DARMSTADT, GERMANY— As dawn breaks over Darmstadt, a city in Germany’s Hessen region, the streets come to life near Luisenplatz, a main hub of bus and tram connections in the heart of the city center. Here, residents from different cultures and backgrounds converge to start their day. Situated just 19 miles south of Frankfurt, Darmstadt is home to more than 150 nationalities, with 45% of its population considered to have a “migrant background.”
Darmstadt, like many cities throughout Europe, has become a crossroad of mass migration. But several U.S. cities like San Antonio, New York and Chicago are also scrambling to meet the needs and high costs of migrant arrivals. San Antonio — which shares a sister city relationship with Darmstadt since 2017 — has positioned itself as a transit hub of new arrivals due to its proximity to the U.S.-Mexico border.
In the U.S., the unprecedented migrant arrivals in urban areas became a flashpoint in the November presidential election. For many analysts, migration emerged as one of the pivotal factors that propelled Donald Trump back into the White House. In Germany, strained local resources for the ongoing flow of migrants, overburdened social services, and historic divisions between eastern and western states, have fueled anti-migrant sentiment and strengthened far-right parties.
What can we learn from San Antonio’s sister city, approximately 5,470 miles away?
Sister city relationships are partnerships meant to foster cultural, educational and economic exchanges. But when it comes to the defining global issues of our time, such as migration, we often fail to look at the stories happening in our own backyard and the local leaders responding on the front lines. In such a fraught geopolitical moment at the close of a global election year, cities are leading the way in responding to the immediate needs of asylum seekers and refugees looking to restart their lives.
Darmstadt, a city of more than 168,000, is striving to balance the influx of newcomers while also managing the social and economic implications of diversifying populations. It is rarely straightforward. Beneath the surface of this bustling city lies a complex web of stories — stories of hope, displacement and the relentless pursuit of a better life.
FROM KYIV TO DARMSTADT
As the morning light filters through the windows of temporary shelters and government housing scattered across the city, refugees like Yulia Ihnatieva from Ukraine begin their day. As the smell of freshly brewed coffee fills her small kitchen, Ihnatieva, 42, gathers her books for her German language class, a quiet moment amid the challenges of starting over. In her cramped apartment, where she has lived since March 2023, Ihnatieva adds the final touches to her okroshka soup — a summer dish that reminds her of loved ones left behind. Everything here feels different from her life back home.
Not so long ago, Ihnatieva worked as a lawyer and realtor in Kyiv while raising two children as a single mother. But one cold February morning in 2022, the sounds of distant explosions jolted her from her sleep and turned her world upside down. Her mind often flashes back to that fateful day as the war between Russia and Ukraine rages on.
Ihnatieva fled her five-story apartment and spent a week huddled inside a cold basement with her children, bracing for survival. Explosions rocked the city, destroying houses. It was impossible to shield her children from the sight of lifeless bodies. Her son developed a hand tremor. Her daughter stopped talking. Ihnatieva knew they couldn’t stay. She decided to embark on a perilous drive to Lviv and then walked by foot across the Polish border with her children and the family dog, Bella, in tow.
“Poland… it was unbelievable,” Ihnatieva recalled. “They immediately gave us clothes, food, hot drinks. We were in shock. How could this be? We had enough food, water, and a safe place.”
Moving westward from Poland, Ihnatieva spent a year in Normandy, France but later moved to Germany with the help of her half-sister in Darmstadt. Initially placed in refugee camps, she faced the harsh realities of refugee life, including chaotic conditions, cultural clashes and the ongoing bureaucratic hurdles of getting her educational credentials recognized.
Ihnatieva’s children are still adjusting to life in Germany. While they are safe and have access to education, the integration process has been far from easy. Learning the German language is a significant challenge, particularly for Ihnatieva’s 16-year-old son, who found it hard to connect with his peers in school.
“For my daughter, who is 14, it was okay,” Ihnatieva said. “She was communicating with people, making friends. But for my son, it was so hard. He was just sitting at the last table and they didn’t communicate with him.”
Ihnatieva and her children have experienced the isolating effects of being in a new environment without adequate language skills. Despite these hardships, the family is gradually adapting, learning German and slowly integrating into their new community. Ihnatieva finds hope in the presence of Russian-speaking professionals and building community with other Ukrainians.
According to government officials, Darmstadt is home to 8,267 refugees, with the largest group being 2,273 from Ukraine. “This number includes those with temporary protection statuses, as well as recognized refugees,” stated Darmstadt Mayor Hanno Benz in a June interview. “Compared to the 2015/2016 refugee surge, the numbers have increased.”
In 2015, Darmstadt received 337 new asylum seekers, 1,745 in 2016, and 280 in 2017, mainly from Syria, Afghanistan, Eritrea and Iraq. However, the city’s resources are being stretched thin, particularly in terms of housing and social services.
“The biggest challenge is to provide housing — both for people coming here and those who already reside here,” Benz added. “Due to the allocation of around 500 refugees in 2024, additional housing is needed. Currently, 390 individuals are housed in hotels due to insufficient capacity. The initial reception centers and additional dormitories are fully occupied.”
Despite these hurdles, the city strives to maintain its support systems, explains Barbara Akdeniz, head of Darmstadt’s Department of Social Affairs. One approach to ease integration efforts includes investing in mixed-income housing projects in neighborhoods such as Eberstadt and Kranichstein, Akdeniz added.
But housing is just one layer. The city fully embraces “Gemeinwesenarbeit,” a German term that refers to community development. Social workers are deployed in eight quarters throughout Darmstadt to organize meetings, promote community engagement and provide assistance with government processes.
This strategy is meant to bring people together to ease integration into German culture and avoid the formation of segregated neighborhoods.
While Ihnatieva expressed gratitude for the support she has received in Germany, she recognizes the stigma that comes with being labeled a refugee.
“The most difficult part is that people don’t realize many Ukrainians here are well-educated Europeans,” Ihnatieva added, recounting the difficulties of finding a job that fits her educational credentials and having her foreign degrees recognized with the same level of prestige as back home. “I was here in Darmstadt five years ago as a tourist, and now I walk through the same streets in a completely different state.”
A NATION ON EDGE: GERMANY’S PENDULUM SWING TO FAR RIGHT
The latest data from the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) places Germany as one of the largest hosts of refugees in the European Union. As of mid-2023, the country has been host to nearly 2.2 million refugees and asylum seekers. In 2023 alone, Germany received over 244,000 new asylum applications, a significant increase from previous years, highlighting the ongoing pressure on the country’s asylum system.
Despite Darmstadt’s efforts to promote peaceful coexistence, polarization has gripped Germany’s political climate. In September, the far-right, anti-immigration Alternative for Germany (AfD) party made significant gains in three state elections, becoming the leading party in Thuringia and a close second in Saxony and Brandenburg — the strongest far-right showing since the Nazi era.
In August, a knife attack in Solingen left three dead and eight injured. The incident, involving a 26-year-old Syrian asylum seeker slated for deportation, reignited debate about Germany’s deportation laws.
“On the topic of migration and refugees, we need a solution for the European Union, not only for Germany,” stated Benz, after reflecting on election results from the EU Parliament elections on June 9, which highlighted the growing strength of far-right parties in both Germany and France. “Especially after these elections, where the far-right wing has won many voters, it will not be easy to get a common solution on the EU level.”
The surmounting political pressure in Germany — from budget disagreements and economic woes to approaches on migration policy — led to a collapse of the German government in December, paving the way for new national elections in early 2025. The government recently expanded border patrol checkpoints as part of a “hard line” on illegal migration.
“There is this whole discussion about where it ends — this migranthood,” said Mert Pekşen, a social and political geographer at Osnabrück University who studies the historical and current dynamics of migration in Germany. He points to the ongoing challenges of identity and belonging faced by second- and third-generation immigrants. There is an intersection of migration and issues of racism and right-wing violence in Germany, he said, noting that “migration becomes sort of the topic or the instrument … but it is a problem of racism.”
Pekşen’s research underscores the deep-rooted societal challenges that complicate the integration of migrants, even those who have lived in Germany for generations.
The rising tide of extremism is not confined to the ballot box. Countless protests erupted across Germany in early 2024 after an article published by Correctiv exposed a secret meeting where members of the far-right AfD party, neo-Nazis and businesspeople discussed a plan for mass deportations of migrants, including naturalized German citizens not considered “German enough.”
Tens of thousands of residents took to the streets in major cities across Germany to denounce the far right and protest against the remigration plan. More than 17,000 Darmstadt residents took part in protests on Jan. 23, 2024.
Sabine Hahn, manager of the social and youth department within the district of Darmstadt-Dieburg, has over 30 years of experience managing the complex challenges of integrating asylum seekers and migrants. Hahn has navigated various peaks in migration, from the early 1990s to the 2015-2016 refugee crisis and the recent influx due to the war in Ukraine.
“I think the pressure on the government is very high … and a lot of people say that the problems we have are because of the refugees coming here,” Hahn said when asked about the fraught political environment. “But it’s a really complex subject and people want simple answers. They just say, ‘Why don’t you take them back and why don’t we just close the border?’ It’s not that easy, and they don’t want to hear this. The world has changed. It is all dependent on each other and we are not alone on earth. We can’t have simple solutions.”
In Hahn’s offices, the atmosphere is charged with a sense of purpose and efficiency as social workers prepare for another scheduled “transfer day,” when incoming migrants are assigned housing and what they need to start their new lives.
On a crisp October morning, buses filled with weary asylum seekers arrive from the large initial reception center in Giessen, their breath visible in the chilly fall air. Families step off the buses, bundled up against the cold, clutching their children and newborns wrapped tightly in winter coats. Many carry all they possess in a single, worn suitcase — its edges frayed from travel and time.
As the buses pull in, social workers from Hahn’s team brace themselves against the crisp wind and greet the new arrivals, guiding them through the next steps of their uncertain journey. This includes escorting them to government-provided housing and ensuring they receive their initial state benefit payments of around 400-500 euros per month to cover basic needs.
The district’s ability to manage this constant flow of newcomers is part of a larger system in Germany known as the Königstein Key. This mechanism allocates refugees and asylum seekers across Germany’s federal states based on population size and tax revenue. This system, nonexistent in the United States, helps manage the flow of migrants by spreading the responsibility across all states.
Matthias Schimpf, Green Party councilman and head of the Department for Foreigners and Migration in the nearby Bergstrasse District in Hessen, notes significant challenges in rural areas where infrastructure is limited. In smaller towns like Aschbach, with only 200 residents and minimal public services, integrating migrants is far more difficult than in urban centers like Darmstadt.
Schimpf also mentioned the social tensions and resentment that arise from the integration process, including the high demand for essential services needed by both local residents and newcomers, particularly kindergarten spots.
Friction in rural areas and smaller cities struggling to keep up with new arrivals is not unique to Germany. In the U.S., Springfield, Ohio, drew attention when Trump falsely claimed during a September debate that Haitian immigrants were “eating the pets of the people that live there.” Since the pandemic, around 20,000 Haitians have resettled in Springfield. While their arrival has revitalized the manufacturing sector, the volume and speed of arrivals has also strained schools, hospitals and housing.
Schimpf expressed the need for a balanced approach to migrant integration, considering both immediate logistical challenges and long-term social impacts. But what’s needed is more funding at the federal level to manage the migrants flowing into their communities.
“In the last quarter of 2023, we received 86 people per week, and that means I would have to hire a person every 10 days to be able to look after people,” Schimpf explained. That lack of existing infrastructure often leads to temporary solutions, he added, like repurposing commercial properties or setting up tent cities.
AMER’S JOURNEY
The current state of affairs is a far cry from the images of volunteers handing out chocolates and teddy bears to refugees arriving in Germany by train during the 2015 European migrant crisis. At the time, former Chancellor Angela Merkel famously exclaimed, “Wir schaffen das,” or “We can do it,” allowing more than a million refugees — mostly hailing from Afghanistan and Syria — to claim asylum. This period of Willkommenskultur (Welcoming culture) is something Amer Al Qazaq, 35, experienced firsthand.
Born to Palestinian parents in Libya and raised in Syria, Amer’s early life was a tapestry of displacement and survival. “My grandparents were kicked out of Palestine,” Al Qazaq recounted in a quiet voice, “and my mother was born in Lebanon, while my father was born in Syria.”
Al Qazaq’s life took a perilous turn as civil war ravaged Syria in 2015. Driven by a childhood dream of reaching Germany and escaping the incessant fear of conflict, he decided to embark on a treacherous journey to Europe. “We chose the way of the smuggler,” he said. With $4,500 in American dollars paid, Al Qazaq’s path to safety traversed through Lebanon, Sudan, the harsh desert into Libya and finally across the Mediterranean to Italy. “In Venice, we ran because, if the police caught us, we’d be arrested,” he added.
Upon reaching Germany, Al Qazaq’s initial days were a whirlwind of uncertainty, moving from Munich to Dortmund and then to various refugee camps due to overcrowding. “In the refugee camp in Giessen, there were 7,000 people,” he recalled. Yet, amid the chaos, Germany’s initial warmth was a beacon of hope for Al Qazaq. “We received a lot of help from the government. I felt safe here,” he said.
Al Qazaq carved out a new life for himself in Germany by learning German on his own through YouTube videos as he waited for free lessons. His perseverance paid off when he was able to start an Ausbildung, or vocational training, in heating and water systems, a field he had experience in.
“My biggest dream is to open my own company in the field of commercial heating one day,” he beamed, proud of his accomplishments and the diploma he earned.
Now having lived in Germany for almost a decade, Al Qazaq reflects on his integration journey. He’s experienced Europe’s compassion fatigue and the limitations of current integration policy firsthand. There’s a cultural chasm that exists between refugees and the host society, he said.
“Sometimes the refugee doesn’t understand they are in a different country where they have to respect the laws and traditions,” he reflected. “It is very difficult because of the customs and traditions, as well as the different religions and languages. The refugee doesn’t understand how to live with the Germans and the Germans don’t accept the refugees as they are.”
Al Qazaq believes there should be stricter rules or limits regarding length of government assistance to migrants and refugees, as well as the creation of more incentives for people to become self-reliant by a set period of time. This could help to deter counterproductive long-term government reliance and shut down any perceived abuses of Germany’s generous welfare safety net, which the far right has weaponized in campaign rhetoric.
Al Qazaq’s reflections on German society are a blend of admiration and critique. He praises the respect, punctuality and order he observes but finds the work culture and weather challenging. Al Qazaq also misses the social fabric of Syria, lamenting the lack of spontaneous interactions with family and friends in Germany.
Yet, amid these struggles, he now considers Germany his home. He dreams of reuniting with his family who he hasn’t seen for 12 years. After completing language tests, residency requirements, vocational training and a naturalization test, he recently became a German citizen.
“I got my German passport last week and my dream to see my family again is so near,” he said, with a tinge of joy in his voice. “I will visit them next summer.”
PARALLEL CHALLENGES IN U.S. CITIES
Across the Atlantic, in San Antonio — a sprawling city of nearly 1.5 million and the seventh largest in the U.S. — migration challenges take on a different but equally complex form.
Like Darmstadt, San Antonio embraces its diverse cultural fabric and has a welcoming approach to newcomers. Its proximity to the U.S.-Mexico border and location in a state with several migrant detention centers make it a key transit hub for refugees and migrants seeking a new life.
The city has also endured tragedies like migrants dying in abandoned tractor trailers in extreme heat, highlighting the peril many face while pursuing safety and opportunity in the U.S.
Today, San Antonio finds itself grappling with a developing wave of migration, driven by continued turmoil in Central America and the shifting landscape of U.S. immigration policy. Prior to the opening of the city’s Migrant Resource Center in July 2022, migrants would be interspersed at bus stations, downtown parks and the airport — which exacerbated the sense of chaos during uptick periods. Assistant City Manager María Villagomez said the main benefit of the center has been establishing a central point of coordination.
“The way we manage is that we don’t turn anybody away even if we are overwhelmed,” Villagómez said in an interview last fall. “Our main goal is public safety. Our response to the influx of migrants that we have experienced is to make sure both our residents, those visiting San Antonio and the migrants themselves are safe.”
Since 2021, San Antonio has registered more than 631,000 migrants passing through the city, according to data from the city’s Migrant Dashboard. The top three countries of origin are Venezuela, Nicaragua and Cuba, with Venezuelans making up more than 31% of arrivals since July 2022.
San Antonio Mayor Ron Nirenberg emphasizes the city’s role in balancing compassion with organization to minimize disruption. The city’s Migrant Resource Center, managed by the Catholic Charities Diocese of San Antonio, provides humanitarian support including hot food, clothing, hygiene kits and temporary shelter.
The state’s approach has been starkly opposite. Gov. Greg Abbott has militarized the border by deploying the National Guard, building barbed wire fences and placing buoys with nets and circular saws on the Rio Grande to discourage crossings. Abbott also began bussing thousands of migrants to other cities without warning, sparking tensions between local and state governments.
Despite political controversy, Nirenberg supports keeping the Migrant Resource Center open, arguing it remains essential without congressional immigration reform to manage migrant flows. “I don’t see congressional action taking place anytime soon, unfortunately,” He remarked in a 2022 interview with the San Antonio Report. “We’ve risked cutting local services at the expense of a federal problem.”
In July, Nirenberg led a trade and cultural mission to Darmstadt, which included a bilateral meeting with its mayor. While the focus of this delegation trip was educational, cultural and sport exchange, both Benz and Nirenberg acknowledge the parallel challenges that cities face to find a unified approach to migration at the local level.
“Despite the different contexts, both cities can learn a lot from each other. Migration is a global phenomenon and it will continue to be a crucial issue for cities worldwide,” Benz said.
Nirenberg, who joined the Mayor’s Migration Council Leadership Board in 2023, knows that temporary shelter and food only scratch the surface of newcomers’ multifaceted needs. Health care, mental health support, legal counseling and language courses are in high demand but lack adequate funding. While such services are often government-funded in Germany, nonprofits frequently fill these gaps in the United States.
“The United States is a testament to diverse communities thriving together,” Nirenberg stated. “That remains our focus as we work with nonprofits, the faith community and federal partners to connect newcomers with essential services. When we do, everyone is better off.”
Victoria Rietig, head of the Migration Program at the German Council on Foreign Relations, attributes the global rise of far-right and nationalist movements to a broader crisis in liberal democracy.
“Liberal democracy is not actually living up to the promise anymore … you don’t trust that politicians actually have your best interest at heart,” Rietig said, citing lack of livable wages, affordable housing options, teacher shortages and train malfunctions in Germany. “I don’t think we need to be so surprised when a large part of the population is disillusioned and says, ‘Well, if things aren’t going right, it must be the fault of politicians.’”
In both the U.S. and Germany, traditional pathways to success, like education and hard work, no longer guarantee upward mobility. This discontent has created fertile ground for far-right parties, which often scapegoat migration for deeper systemic issues.
In Germany’s case, much of the friction can be traced to the lingering divides between East and West. Although the Berlin Wall fell over three decades ago, a “phantom wall” remains, especially when it comes to disparities in infrastructure, wages, and political power. Many Germans still feel as if they inhabit “two Germanys,” a sentiment reinforced by recent election results. In the former East and what some call the “German Rustbelt,” many feel left behind — echoing the disillusionment found among rural American voters in the U.S. who, feeling similarly abandoned by globalization and urban elites, have gravitated toward ultra-conservative, populist and anti-migrant stances.
Germany’s struggles reflect broader tensions simmering across Europe. Many EU member state leaders call for an overhaul of the Common European Asylum System (GEAS), which aims to distribute asylum seekers more evenly across European countries. Local leaders like Schimpf in the Bergstrasse District agree.
Some of the flaws include the unrealistic expectation for small islands like Lampedusa in Italy to handle thousands of applications, Schimpf explained. This inefficiency often results in migrants moving further into Europe, with Germany being a primary destination due to its economic opportunities. The councilman also addressed the need for a more effective pre-selection process at the European borders to distinguish between economic migrants and those genuinely seeking asylum due to war or persecution.
“The problem is that the situation is so complicated, and it’s very difficult to communicate this in public,” Schimpf said in German. “This complexity makes it hard for proponents of a more inclusive approach to make a positive case, which allows the AfD to gain support with simple, populist messages.”
For some refugees in Darmstadt, the recent political tensions and rising anti-immigrant sentiment feel deeply personal. Iranian-born Layla Bahar, 26, arrived at a German refugee camp in 2022, where she experienced hostility due to her sexual orientation.
Bahar asked to use a different name in this article out of fear for her safety.
“In Iran, if they find out someone is gay… they lock you up in jail, and in the end, they can also kill you,” Bahar said. Her life in Iran took a dangerous turn when the father of a girl she was texting discovered their private messages and reported her to police, leading to harassment, threats and eventually her arrest. After a night in jail, narrowly escaping assault, her family contacted a smuggler to bring her to Europe.
At the German camp, she says officials mocked her appearance and initially considered placing her in a male dorm. Though the asylum process was fraught with delays and discrimination, Bahar eventually found stability and a welcoming environment in Darmstadt, aided by vielbunt e.V., a group supporting LGBTQ refugees.
“I would never choose to be a refugee, even with the opportunities Germany offers,” Bahar said. “Being a refugee is like being born again. It doesn’t matter if you’re 50, a doctor, a lawyer, or unemployed — you start your life over from scratch: with language, culture, friends, everything.”
As cities like San Antonio and Darmstadt face growing migration challenges, their ability to collaborate and share solutions may be key to addressing one of the defining issues of our time.
According to Anna-Lisa Müller, social geographer and sociologist conducting research at Bielefeld University, the current migration crisis in Europe is a test of the continent’s commitment to its core values.
“Europe’s response to migration will define its identity in the 21st century,” Müller said, emphasizing the need for a holistic approach to migration policy. “Integration is a two-sided story and this is a general question that the current German society should really deal with. I’m really worried that we aren’t doing it — negotiating and discussing what the common ground is and what are the values and norms that hold our society together.”
Müller’s words resonate with the experiences of those on the ground, from the refugees themselves to the local leaders and organizations striving to support them.
“Migration has always been a part of humanity … and it is our task as researchers to always stress that it is complex, even if people do not want to hear it,” Müller said. “I think that more people would actually like politicians to talk about complex things as complex things, not to try to condense it to one slogan.”
This research project was supported by the Alexander Von Humboldt Foundation and the Schader Stiftung.
Disclosure: Prior to a year of research on migration, the author of this article worked for the City of San Antonio and was previously a reporter for the San Antonio Report.
