both framings risk obscuring the ordinary, less visible work of maintaining a community across borders: reporting, preserving language, and trying to establish a future without abandoning the past.

The chapters on strategic media bias and the mainstreaming of the far right provide a helpful perspective. The question is not simply whether coverage is factually accurate, but also what disappears when a complex population is reduced to the issue dominating the headlines. A journalist’s professional exile, a family’s decades-long separation, and a young person’s struggle with inherited identity are different stories, even when they unfold in the same city.

Berlin, then, is not simply a destination where migrants build new lives. It is a place where unfinished histories remain active. Some people may understand exile as a temporary condition; others may inherit it as part of their family’s experience. For still others, belonging to a new country need not mean abandoning the old one.

Perhaps the hardest part of migration is not leaving home, but learning to imagine a future when the meaning—and the possibility—of home remains unsettled.

Russia has changed its attacks on Ukraine from nighttime to round-the-clock bombardment. 

On September 4, the Associated Press reported that Russian drone and missile attacks, which for much of the war came mainly at night, have begun to also occur during the day—severely disrupting the rhythm of daily life. As Samya Kullab of the Associated Press writes, “[the air raids have] interrupted commutes, shopping trips and children’s school, intruded on life’s biggest moments.”

Many in the capital are considering leaving Kyiv, including Veronika’s extended family. She’s a Princeton alumna from Kyiv, who asked to be identified only by her first name because her relatives remain in the capital. Her extended family have now set a deadline for their departure. In the recent weeks, as Russian daytime strikes began, many families around them have already left, according to Veronika.

“They have decided to leave before, but this is the time they sound the most earnest to leave,” Veronika said. When asked where they might go, Veronika said her extended family has not decided. Leaving behind their established jobs as nurses and the lives they built remains the biggest hurdle for her family, who have endured more than four years of conflict. They plan to depart within the month, weighing a move to Spain or joining her family in the United States.

About 4.41 million people had returned to their places of residence after being displaced by the war as of December 2025, including about 1.1 million who returned from abroad, according to the International Organization for Migration. The IOM also reported that nearly 4 million people remained internally displaced within Ukraine.

For Ukrainians who remain in or returned to the country, the day-time attacks come as another winter approaches. “Combined with the cold winter around the corner, it no longer makes sense to stay. Finding basic needs like water will be an issue once more,” Veronika notes.

Ekaterina Pravilova, Professor of History at Princeton University whose research focuses on the Russian Empire and its prior satellite states including Ukraine, said the winter is particularly difficult because Russia’s targeted attacks on infrastructure leave residents without electricity and heating. She hears from people in Kyiv describe needing to repeatedly respond to air-raid alerts, “So it’s like constantly, all day, drones and missile attacks.” 

Yet, many Ukrainians have adapted to the conditions, she said, including by buying generators and changing their routines around power outages and air raids. “The resilience of the population is just remarkable,” Pravilova added.

The Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees reported that 5.9 million Ukrainians were refugees abroad at the end of 2025. UNHCR further emphasized that persistent airstrikes, damaged housing, and attacks on essential infrastructure continue to hinder sustainable returns to Ukraine by refugees.

For Veronika’s relatives, these challenges are weighed against fleeing. “My relatives plan to flee, but it is so hard for them to leave [their country] and their livelihoods, that is why they have stayed so long,” Veronika said.

As Russia extends its drone and missile campaign into daylight, the distinction between wartime danger and ordinary life is disappearing. With winter approaching, the intensifying bombardment raises a larger question: can pressure on Ukraine’s civilian population trigger another wave of displacement?

Veronika’s extended family in Kyiv has set a deadline to leave Ukraine. For months, they had discussed departing. Now, as Russian drone and missile attacks arrive during the day as well as at night, they are preparing to act.

“They have decided to leave before, but this is the time they sound the most earnest to leave,” said Veronika, a Princeton alumna from Kyiv who asked to be identified only by her first name because her relatives remain in the capital. Her family has not decided where to go. Spain and the United States are possibilities, but leaving would mean abandoning established jobs as nurses and the lives they have built at home. After more than four years of war, their dilemma is no longer simply whether they can endure another attack. It is whether the conditions for an ordinary life will survive another winter of protracted conflict.

When daylight no longer means safety

For much of the war, residents of Kyiv learned to organize their lives around nighttime bombardment. Air-raid alerts and monitoring channels helped them decide when to seek shelter, while daylight offered an imperfect opportunity to work, attend school, shop and see family. As Samya Kullab of the Associated Press writes, “[the air raids have] interrupted commutes, shopping trips and children’s school, intruded on life’s biggest moments.”

Kateryna Hodunova, a reporter with The Kyiv Independent, emphasized that the escalation is not only about frequency but also about scale: the number of drones and missiles Russia launches. Hodunova outlined three possible, overlapping explanations. First, Russia appears to be testing new tactics, according to Yuriy Ihnat, head of the Ukrainian Air Force’s Communications Department, although its precise objectives remain unclear. Second, successive waves of attacks can overwhelm Ukraine’s air defenses, leaving little time to recover from overnight barrages before the next wave arrives. Third, the attacks may serve a psychological purpose. Ukrainian military analyst Victor Kevlyuk, Hodunova said, believes Russia is trying to keep civilians in a constant state of fear, never knowing when the next attack might come.

Furthermore, the AP and Reuters have reported on Russia’s increasing use of fast-flying, jet-powered drones, which are more difficult to intercept than older propeller-driven models. The precise balance between experimentation, military pressure and psychological warfare remains uncertain. But the consequences for civilians are increasingly visible.

The cumulative cost of ordinary life

Repeated attacks transform even routine errands into uncertain undertakings. Reuters documented interrupted metro services, crowded roads, disrupted supply chains and schoolchildren moving into underground shelters after classes had begun. Supermarket visits and commutes can be cut short by warnings, while damage to infrastructure adds further obstacles.

The harm extends beyond immediate physical danger. When residents cannot reliably predict whether they will reach work, complete a school day or return home without interruption, planning becomes difficult. Education becomes less stable, work less predictable and family responsibilities harder to manage. The constant need to monitor alerts and prepare for another attack also leaves little time to rest.

This pattern fits a broader campaign against Ukraine’s critical infrastructure. A July analysis by the Center for Strategic and International Studies found that Russia’s long-range strikes increasingly impose cumulative costs on Ukraine’s ability to fight, repair damage, govern and negotiate. Attacks on energy systems, transport and urban infrastructure can weaken a country without requiring territorial conquest alone.

Phillips P. O’Brien, a military historian at the University of St Andrews argues that Russia’s strategy was increasingly aimed at making Ukrainian cities “unliveable,” provoking another refugee crisis and pressuring Kyiv toward a settlement favorable to Moscow.

Winter raises the stakes

The approaching winter could intensify those pressures. Attacks on electricity generation and distribution, heating systems and other essential infrastructure can make neighborhoods difficult to inhabit even when residential buildings remain standing.

Ekaterina Pravilova, a Princeton University history professor whose research focuses on the Russian Empire and territories under its former influence, including Ukraine, said winter is especially difficult because infrastructure strikes can deprive residents of electricity and heating.

People she hears from in Kyiv describe responding repeatedly to air-raid alerts. “So it’s like constantly, all day, drones and missile attacks,” she said.

Pravilova also emphasized Ukrainians’ capacity to adapt, including buying generators and adjusting routines around power outages and air raids. “The resilience of the population is just remarkable,” she said.

For Veronika’s relatives, the prospect of another winter has become central to their decision. Their livelihoods remain a powerful reason to stay, but the possibility of renewed shortages makes remaining increasingly difficult to justify.

Could another refugee wave follow?

A new wave of displacement is a credible risk, although the attacks alone cannot establish how many people will leave.

The scale of existing displacement underscores the stakes. The International Organization for Migration’s July 2026 tracking data estimated that approximately 4 million people remained internally displaced within Ukraine. UNHCR reported that 5.86 million refugees from Ukraine were recorded globally by December 2025. These figures describe an ongoing displacement crisis, not a forecast of how many additional people will flee.

Some Ukrainians will remain despite worsening conditions because of employment, family responsibilities, attachment to home or a lack of viable alternatives. Others may move to safer parts of Ukraine before considering crossing an international border. The decision also depends on accommodation, financial resources and the availability of relatives or support networks elsewhere.

Veronika’s family illustrates the tension between the desire to remain and the growing difficulty of doing so. They have not chosen a destination, and leaving would mean giving up established professions and a familiar community. To determine whether this pressure is becoming a new refugee wave, displacement tracking, border-crossing data, and surveys of residents’ intentions will be essential. 

For Veronika’s relatives, that breaking point may arrive before winter. “My relatives plan to flee, but it is so hard for them to leave [their country] and their livelihoods, that is why they have stayed so long,” she said.

The ultimate measure of Russia’s bombardment will not be limited to the buildings damaged. It will also be the number of Ukrainians who conclude that staying has become untenable—and who leave because they can no longer secure the conditions for an ordinary life.

Since learning more about Ukrainian refugees in Germany—the country’s largest refugee population—I have become interested in the question of staying versus returning to Ukraine and the human stories behind displacement. The war has now lasted more than four years, and, as Deb mentioned in class, many Ukrainians who initially expected to return home have found that they cannot. What was imagined as a temporary displacement has increasingly become a long-term reality.

I am interested in what that prolonged displacement has done to the Ukrainian community in Berlin where Ukrainians have developed their own networks of mutual support, activism, and community. Organizations such as Vitsche keep the human cost of the war visible while maintaining networks of Ukrainian activists and creating spaces where displaced Ukrainians can find community and belonging. I would like to look within the organizations themselves and report on the people inside these networks, including Ukrainians who arrived as refugees and have since become translators, organizers, advocates, hosts, patient carers, or informal guides for people who arrived after them.

This raises a question I would like to investigate on the ground: What happens when refugees who expected to return home begin building a life and becoming necessary to a community in the place where they sought temporary refuge? Does helping other Ukrainians change how they understand Berlin, Germany, and the possibility of returning to Ukraine? I do not want to assume that staying versus returning is the central conflict for every person I meet; but, I do want to ask this question to explore individuals’ stories.

I would structure the reporting around three core groups of people and three different sites, with each site representing a distinct part of Berlin’s Ukrainian community and a different form of refugee-to-refugee assistance. I want to understand which Ukrainians are helping which other Ukrainians, what kind of help they provide, and what these relationships reveal about how a displaced community has built its own support system.

I would identify three reporting locations that provide an inside view of Ukrainian refugees helping one another and contact each location before arriving in Berlin. One might be a Ukrainian community or mutual-aid space where newly arrived families seek help with housing, benefits, schools, documents, or German bureaucracy. Another could involve medical or social-service assistance. Ukraine-Hilfe Berlin, for example, has volunteers who help wounded Ukrainians navigate German institutions and could potentially lead me to someone with firsthand experience of both displacement and caregiving. A third could be a youth, student, activist, or cultural community where support is less formal and depends on peer networks.

To find the strongest stories, I have reached out to Ukrainian classmates and acquaintances before the trip and asked whether they know Ukrainians in Berlin who arrived after 2022 and now help newer arrivals. I would like to enter these communities through personal connections before directly reaching out to each organization for site visits and interviews. Ideally, I would arrive with three potential characters and three locations, while remaining open to other ideas for strong stories that align with my topic.

The larger story might be about how Ukrainians in Berlin have moved from needing help to helping others—and how that evolution is shifting their understanding of home.

Germany’s Brandmauer, the informal pact among mainstream parties never to govern with the AfD, assumes that voters and parties want the same thing. That assumption is now in doubt. With the AfD polling at or near the top nationally and winning historic results in eastern state elections, I keep returning to how can the firewall sustain itself if voters are choosing the party it was built against? The firewall may survive formally while eroding in practice.

German migration policy has changed in ways that differ by group, while the AfD has pressed for stricter limits. Ukrainians arriving after April 1, 2025 receive the lower asylum-seeker benefit rate instead of Bürgergeld, and unlike other groups they were not required to enroll in German language classes. Germany dismantled its federal resettlement program for Afghans in and a German court later ruled that the 2023 commitment to one Afghan family was legally binding. For Syrians, the protection rate fell drastically, family reunification for subsidiary-protection holders was dismantled until 2027, and deportations resumed in December 2025. Russians and the Russlanddeutsche have not been the target of comparable measures, and the AfD’s platform calls for lifting Russia sanctions and offering free Russian-language instruction. This complicates what each migrant and refugee group is experiencing amid ongoing political tensions shaking the country at large.

Correctiv’s 2024 report on a secret meeting of far-right extremists shows what is at stake. According to Correctiv, Martin Sellner identified asylum seekers, non-Germans with residency rights, and “non-assimilated” German citizens as targets of his “remigration” concept, with the last group presenting the greatest “challenge.” This means the proposal would divide German residents into those who could live peacefully in Germany and those for whom that basic right would no longer apply. The question reported from the meeting is eerie; “How can a homogeneous ethnic community be achieved in Germany?”

I do not know whether every part of the Correctiv reporting is entirely accurate. What unsettles me is the legal dispute that followed. The ruling by a Berlin court against Correctiv on three specific statements concerning AfD politician Gerrit Huy complicates the story’s legitimacy after it generated nationwide protests and intense political division. For journalism, scrutiny is necessary. However, it also raises a difficult question: how should journalists investigate extremist threats when the reporting itself becomes part of the political battle?

Despite the story’s traction, the AfD has continued to gain electoral support. The CDU under Chancellor Friedrich Merz has also accepted AfD votes on migration legislation, testing the firewall without formally governing with the party. I wonder how exactly you reconcile public opinion and electoral politics with Germany’s historical commitment to keeping far-right extremism out of government?

I also wonder what this means beyond Germany. France is also approaching its 2027 presidential election amid growing support for the far right, while the U.S. is experiencing its own intensified immigration enforcement under the Trump administration. These raise a broader question: what happens to migration and refugee policy when populist parties gain enough public support to require mainstream parties to respond and what can actually be done about this?

Russia has changed its attacks on Ukraine from nighttime to round-the-clock bombardment. 

In a September 4 report, the Associated Press revealed Russian drone and missile attacks, which for much of the war came mainly at night, have begun to also occur during the day—disrupting daily life. As Samya Kullab of the Associated Press writes, “[the air raids have] interrupted commutes, shopping trips and children’s school, intruded on life’s biggest moments.”

For Veronika, an alumna of Princeton University from Kyiv, Ukraine who asked to be identified only by her first name because her relatives remain in the capital, her extended family have made leaving attached to a deadline. In the recent weeks, as Russian daytime strikes began, many families around them have also left, according to Veronika.

“They have decided to leave before, but this is the time they sound the most earnest to leave,” Veronika said. When asked where they might go, Veronika said her extended family has not decided. They are considering joining her family in the United States or moving to Spain. They now plan to leave within the month, she said.

About 4.41 million people had returned to their places of residence after being displaced by the war as of December 2025, including about 1.1 million who returned from abroad, according to the International Organization for Migration. The IOM also reported that nearly 4 million people remained internally displaced within Ukraine.

For Ukrainians who have remained in the country through more than four years of war, the attacks come as another winter approaches. “Combined with the cold winter around the corner, it no longer makes sense to stay. Finding basic needs like water will be an issue once more,” Veronika notes.

Ekaterina Pravilova, Professor of History and Director of the Program in Russian, European, and Eurasian Studies at Princeton University whose research focuses on the Russian Empire and its prior satellite states including Ukraine, said the winter is particularly difficult because Russia’s targeted attacks on infrastructure leave residents without electricity and heating.

Pravilova remarks that people she hears from in Kyiv describe repeatedly responding to air-raid alerts, “So it’s like constantly, all day, drones and missile attacks.”

Yet, many Ukrainians have adapted to the conditions, she said, including by buying generators and changing their routines around power outages and air raids. “The resilience of the population is just remarkable,” Pravilova said.

The Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees reported that 5.9 million Ukrainians were refugees abroad at the end of 2025. UNHCR further emphasized that persistent airstrikes, damaged housing, and attacks on essential infrastructure continue to hinder sustainable returns to Ukraine by refugees.

For Veronika’s relatives, these challenges are weighed against fleeing. “My relatives plan to flee, but it is so hard for them to leave [their country] and their livelihoods, that is why they have stayed so long,” Veronika said.

For Veronika’s relatives in Ukraine, leaving the country has gone from something they had decided to do in the past to a plan with a deadline.

The change follows a shift in the pattern of Russian attacks on Kyiv from nighttime to round-the-clock bombardment of targets. In a September 4 report, the Associated Press described how Russian drone and missile attacks, which for much of the war had come mainly at night, were increasingly occurring during the day as well. As Samya Kullab of the Associated Press writes, “[the air raids have] interrupted commutes, shopping trips and children’s school, intruded on life’s biggest moments.”

Her relatives have considered leaving before, said Veronika, an alumni of Princeton University from Kyiv, Ukraine who asked to be identified only by her first name. But in recent weeks, as Russian daytime strikes began, many families around them have also left, according to Veronika.

“They have decided to leave before, but this is the time they sound the most earnest to leave,” Veronika said. When asked where they might go, Veronika said her extended family has not decided. They are considering joining her family in the United States or moving to Spain. They now plan to leave within the month, she said.

About 4.41 million people had returned to their places of residence after being displaced by the war as of December 2025, including about 1.1 million who returned from abroad, according to the International Organization for Migration. The IOM also reported that nearly 4 million people remained internally displaced within Ukraine.

For Ukrainians who have remained in the country through more than four years of war, the attacks come as another winter approaches. “Combined with the cold winter around the corner, it no longer makes sense to stay. Finding basic needs like water will be an issue once more,” Veronika notes.

Ekaterina Pravilova, Professor of History and Director of the Program in Russian, European, and Eurasian Studies at Princeton University whose research focuses on the Russian Empire and its prior satellite states including Ukraine, said the winter is particularly difficult because Russia’s targeted attacks on infrastructure leave residents without electricity and heating.

Pravilova remarks that people she hears from in Kyiv describe repeatedly responding to air-raid alerts, “So it’s like constantly, all day, drones and missile attacks.”

Yet, many Ukrainians have adapted to the conditions, she said, including by buying generators and changing their routines around power outages and air raids. “The resilience of the population is just remarkable,” Pravilova said.

The Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees reported that 5.9 million Ukrainians were refugees abroad at the end of 2025. UNHCR further emphasized that persistent airstrikes, damaged housing, and attacks on essential infrastructure continue to hinder sustainable returns to Ukraine by refugees.

For Veronika’s relatives, these challenges are weighed against fleeing. “My relatives plan to flee, but it is so hard for them to leave [their country] and their livelihoods, that is why they have stayed so long,” Veronika said.

The course began by introducing David Miliband’s concept of an “Age of Impunity.” At first, the concept evokes authoritarian states and military juntas exercising virtually unchecked power and committing human rights violations without meaningful consequences. Yet the NYT articles complicate that conception by showing that democracies, including the U.S., are not immune from the dynamics of impunity. This raises a broader question: how can the U.S. credibly condemn other governments for violations of international humanitarian law while engaging in conduct that can also result in civilian harm? What becomes challenging is when impunity can coexist with democratic institutions, international law, and the language of accountability itself.

The quotation that “the fog of war can lead to decisions that tragically result in civilian harm” is particularly striking (NYT). Uncertainty is inherent in warfare, but one of the central purposes of intelligence collection, targeting procedures, and precision weapons is precisely to reduce uncertainty and minimize the risk to civilians. This makes me wonder what is at the core of this rhetoric. Is “the fog of war” being used to describe an unavoidable limitation of military operations, or can it also function rhetorically to explain away miscalculations that should actually generate scrutiny and accountability? If powerful states expect other governments to exercise restraint despite uncertainty, what happens to that expectation when they invoke uncertainty to justify their own failures?

The situation involving Germany and Afghanistan problematizes political legitimacy and human rights. The German government has maintained that it does not recognize the Taliban as Afghanistan’s legitimate government, while simultaneously engaging in technical discussions with the Taliban’s de facto authorities in order to facilitate deportations. In Aug. 2026, the German government explicitly described these contacts as necessary to address removals while maintaining that recognizing the Afghan state is distinct from recognizing the Taliban as its legitimate government. However, the policy creates a difficult human rights question. UN reporting has documented ongoing human-rights violations under the Taliban and more recent UN reporting continues to monitor violations by the de facto authorities. This makes me wonder whether cooperation with the Taliban for the purpose of managing migration can remain narrowly transactional, or whether repeated cooperation gradually normalizes engagement with a regime that Germany officially does not recognize as legitimate. The EU Jun. 2026 meeting with Taliban officials over return procedures illustrates this tension at the broader European regional level.

This also raises a question about the consequences for Afghans who remain in Germany. If migration policy becomes increasingly centered on deterrence and deportation, what happens to Afghan refugees who are legally permitted to stay, but must continue building their lives amid growing political pressure over migration? Germany’s debate over migration has become increasingly contentious, with the AfD advocating significantly tougher migration policies. The push for regulating the continuing refugee flow has taken center stage in political candidacy and the future of Germany. A question that has stayed with me is how growing political pressure around migration interacts with Germany’s human-rights commitments and with the social integration of Afghans, alongside other migrants, who remain in the country.

The readings this week focus on Ukrainian migrants and refugees settling in Berlin and Germany more broadly. Each piece demonstrates a different aspect of the challenges confronting Ukrainians, from the trend of domestic German hostility to migrants over recent years to attacks on Ukrainians on the battlefield as well as Ukrainians who have fled and face the possibility of never seeing their home and people. What struck me across the readings was how the war has become embedded in nearly every dimension of Ukrainian life—even for those who have physically left Ukraine. This was particularly evident in the discussion of children’s books about the war. The books provide a way for families and communities to teach about and ‘cope’ with the realities of conflict. Moreover, storytelling becomes a form of historical record, an attempt to ensure that the experiences of Ukrainians are not lost as the conflict continues.

I had a similar reaction to the Guardian article, “‘A living, moving exhibition’: Ukraine Museum opens in Berlin air-raid bunker.” My immediate thought was that the museum should remain in Berlin even after the conflict ends. Beyond documenting the war itself, it could become part of broader memory studies about displacement, civilian experience, and the ways Ukrainians have become embedded in German society as a consequence of the conflict. When read with a report also by the Guardian on rising attacks against refugees amid increasing far-right crime, this raises a more difficult question about the long-term relationship between migration and political cohesion. Germany’s reception of Ukrainians cannot be understood only as a short-term humanitarian response if the war continues indefinitely. The longer the conflict lasts, the more displaced Ukrainians may become part of Germany’s social fabric and the more complicated the politics of their presence become.

The readings on drone warfare raised a different but related question about responsibility in war. As artificial intelligence becomes increasingly integrated into military technology, it becomes harder to separate human decisions from the systems used to carry them out. I wonder if an AI-enabled drone mistakenly strikes a civilian hospital or school, who is responsible for the resulting casualties—the state that deployed it, the military personnel who authorized its use, or the company that developed the technology? At what point does reliance on increasingly autonomous systems create a moral hazard? Are we having these challenging discussions? The technological complexity of modern warfare creates an ethical problem that extends beyond the battlefield. When political leaders delegate increasingly consequential decisions to machines, accountability cannot be delegated as well.

The readings also emphasized how thoroughly war disrupts ordinary civilian life. Ukrainian volunteers, lawyers, Supreme Court justices, and migrants are all drawn into the conflict in different ways—war is not confined to soldiers or traditional battlefields. The protests and demonstrations organized by Ukrainian migrants, including those depicted by Vitsche, similarly show how displacement does not necessarily mean disengagement. One line from the clip particularly stood out to me: ‘war fatigue might be real, but we can’t afford that if lives are still being lost.’ After years of conflict, fatigue may be increasingly understandable, but the human consequences of the war have not diminished because it has lasted longer. For Ukrainians both inside and outside the country, resistance therefore remains not only a political act but also a way of refusing to allow continued violence to become normalized.

What happens to a refugee when the regime they fled is gone?

The fall of Bashar al-Assad in December 2024 seems, at first glance, to transform the story of the millions of Syrians who fled to Europe. The political reason for their displacement has changed, and more than three million displaced Syrians have reportedly returned. Yet this week’s readings make clear that the end of Assad’s rule does not produce an uncomplicated “return home.”

Patrick Kingsley’s The New Odyssey emphasizes the extraordinary risks Syrians and other refugees took to reach Europe in the first place. They crossed seas in overcrowded boats because remaining home had become unbearable or dangerous. It set in motion years of adaptation. Refugees found employment, learned languages, built friendships, raised children, established professional identities, and became part of communities that had initially been imagined as temporary places of refuge. That history has been put in motion when European governments begin discussing whether Syrians should now go back. Return is not simply the reversal of migration. People have spent years establishing careers, relationships, communities, and identities elsewhere.

The reporting on Syrian doctors in Germany complicates the idea that refugees are people waiting to go home. Some Syrians have become part of German society while also contributing skills that Germany needs. Their presence and stories are about labor, citizenship, and belonging. At the same time, the readings about European attempts to encourage return reveal the political pressure placed on Syrians after Assad’s fall. A refugee can be welcomed when fleeing a dictatorship and then become politically inconvenient once that dictatorship disappears. Should political reasons supersede the societal reasons for refugees to stay?

Loubna Mrie’s Defiance adds another layer to this question. Her experience of Syria shows that “home” itself is complicated by political violence, identity, and memory. Returning to a country after years of displacement is therefore not necessarily a return to the place one remembers. The physical landscape may be familiar while the political and social meaning of home has fundamentally evolved.

What struck me most is how easily “the right to return” can become “the expectation to return.” Those are not the same thing. A person may finally have the possibility of returning without actually wanting to, or being able to, rebuild the life they had before. The end of a regime can remove one reason for displacement without erasing the consequences of displacement. As such, when governments begin to decide how populations should en route on their way home, it raises questions of whether return is possible given how embedded into the societal fabric refugees become in host countries. In this way, the host country, could or is in fact, become “home.”

That raises an uncomfortable question about who gets to define home. Is home the place where someone was born? The place they fled? The place where their family remains? Or the place where they have spent the last decade building a life?

Altogether, the stories seem less like a journey with a clear endpoint than the continued evolution of the question: after surviving exile, who gets to decide what home means?