Waiting On the Water

On a refugee boat anchored in Haarlem, Zikar waits for the day he can hold his children again. Every night, before he sleeps, he checks his phone one last time. Sometimes a message from home appears. Sometimes there is only silence. Below deck, the air can feel heavy. The small cabin window does not open. At night, footsteps echo in the corridor, voices drift, doors click shut. Privacy is a long forgotten luxury, and sleep comes lightly.

But in the morning, something changes. When Zikar opens his curtains, he sees water, with seagulls bobbing on its surface. Sunlight glints softly off the canal. In those moments, he feels something close to peace. ‘Life continues. Every day brings new hope’, Zikar says quietly.

Hundreds of asylum seekers live on the same boat as Zikar, their lives suspended between the violence they fled and the acceptance they hope to receive. Some step outside for fresh air. Others sit quietly in the lounge or share short conversations that briefly ease the tension. ‘The waiting is what hurts them most’, says a staff member who prefers to remain anonymous. ‘Not knowing if they’ll be allowed to stay, or be sent back. It’s a different kind of pain.’

Residents come from Eritrea, Somalia, Sudan, and Syria – countries marked by war, dictatorship, or repression. Their journeys are different, but they share the same uncertain space between past and future. A refugee residing on the boat myself, I continue my work as a journalist, even in the midst of my own uncertain journey. I am a witness. With my recorder in hand and my heart open, I gather these voices, honest, raw, and often unheard. I carry them beyond borders and headlines.

Before the war in Syria, Zikar lived a simple and dignified life. He worked as a house painter alongside his brother. Long days left them tired but satisfied. There was no luxury, yet there was stability. As unrest began in 2010, fear slowly seeped into daily life. Zikar spoke openly against the violence spreading across the country. He believed Syrians should not kill Syrians. His words carried consequences. Authorities arrested him and sent him to Sednaya prison, where he spent six months. The experience left deep psychological scars that still follow him today.

After his release, he tried to remain silent. But in 2014 he received a summons for military reserve service. Taking up arms in a war he did not believe in was impossible. Still, he waited, hoping the conflict would end quickly. It did not.

Fatherhood made leaving home almost unbearable. ‘The hardest moment of my life was leaving my children’, Zikar says. He remembers the day clearly. When the time came to leave, he could not tell them the truth. Instead, he told them he was going to the dentist, hoping to spare them tears. Even with his wife, the goodbye was brief. Neither of them could face a long farewell. ‘That unfinished embrace still lives inside me’, he says.

Arrival in the Netherlands brought both relief and fear. Relief, because he was finally safe. Fear, because he was alone. After a short stay at a reception center, Zikar was transferred to the refugee boat in Haarlem, where he has now lived for nearly two years. His daily routine is structured, almost disciplined. He wakes between 7:00 and 7:30 each morning. Twice a week, he runs early. Fitness has become a form of survival rather than a hobby. At five in the afternoon, he goes to the gym before returning to the boat. ‘If I stop moving”, he says, “my thoughts become too loud.’

Meals are served in a shared restaurant three times a day. Cooking in the cabins is not allowed. The food is repetitive, sometimes good, sometimes disappointing, but it sustains daily life. Beyond the dining area, everyday routines create small moments of connection. The boat’s laundry room has become an unexpected meeting place. With only a few machines available for hundreds of residents, doing laundry often requires patience. Some grow frustrated, but others turn the delay into something else. For those longing for conversation and connection, the laundry room offers a chance to talk. While clothes spin inside the machines, residents exchange greetings, share stories, and, sometimes, laugh together.

Back in his cabin which he shares with a roommate, the space is small, but clean. Zikar keeps the entire room orderly, transforming it into a small island of calm in a life defined by uncertainty. But beyond these small routines, waiting shapes his everyday. Waiting for decisions. Waiting for permission. Waiting for a reunion. ‘Waiting is a quiet battle’, Zikar says. ‘You wake up every morning not knowing what your future will be.’

Zikar has few close friends on the boat, but these connections lighten the days. Conversations, shared laughter, and human gestures restore dignity. Dutch language classes have been crucial. The first sentence he learned was: ‘Hoe gaat het jou?’ (How are you?) ‘That small phrase made me feel connected, It gave me courage to continue.’ Through volunteer work, he has met many Dutch people, including Hestia, a local woman who teaches him Dutch in her free time. ‘Her kindness reminds me that I am more than a case number’, he says. ‘Her generosity gives me strength.’

The hardest moments arrive unexpectedly. Recently, Zikar received troubling news about his family in Syria. The situation had once again become unsafe. ‘When I hear they are in danger’, he says quietly, ‘I feel helpless.’ At night, the distance feels more profound. Some evenings, he cries silently, mourning the years, birthdays, school days, and ordinary mornings at the breakfast table he has missed. But every morning, he reminds himself of his purpose. ‘I left to protect their future.’

What Zikar values most about life in the Netherlands is calmness and respect, punctuality, cleanliness, order, and quiet dignity. He hopes to work as a painter again, maybe even open a small business. But above all, his dream is simple: to reunite with his family. ‘My relationship with my children gives me strength. Everything I endure here has a purpose’, Zikar says.

Walking outside onto the boat, and the silence feels heavy. People step out in shifts for air, some share cigarettes, some whisper short conversations, but many just sit in silence. One man stands alone, twirling his beard with one hand and holding a cigarette in the other. His eyes are on the water, but his mind is far away.

The refugee boat in Haarlem was meant to be a temporary solution. But the Dutch asylum process has slowed under pressure. Many residents wait months, sometimes years, for interviews and decisions. Some spend entire days lying in bed. Others pace along the deck or sit silently in shared spaces. Cigarettes, alcohol, and drugs sometimes become ways to numb the uncertainty.

‘People don’t leave home unless they have no choice’, says Zewuditu, a 27-year-old woman from Eritrea. ‘I can’t live in Eritrea—there’s no future there. You either leave, or you disappear.’ Due to Eritrea’s authoritarian regime and indefinite military conscription, thousands flee every year. Many take dangerous routes through Ethiopia and Sudan, risking extortion, trafficking, and violence. Some, like Zewuditu, pay smugglers for fake documents to enter Europe through an increasingly notorious backdoor: Belarus. ‘After a week in the forest, we were captured by Belarusian guards. They beat us, took our money, burned our clothes, and demanded sexual favours in exchange for basic necessities.’ After months of dangerous attempts to cross into Poland, she finally reached the Netherlands, but safety did not fully arrive.

‘I received a letter yesterday’, Zewuditu says. Her voice is steady, but her pain is close to the surface. ‘They want to deport me back to Poland.’ Under the European Union’s Dublin Regulation, asylum seekers must usually apply for asylum in the first EU country where their fingerprints were recorded. For Zewuditu, that country is Poland, where she was detained and mistreated. ‘They don’t care that I never lived there. Only that they have my fingerprint.’

As night falls, the boat glows softly under yellow lights. Inside, people sip tea, scroll through their phones, or retreat into their small cabins. The Haarlem boat presents a strange paradox: a place where people are physically safe but emotionally battered. The boat is both a shelter and cage. Wars may be far behind the residents, but new battles have arrived: slow systems, constant fear of deportation, and the heavy weight of uncertainty. For Zikar and Zewuditu, and many others seeking asylum, a sense of belonging still feels just out of reach. Yet as darkness settles over the canal and the city grows quiet, hope, grief, and dreams keep vigil. And tomorrow, the residents of the boat will wake up again, and wait.

This article was produced in collaboration with RFG Media.