| Orion Delaj from Albania arrived in Korea in 2017 to escape murder threats for something other members of his family had done. Swearing not to go back, he was determined to settle in Seoul as a refugee. But having had no response from the Korean government, he sees his hope for a new life gradually disappearing. Korea Times photo by Choi Won-suk |
Refugee applicant escapes murder threats in Albania only to face social isolation in Seoul
By Ko Dong-hwan
Orion Delaj's life in Seoul is simple. He goes to a one-hour Korean language lesson at Yeonam Global Village Center in the trendy Hongik University campus area in Mapo-gu every Monday and Wednesday. After that, the 26-year-old Albanian's days pass by quietly.
He lives in a tiny one-room apartment called a "gosiwon," a housing style notorious for a room that barely holds a single bed and a desk, in the western Seoul district. Before this, he lived in another gosiwon in Gangnam-gu for six months.
"I cannot do anything these days, spending days on my own, wandering around, trying to meet good people," said Delaj, who came to Korea and applied for refugee status in November 2017, but has not received any call or mail from the government since.
"But sadly most people I have met were bad with fake promises and schemes, asking me for money so they could help me with a visa. I didn't give money to anyone."
The temporary G-1 visa holder, who must revalidate it every three months, describes his life in Korea as a "nightmare." He wakes in the morning and does not know what to do, constantly asking himself what he is going to do, what will happen to him.
"I knew my life in Korea would not be easy," said Delaj, whose parents send him money sometimes and want him to leave Korea. "But the problem is that this (way of life) is not human."
He does not know what he would do if he goes back to Albania.
"What do I do there? It has no future for me. There is nothing else. Not only Albania, but all over Europe."
| A gosiwon room fits little more than a single-size bed, a desk and a closet. Korea Times file |
The Kanun
Delaj fears going back to the Europe because of murder threats from the Albanian mafia. He himself did nothing for the mob to hold a grudge against him. But he bears a scarlet letter ― the price for a dispute between his family and another family more than a decade ago. The grudge has continued down through the generations.
The blood feud, which has trapped members of Delaj's family and the other family, will last until both parties bury the hatchet. Until then, surviving male members, excluding women and children, are reluctant to leave their homes for fear of being assassinated.
The mafia murdered his uncle, Elidon Delaj, in Barcelona, Spain, in September 2006. Spanish police claimed the case was linked to rivalry for illegal trafficking on the Iberian Peninsula, leading to the "mafia execution," according to an Albanian news article dated to June 2008.
In September 2012, Orion's cousin, Amarildo Delaj, was shot dead in front of his bar in Vlora, Albania. He was riddled with more than 10 bullets, according to local news reports.
Delaj claims his uncle and cousin were victims of "the Kanun" ― an Albanian book of laws dating from the 15th century that codified the right to take a life to salvage honor from an earlier wrong.
From 1945 to 1991, the country's communist dictatorship suppressed the Kanun and its code of honor, punishing participants in any blood feud. But the 1997 economic crisis led to widespread social disorder, and the old life-taking practice resurfaced.
To curb Kanun's practice, the Albanian government reformed state institutions and courts and police arrested blood feud participants. But these national efforts have not stretched far enough to rescue Orion from his family tragedy.
| Delaj has been waiting for a call from the Korean immigration office for more than a year, by which time the authorities are supposed to have responded, as stated in the Korean Refugee Act. Korea Times photo by Choi Won-suk |
"I came to Korea to get away from this," said Delaj, whose parents and two sisters are in Italy. "It doesn't matter how many years have passed or who you are or where you are. These people will find you. This is the saddest reality of my country."
Delaj said the Albanian government knows who the murderers are and what they do, but the mafia has corrupted the administration and judges.
Albanians can travel freely in Europe, which means the mafia can follow a target anywhere there. He chose Korea at the last minute, hoping it would be the farthest country he could fly to.
"I could have sought asylum in Germany, Norway, Sweden or Finland," he said. "Their famous social welfare gives us assistance and support. They even offer you school if you want to study. But I didn't go there. I came here because I felt safer."
New life, different hardships
After landing in Korea, Delaj struggled to integrate into local communities. He knocked on the doors of humanitarian agencies and schools and got a part-time job at an Italian restaurant in Seoul. But all the places he visited for help offered no more than the basic daily necessities or hard labor jobs.
Delaj was not desperate for money. He wanted a dignified means of livelihood. The first step was for the Korean government to grant him refugee status.
But since Nov. 7 last year, when he applied for asylum at the Seoul Immigration Office in Yangcheon-gu District, he has heard nothing ― this is way past the authority's due reply period of six months and, if necessary, an additional six months as stated in the Korean Refugee Act.
| Inside the Seoul Immigration Office in Yangcheon-gu District. Korea Times file |
"If more than one year has passed since he applied for refugee status, then it appears the government evaluation must have been delayed for unavoidable reasons," a Ministry of Justice official told The Korea Times.
The national refugee law does not strictly impose the maximum "reply due" period, according to the ministry. Rather, it defines the timeline as a "directory provision."
"It is a necessary guideline considering it takes a long time to evaluate factual statements in detail and particular backgrounds before granting asylum," the ministry official said.
The ministry said there had been a sharp increase in asylum seekers recently. As of late October, the government has registered 18,879 cases waiting for evaluation, with each taking an average of 10.3 months for just the first-round screening to be completed.
Shortly after he applied, Delaj visited the Seoul immigration authority again to ask what was happening with his application and to inquire about possible means of social integration. He claims a male officer there gave him the cold shoulder.
"He told me I need a Korean ID card to stay in Korea and, to obtain one, I need a house contract," Delaj said. "When I told him I had no money to pay a deposit as down payment for such a contract, he told me rudely that it was not his problem."
Caleb Jeong, a Christian pastor who regularly visits the office to see if there are any "lost souls" he can help, heard the noisy argument between Delaj and the officer. The pastor offered Delaj a place at his church/shelter in Pyeongtaek, Gyeonggi Province. He told Delaj there were other refugees at his church and that he helped them with visa processing, the Korean language and in other areas.
"I don't usually trust people, but I thought he could give me directions so I went along with him," said Delaj.
In Pyeongtaek, Delaj accepted a job offer from Jeong, without knowing the line of work. He had told the pastor he didn't come to Korea to earn money but decided to experience the new venture.
When he got there after an hour-long ride, he found it was a yellow pickled radish factory. All the laborers were foreigners from Southeast Asian or Arabic countries. He said he almost vomited from the odor and barely lasted the day. He didn't work there again.
Delaj suspected the pastor was earning a commission from sending refugees to the factory.
| In a joint consulting outreach project by the United Nations Refugee Agency in Korea and the National Human Rights Commission of Korea held in May 2010, human rights organization staff give consultations to refugees from Bangladesh at Yangchon District Office in Gimpo, Gyeonggi Province. Courtesy of UNHCR Korea |
Jeong told The Korea Times the scouting had never been about money and that he only wanted to help foreigners who needed a job. He said some of the factory workers got their jobs through him.
"I help people like Delaj to fulfill my mission as a missionary," Jeong said. "I have been delivering God's words to foreigners from non-Christian backgrounds for over 10 years."
Because the G-1 identification card he applied for at Suwon-Pyeongtaek Immigration Office in November 2017 was issued the following month, Delaj waited until December that year to move out from Jeong's church. He then went to the Gangnam gosiwon. He said he "survived" there for six months.
Unhelpful NGOs
Shortly after moving to Seoul, Delaj visited the United Nations Refugee Agency's office in Jung-gu District to seek any means of social involvement. For him, it was a priority ahead of money or other material assistance.
But a male official there would not provide the information he desperately wanted. He claimed the official told him, "We are officially an office, but we don't help refugees with any assistance."
Having seen street UNHCR fundraisers touting passers-by to join various campaigns to help refugees, Delaj was confused at this response.
"In Korea it's not like what you expected," the official told him, according to Delaj, and suggested that he get help from local NGOs. He gave contact numbers for Pnan in Dongjak-gu District and Nancen, or the Center for Refugee Rights in South Korea, in Guro-gu, both refugee help centers in Seoul.
Delaj visited both offices but was disappointed to find they did not have the resources he was seeking, although they could offer clothes, shelter and money.
They told him that social integration was up to him. Pnan told him it could find him a job in a factory or a farm after about six months ― places he did not want to work because he would feel "enslaved."
| A man consults a staff member from the joint consulting outreach project for refugees held in April 2011 by the UNHCR Korea and the National Human Rights Commission of Korea at Seongdong-gu District Office in Seoul. Korea Times file |
Asked about Delaj, the UNHCR refused to comment on any individual cases.
Nancen explained that it only provided emergency funds to cash-strapped refugees and shared information or work with government immigration offices or humanitarian agencies such as Save the Children and Korean Red Cross.
Pnan, helping mainly refugee applicants, said it provided about 40 foreigners, including Yemenis on Jeju Island, with temporary shelter with a maximum stay period of one month. The agency said it also helped visitors with basic livelihood, medication, education, children, employment and chances for social contribution.
"We are short-staffed so can't welcome so many visitors properly," Pnan executive director Lee Ho-taeg told The Korea Times.
A female Pnan staff member who met Delaj sent him an email apology following his visit, saying that she "didn't mean to ignore him" but she had been busy. She said her team called many restaurants, car-wash companies and factories, but they wanted people who could work 12-hour shifts and speak fluent Korean.
"It's really not easy to find only a 5-8 hour job for a G -1 visa holder," said the staff member in the email.
On his first visit to Pnan, Delaj met a man from Angola who was sobbing and asking the agency for help. Delaj, who claims he speaks seven European languages including Portuguese, Spanish and French, helped the man with translation for the agency. Delaj worked three hours the first day and four hours the next day for which he was paid 8,000 won (little over $7) an hour.
"I helped him because of personal reasons, but mostly because I wanted Pnan to help me in return," Delaj said.
After the translation job, Delaj again asked the agency if it could help him, but it again offered the same factory work.
| In this street demonstration backed by Amnesty International's Korean office and Nancen at Bosingak in Jongno-gu, Seoul, in September 2018, members of the Egyptian Unions in South Korea urge the government to improve human rights for refugees and to ease the evaluation process for asylum seekers. The protesters hold banners that read "We object to refugee-phobia," 'We welcome refugees' and 'Let's support refugees.' Korea Times photo by Choi Won-suk |
"I specifically asked an agency staff member why refugees always have to work at factories," said Delaj. "I told them refugees are all people, not slaves."
When he sought a free Korean language course at Konkuk University in Seoul, he was offered a construction job. To him, this was not much different than a factory job.
After he got a government work permit, Delaj worked for three months at an Italian restaurant in Gangnam near his gosiwon. There, he formed a rare relationship with a Korean that was not based on hatred, lies or anti-refugee bigotry but real friendship.
"The only person who was kind to me was the head chef," said Delaj. "He didn't care what country I was from or if I was a refugee. He was always making efforts (to form a good relationship with me)."
By the end of three months, he argued with two Korean managers there who did not like him. He said they asked why he came to Korea, why he sought refugee status and what he wanted here.
Already hoodwinked by the restaurant owner, who had promised to raise his salary after three months, he quit.
"The head chef wanted me to stay, but I told him there would be no solutions," Delaj said. "He seemed to feel partly guilty for what happened. He almost cried."
The owner, on the other hand, did not do anything even after he quit.
Delaj says he cannot stay in his present situation, which was why he spoke to The Korea Times.
"I think one year is already enough to wait and have some answers from the government," he said. "They didn't even give me the chance to explain why I came here."