Waiting in Hell – How the Dutch Refugee System Drives People to Suicide

It begins with an application - and ends for many with the loss of all hope. In the refugee camps of the Netherlands, a silent catastrophe is unfolding. A crisis that leaves behind not just numbers, but names, faces, stories. In recent years, at least 26 people have taken their own lives in Dutch asylum shelters. And still, the system meant to protect them remains a place of waiting, of isolation, of structural coldness. Polina, a 36-year-old trans woman, first spent a month at the Ter Apel reception center, then more than two years at the Echt camp in Limburg. “They say it’s one of the better camps,” she says. “But actually, it’s the place they send people who ask too many questions - so that they stop asking.” During her time there, she encountered men with hallucinations, women who self-harmed, people who tried to create meaning by pickling dead rats. Some heard voices, others fell permanently silent. For many, the camp becomes the final stop - not in flight, but in life. The biggest problem is not the overcrowding, not the bad food, not even the hopelessness - it is the uncertainty. Asylum procedures in the Netherlands can drag on for years. Despite having the highest approval rate in Europe, the Netherlands is also the country with the slowest decisions. On average, it now takes two and a half years before any decision is issued. Originally, asylum cases were supposed to be processed within six months - a target that was officially extended to 15 months in 2022, but in reality is rarely met. For many, this means years of waiting in overcrowded, poorly equipped camps, where even medical emergencies are postponed until a transfer is arranged. Those who arrive without their own medications are often out of luck. And those who need psychological help often encounter staff without any professional qualifications.

olina reports that she was initially assigned an “assistant” who was neither a therapist nor a psychologist. Through an interpreter, he asked stereotypical questions to Russian refugees - for example, whether they dealt with their problems by drinking alcohol. Polina, who does not drink, filed a complaint along with other women - only then was she assigned a real therapist. She says it only worked because she was over 30, came from Russia, and knew how to make herself heard. Younger trans people often do not have that experience - and for them, the situation can be fatal. Katya Mikhailova, a queer refugee from Moldova, took her own life because she did not receive adequate psychological care. Other queer refugees - Hina Zakharova, Antonina Babchenko, Mikhail Zubchenko, Alisa Serova - also died by suicide in the camps, without ever waiting for their second decision. The pressure, the fear of deportation, and the daily homophobia - even from camp staff - wear people down. Officially, about 70,000 people are housed in Dutch asylum shelters, most from Syria, followed by Turkey, Iraq, Eritrea, and Somalia. In practice, refugees are often housed far beyond the legal limit in gymnasiums, sports halls, or emergency facilities - with rows of beds, no privacy, no structure. In Ede, Ukrainian refugees lived in military barracks without kitchens, their children received schooling only twice a week, and gunfire from a nearby base was regularly audible. The situation is clearly a systemic failure - but how it is described depends on who is speaking. The right calls it a “migration crisis,” while the left refers to a “reception crisis.” In truth, the Dutch immigration service massively reduced its staff in 2017. Later hires - over 400 people - did little to help, as training takes nine months. Documents disappeared, appointments were missed, and instead of interview transcripts, lawyers were sometimes sent documentaries about countries of origin. An absurdity that has become routine.

At the same time, the far-right “Party for Freedom,” which won the 2023 elections, tightened the system: instead of granting permanent residency, refugees would receive temporary stays limited to three years - with uncertain renewal. Family reunification was to be eliminated, and integration redefined as an individual burden. The obligation to attend expensive language and integration courses - funded through loans - worsened the situation further: those who failed the test were required to repay the course, plus a fine. The European Court of Justice has since banned the fines - but the system remains. A law aimed at evenly distributing refugees across all municipalities was supposed to bring relief in early 2024 - but in many places it failed due to local resistance. In Elst, for example, 800 people were to be housed, but protests were loud, aggressive, and shaped by xenophobia. Posters warned: “No to the reception center - keep Elst safe.” In many communities, people prefer to block new shelters than risk delaying a housing project for locals. Meanwhile, the Ter Apel reception center remains overcrowded - it was never meant for such numbers, but in times of backlog it remains the bottleneck. Those who are lucky are eventually transferred. Those who aren’t live for months or even years in limbo, cut off from society. Refugees are allowed to stay privately - but only if they give up their official right to shelter. Working is forbidden for the first six months. After that, they need a personal ID number, an employer with a special permit - and a solid understanding of Dutch labor law. The few jobs available are physically demanding, poorly paid, and humiliating. Polina cleaned for nine hours a week for a few euros in compensation. Salim, another refugee, was simply glad to have something to do - the money was secondary. Language classes, movie nights, board games, a refugee orchestra - all of that exists - but it’s not enough. Most of the time is waiting. Waiting for a decision. For a mistake. For a breakdown. For the end. In a country that prides itself on being civilized, open-minded, and efficient, refugee policy is a dark chapter. A system that has paralyzed itself. An apparatus that does not protect, but delays. And people who want nothing more than to live, but fail along the way. Waiting in hell - this is not fate. It is political will. And for some, a death sentence.

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