Idea 1: Roma displaced from Ukraine
The war in Ukraine displaced millions, but not all Ukrainians have been received equally. Roma families fleeing the conflict often face a double burden: the trauma of war and the persistence of deep-seated prejudice. A report from the Migration Policy Institute notes that Roma have struggled at border crossings and in host countries, with officials questioning their legitimacy as refugees. The European Roma Rights Centre documented cases of Roma being segregated in shelters, excluded from aid, or denied access to medical care. This pattern fits into a longer history of anti-Roma discrimination across Europe, but it feels especially stark against the backdrop of Europe’s widely praised openness to Ukrainians.
In Germany, Ukrainian refugees are often portrayed as “model” newcomers—European, Christian, culturally proximate. Even if lately the narrative has started to shift due to growing discontent. But in general, Roma refugees, by contrast, remain at the edges of this narrative. Reports suggest that Roma in Germany encounter suspicion in housing offices, barriers in schools, and a lack of targeted support. The Roma advocacy site Rroma.org highlights how German authorities sometimes treat Roma Ukrainians as economic migrants rather than as legitimate war refugees. I’d like to explore how these disparities play out on the ground, impacting housing, education, but also the marginalisation from the rest of the Ukrainian community. Many are undocumented, making asylum processes practically impossible. Yet, many family men are at the front, fighting in the ranks of the Ukrainian army. Berlin is known to be acceptive of a wide range of communities, but centuries of stigma make the Roma a different, unique case, and to this day Europe’s most marginalised minority.
Idea 2: LGBT Chechen Refugees in Berlin
For years, Chechnya has been notorious for its persecution of LGBT people. Beginning in 2017, reports of “anti-gay purges” described men being detained, tortured, and even disappeared. Some survivors have reached Europe, often through networks of activists and NGOs. In 2021, The Guardian reported on a German NGO filing a legal case against Chechen officials for orchestrating these purges, and the Associated Press has noted that Germany granted humanitarian visas to some gay Chechens as early as 2017. Berlin, with its reputation as a queer capital, has become one of the main destinations.
But exile does not erase fear. Many LGBT Chechens in Berlin remain in hiding, afraid of being targeted not only by distant Chechen authorities but also by members of their own diaspora communities. A 2019 piece in The Atlantic described the reach of Ramzan Kadyrov’s regime, which extends into exile through surveillance and intimidation. In Berlin, queer Chechens often keep their identities secret, sometimes even from other refugees, to avoid harassment or worse. NGOs such as Quarteera e.V. and Schwulenberatung Berlin provide support and safe spaces, but the need far exceeds the available resources.
My idea, whose feasibility I need to assess in the coming days, is to understand what it means to escape persecution from your home region, just to essentially be in the same situation as before. The police in Berlin will not kidnap you from your home for being gay, but extremists in the Chechen diaspora are just as hostile as at home. In Chechnya, it is normal for families to kill their own son if found to be gay, and family networks and allegiances are strikingly extensive. Those who have managed, through accidental and highly dangerous paths, to reach Germany, still find themselves in a space where safety is never absolute.
