Stephan Reichel makes an appointment with the couple at Café Kreuzkamm because he realizes on the phone: This is serious. He takes his checklist with him, as always in such cases. Over a piece of cake, they talk about: reasons for fleeing, integration, the future.
The chairman of the ecumenical asylum helpers’ association “Matteo – Church and Asylum” still remembers well “the kind of panic they were in.” Two men, now 27 years old, one a trained choreographer and dancer, the other an IT engineer, fled their hometown of Sumy in northeastern Ukraine, just a few kilometers from the Russian border, in October 2021. Fled from Valentin’s violent, homophobic father, who beat her and threatened to kill her – because their love was a shame.
Dmytro and Valentin (name changed) first fled to Prague. There they fell into the clutches of a criminal who wanted to force them to sell drugs in gay clubs. The two were afraid – also of being deported again. “This danger is great in the Czech Republic,” says Reichel. “Homophobia is still very widespread there.” So Dmytro and Walentin fled further – to Germany, where they wanted to ask for asylum. Dmytro and Walentin knew that according to the Dublin regulation, they had to apply for asylum in the EU country to which they first entered. However, there is an exception if the country of residence does not succeed in transferring the refugees to the country they entered first within six months.
“The police were already with us in the anchor center in Ingolstadt,” says Dmytro in polished English. He now works as a web designer, which is a “more stable profession” than choreography. “We’re still afraid to show our relationship in public,” says Dmytro, but the police quickly identified them as a couple. “Nevertheless, at first they just wanted to get me and deport me to the Czech Republic. But if I fly, then not without Valentin.”
Russia’s war of aggression had meanwhile begun, and thousands of Ukrainians had fled to Germany, where they were allowed to stay – without having to apply for asylum. “The policeman at the anchor center said: Your case is tricky. I’ll give you two weeks to solve the problem.”
According to the EU’s “mass influx directive”, Ukrainians fleeing the invasion do not have to go through lengthy asylum procedures, but are entitled to temporary protection. The Bavarian immigration authorities grant this for an initial period of two years. The regulation applies to people who fled no later than 90 days before the outbreak of war. For Dmytro and Valentin it was 91 days.
After meeting the police in the anchor center, the two men frantically sought help – and came across Reichel. Sanctuary seemed to be the only way out. After detailed discussions, Reichel decides which case is so serious that it is suitable.
Refugees without legal residency status are temporarily admitted to church asylum
“99 percent of our cases are Dublin cases,” says Bettina Nickel, deputy head of the Bavarian Catholic Office, which examines church asylum cases on the Catholic side and advises and makes recommendations to parishes and monasteries that are willing to accept them. It is estimated that between 550 and 600 church asylums are granted throughout Bavaria every year. You don’t keep statistics. “Some,” says Nickel vaguely, were in church asylum in Munich, including many in monasteries, such as the Sisters of Mercy, the Benedictine Abbey of Venio, or the Franciscans. At the end of last year, a lesbian couple was also admitted. “There are always cases like this. Many want peace and quiet and no media attention.”
Refugees without legal residency status are admitted to church asylum for a limited period of time – among other things, if they are threatened with unacceptable social, inhumane hardship when they are returned to the EU entry country. Church asylum moves in a legal gray area, even though the Federal Office for Migration and Refugees (Bamf) declared in 2015 that it recognized this Christian-humanitarian tradition and the Bavarian Ministry of the Interior promised not to forcibly evict any church asylum.
When the Munich vicar Wolfgang Rothe from the Catholic parish of St. Michael discovered the story of the homosexual couple from the Ukraine on Reichel’s list of supporters, he reacted immediately. The parishes and monasteries decide for themselves whether they want to grant sanctuary. “I was stunned when I found out about the case,” reports Rothe, who campaigns for queer people in the church. “We had a one-bedroom apartment that we made available.” The Catholic Office gave him “great support”. In August, Dmytro and Walentin moved in to wait for the transfer period to the Czech Republic to expire. “We were so happy to finally have a private place,” recalls Dmytro.
Pastoral Vicar Rothe looked after them every day and shopped for them. Until recently – because now the six-month Dublin period has expired and the danger of deportation to the Czech Republic has been averted. The asylum procedure in Germany is now under way.
Peter Henle, the lawyer for the two men, is confident: “Since October 1st there have been new regulations from the Ministry of the Interior and thus better protection for queer refugees,” he explains. When examining the asylum procedure, the maxim must be that this group can openly express their sexual orientation or gender identity in their country of origin without any risk. Refugee worker Reichel says clearly: “Even if your home country is on a democratic path, it is a fairy tale to believe that there is no homophobia in Ukraine. On the contrary: it is particularly widespread in the areas influenced by Russia.”
Dmytro and Walentin drove from their church asylum in Perlach directly to the anchor center on Maria-Probst-Strasse, the first port of call for asylum seekers in Munich. “They first wanted to send us away again because they said that as Ukrainians you had to go to another camp.” The 27-year-old laughs a bitter laugh on the phone. He and his partner are already on their way to the next station – they will be transferred to Ingolstadt, whereabouts are uncertain. “These lovers have a lot of work to do,” says Reichel. “They experience the break with their families, their home country and have to explain why you don’t go to war?”
The refugee helper thinks about his checklist in the café: reason for fleeing, integration, future. “They have good jobs, realistic ideas, are hard-working,” says Reichel. “You could also get married in Germany. Not in the Czech Republic and Ukraine.”