In organizing their colonial administration, the French used these pre-existing local ideas of race and racial differences (Lecocq, 2005; Hall, 2011a). Affinities between the racial ideas of the Sahelian region and those of France were clear: as Hall (2011a: 2, 16) argues, “a language of race was shared by both colonizer and colonized, albeit in different configurations and meanings for each.” The colonial encounter produced “new kinds of dialogue and negotiations that invoked race between French officials and Africans, and between Africans themselves in the new circumstances of colonial rule” (Hall, 2011a: 17). Colonizing Europeans perceived the local Tuareg elite as “an alien invader which had subdued an indigenous African population” (Lecocq, 2005: 45-46). Some even assumed those elite Tuaregs to be white people of European ancestry, reflecting the colonial project itself (Lecocq, 2005). Fluid, flexible identities were transformed into more rigid, essentialized categories (Amselle, 1998).

By exerting such homogenizing pressures, France's colonial regime reduced the social and political complexities of the Sahelian region “into a series of dichotomous and mutually exclusive groupings, namely nomad and sedentary, master and slave, black and white” (Hall, 2011a: 109), notions which have since entered everyday life (Lecocq, 2005). Although crafted from existing materials, these categories were, along with the racial rhetoric of colonialism and its attendant imperialist violence, crucial to the maintenance of slavery and servility. They made race a key marker of identity and power (Hall, 2011b; Pierre, 2020). Local social hierarchies were, therefore, drastically racialized by the colonial encounter.

The idiom of race became important in the decolonial struggles of the 1950s and the early years after Mali's independence in 1960, when the project to create a postcolonial nation-state was “specifically based on Mali as a Mande nation” (Lecocq, 2010: 367). The Bellah question and its politicization were gradually transformed into a policy of social and economic emancipation (Lecocq, 2005; Hall, 2011b). Hall (2011b: 65) explains that in northern Mali, “postcolonial development strategies aimed — at least rhetorically — at the empowerment of socially subordinate people and the elimination of purported feudal and racial privilege for noble Tuareg in particular.” Mali's new political elite considered the whiteness of the Tuareg nobility to be a threat, along with their nomadic way of life, as signs of otherness belonging to the past (Lecocq, 2005; Hall, 2011a, 2011b). Malian independence saw ethnic labels acquire a new racial dimension: “white” or “red” for Arabs, Tuaregs and Fulani, and “black” for Songhay, Bambara and Dogon (Hall, 2011a). Many Tuaregs and pastoralists felt that they would have no place in the new post-colonial Mali, which was to be run by blacks for the benefit of blacks (Lecocq, 2005; Hall, 2011a). Such ethnic and racialized representations would resurface at various times after independence, bringing racialized violence with them. Race had become a cornerstone of post-colonial Malian state-building.

Today, competing claims of racial oppression are omnipresent in Mali (Hall, 2011a). For our white/red-skinned Tuareg and Fulani interlocutors, Mali's post-colonial government is still “black-controlled for black interests”, and this black-dominated government is nothing less than as a recolonization of their lands by the southern part of the country, which has dispossessed and marginalized Tuareg, pastoralist and nomadic populations since independence. At the same time, black people remember the racial violence of the centuries-long
In organizing their colonial administration, the French used these pre-existing local ideas of race and racial differences (Lecocq, 2005; Hall, 2011a). Affinities between the racial ideas of the Sahelian region and those of France were clear: as Hall (2011a: 2, 16) argues, “a language of race was shared by both colonizer and colonized, albeit in different configurations and meanings for each.” The colonial encounter produced “new kinds of dialogue and negotiations that invoked race between French officials and Africans, and between Africans themselves in the new circumstances of colonial rule” (Hall, 2011a: 17). Colonizing Europeans perceived the local Tuareg elite as “an alien invader which had subdued an indigenous African population” (Lecocq, 2005: 45-46). Some even assumed those elite Tuaregs to be white people of European ancestry, reflecting the colonial project itself (Lecocq, 2005). Fluid, flexible identities were transformed into more rigid, essentialized categories (Amselle, 1998).

By exerting such homogenizing pressures, France's colonial regime reduced the social and political complexities of the Sahelian region “into a series of dichotomous and mutually exclusive groupings, namely nomad and sedentary, master and slave, black and white” (Hall, 2011a: 109), notions which have since entered everyday life (Lecocq, 2005). Although crafted from existing materials, these categories were, along with the racial rhetoric of colonialism and its attendant imperialist violence, crucial to the maintenance of slavery and servility. They made race a key marker of identity and power (Hall, 2011b; Pierre, 2020). Local social hierarchies were, therefore, drastically racialized by the colonial encounter.

The idiom of race became important in the decolonial struggles of the 1950s and the early years after Mali's independence in 1960, when the project to create a postcolonial nation-state was “specifically based on Mali as a Mande nation” (Lecocq, 2010: 367). The Bellah question and its politicization were gradually transformed into a policy of social and economic emancipation (Lecocq, 2005; Hall, 2011b). Hall (2011b: 65) explains that in northern Mali, “postcolonial development strategies aimed — at least rhetorically — at the empowerment of socially subordinate people and the elimination of purported feudal and racial privilege for noble Tuareg in particular.” Mali's new political elite considered the whiteness of the Tuareg nobility to be a threat, along with their nomadic way of life, as signs of otherness belonging to the past (Lecocq, 2005; Hall, 2011a, 2011b). Malian independence saw ethnic labels acquire a new racial dimension: “white” or “red” for Arabs, Tuaregs and Fulani, and “black” for Songhay, Bambara and Dogon (Hall, 2011a). Many Tuaregs and pastoralists felt that they would have no place in the new post-colonial Mali, which was to be run by blacks for the benefit of blacks (Lecocq, 2005; Hall, 2011a). Such ethnic and racialized representations would resurface at various times after independence, bringing racialized violence with them. Race had become a cornerstone of post-colonial Malian state-building.

Today, competing claims of racial oppression are omnipresent in Mali (Hall, 2011a). For our white/red-skinned Tuareg and Fulani interlocutors, Mali's post-colonial government is still “black-controlled for black interests”, and this black-dominated government is nothing less than as a recolonization of their lands by the southern part of the country, which has dispossessed and marginalized Tuareg, pastoralist and nomadic populations since independence. At the same time, black people remember the racial violence of the centuries-long
trans-Saharan slave trade. Both black people and white or red people deploy
competing narratives of racial oppression in which they become the victims of
racism (Hall, 2011a).

Here, a key point must be emphasized: when the terms "black", "white", and "red", and, also, "race" itself are used in this article, they are not used as objective or essential descriptors of physical or biological differences. Although the race-concept may be "ocular" and may arrive with a "crucial corporeal dimension" (Omi and Winant 2014: 13), it is socially constructed and historically fluid — and not rooted in any objective, material reality. As Omi and Winant (2014: 13) explain, "human bodies are visually read, understood, and narrated by means of symbolic meanings and associations", as well as classified for purposes of domination and resistance. This kind of classification requires the race-concept: however, due to its socially constructed nature and its historical fluidity, the meaning of race has always changed over time. That meaning differs according to the sociohistorical conditions prevalent in whatever setting in which race is embedded (Omi and Winant, 2014). Race, to quote these authors, is "unstable, flexible, and subject to constant conflict and reinvention" (Omi and Winant, 2014: 8). It embodies consequences in terms of prejudice, discrimination and racial stratification — but in order to prevent a fixed and static understanding of race, we should approach it, as Omi and Winant (2014: 13) do, via the processual notion of "racialization". This permits an emphasis on the historically and locally constructed nature of racial categorizations, and the ways in which they attribute, on the basis of perceived phenotypical differences, stigma to some and honour or dignity to others.

As Omi and Winant (2014: 10) argue, "race operates in the space of intersections, at the crossroads where social structure and experience meet". The existence of racial groups and identities is not prior to the social relationships, everyday experiences, and personal interactions that produce them. Processes of racial formation occur "through a linkage between structure and signification. [...] Racial projects connect what race *means* in a particular discursive or ideological practice and the ways in which both social structures and everyday experiences are racially *organized*, based upon that meaning" (Omi and Winant, 2014: 125). What is important, then, is the ways in which racial formations are constructed and reconstructed over time, and the specific impacts that these processes have on particular social relationships, on the way race is understood as everyday "common sense", as well as on individual and collective everyday experiences (Omi and Winant, 2014). This is why we trace both the development of racial formations in Mali, and the ways in which those formations are recast through the implementation of the "migration-development-security" nexus. Our aim is to understand how racial claims are currently deployed by black returnees from Libya in Mali.

At the Intersection of Conflicts
and Racial Histories: Double Traumatic Memory

Histories of slavery and race (Hall, 2005, 2011; El Hamel, 2013; Pierre, 2020; King, 2021; Gross-Wyrtzen and Gazzotti, 2021) have long entangled Mali with North Africa in general and Libya in particular. We now turn to the web of relations
trans-Saharan slave trade. Both black people and white or red people deploy
competing narratives of racial oppression in which they become the victims of
racism (Hall, 2011a).

Here, a key point must be emphasized: when the terms "black", "white", and "red", and, also, "race" itself are used in this article, they are not used as objective or essential descriptors of physical or biological differences. Although the race-concept may be "ocular" and may arrive with a "crucial corporeal dimension" (Omi and Winant 2014: 13), it is socially constructed and historically fluid — and not rooted in any objective, material reality. As Omi and Winant (2014: 13) explain, "human bodies are visually read, understood, and narrated by means of symbolic meanings and associations", as well as classified for purposes of domination and resistance. This kind of classification requires the race-concept: however, due to its socially constructed nature and its historical fluidity, the meaning of race has always changed over time. That meaning differs according to the sociohistorical conditions prevalent in whatever setting in which race is embedded (Omi and Winant, 2014). Race, to quote these authors, is "unstable, flexible, and subject to constant conflict and reinvention" (Omi and Winant, 2014: 8). It embodies consequences in terms of prejudice, discrimination and racial stratification — but in order to prevent a fixed and static understanding of race, we should approach it, as Omi and Winant (2014: 13) do, via the processual notion of "racialization". This permits an emphasis on the historically and locally constructed nature of racial categorizations, and the ways in which they attribute, on the basis of perceived phenotypical differences, stigma to some and honour or dignity to others.

As Omi and Winant (2014: 10) argue, "race operates in the space of intersections, at the crossroads where social structure and experience meet". The existence of racial groups and identities is not prior to the social relationships, everyday experiences, and personal interactions that produce them. Processes of racial formation occur "through a linkage between structure and signification. [...] Racial projects connect what race *means* in a particular discursive or ideological practice and the ways in which both social structures and everyday experiences are racially *organized*, based upon that meaning" (Omi and Winant, 2014: 125). What is important, then, is the ways in which racial formations are constructed and reconstructed over time, and the specific impacts that these processes have on particular social relationships, on the way race is understood as everyday "common sense", as well as on individual and collective everyday experiences (Omi and Winant, 2014). This is why we trace both the development of racial formations in Mali, and the ways in which those formations are recast through the implementation of the "migration-development-security" nexus. Our aim is to understand how racial claims are currently deployed by black returnees from Libya in Mali.

At the Intersection of Conflicts
and Racial Histories: Double Traumatic Memory

Histories of slavery and race (Hall, 2005, 2011; El Hamel, 2013; Pierre, 2020; King, 2021; Gross-Wyrtzen and Gazzotti, 2021) have long entangled Mali with North Africa in general and Libya in particular. We now turn to the web of relations
between Mali and Libya that have provided a platform for racialization processes that link the present with the past. Current migration governance in Mali, we show, does not operate in a vacuum: it also intersects with long and situated histories of mobility, racial violence, and state formation. Those histories do not belong to Mali alone but are also part of its relationship with Libya. Presentist accounts of African migration as a "new phenomenon" or as a "crisis" often overshadow these histories of mobility (Lemberg-Pedersen, 2019; Deridder et al., 2020; Ould Moctar, 2020; Gross-Wyrtzen and Gazzotti, 2021; Gazzotti et al., 2022; Gross-Wyrtzen and El Yacoubi, 2022). When, in contemporary Mali, racial formations change and black returnees make their claims, these historical legacies, situated mobilities and direct, and recent, experiences of racism and xenophobia play crucial roles.

Northern and Central Mali are one of the most important “hotspots” of racial conflicts in both Mali itself and in the Sahelian region. In that regional context, the shared history of mobilities which connect Mali and Libya have a peculiar importance (Gary-Tounkara, 2013; Sylla, 2019, 2020). Although Libya is often seen as only a gateway to Europe, it was also one of the most important destination countries for Malian migrants and has been pivotal for inter-African labour migration. Today, that history continues in the form of deportations of Malian migrants from Libya. This is the latest turn in the shared Malian-Libyan history of mobility, which has, at certain moments, produced different experiences of exile, migration, violence, and racism.

The three Tuareg rebellions that have marked Mali's post-colonial history, in 1962-1964, 1990-1996, and 2006-2009, are among the most important of these moments. Many Tuaregs were pastoral nomads and caravan traders. Principally inhabiting the Sahara, the Tuareg "trace their origins to various places in the Maghreb and Libya" (Lecocq, 2004: 89). This means that their political organizations extend across national boundaries in a vast area stretching from Algeria, Burkina Faso, Libya, Mali, to Niger. Tuareg people have historically expressed aspirations to self-government: even before decolonization, they resisted the colonial power, as they later contested the modernist project of independent Mali. In the name of that project, the postcolonial Malian state sought to dismantle Tuareg and Fulani socio-political structures. It condemned these as feudal, backward and nothing less than a "premodern obstacle to modern life" (Lecocq, 2004: 105). This perception was particularly acute regarding the nomadic and pastoralist white-skinned chieftaincies that had acquired an ambivalent "colonial privilege" under French colonization (Lecocq and Klute, 2013: 426).

Tuareg and Fulani pastoralists were, thus, placed under considerable pressure. The postcolonial state created livestock cooperatives with the aim of integrating pastoralists into the national economy. The Tuaregs and the Fulani were obliged to sell their cattle through these monopolistic institutions (Boilley, 1999). Caravans to Algeria and Libya were drastically restricted. These policies were perceived by Tuaregs and pastoralists as a new form of colonization, this time carried out by southern, black, Mali. They became a major source of discontent among the Tuaregs and other pastoralist populations.
between Mali and Libya that have provided a platform for racialization processes that link the present with the past. Current migration governance in Mali, we show, does not operate in a vacuum: it also intersects with long and situated histories of mobility, racial violence, and state formation. Those histories do not belong to Mali alone but are also part of its relationship with Libya. Presentist accounts of African migration as a "new phenomenon" or as a "crisis" often overshadow these histories of mobility (Lemberg-Pedersen, 2019; Deridder et al., 2020; Ould Moctar, 2020; Gross-Wyrtzen and Gazzotti, 2021; Gazzotti et al., 2022; Gross-Wyrtzen and El Yacoubi, 2022). When, in contemporary Mali, racial formations change and black returnees make their claims, these historical legacies, situated mobilities and direct, and recent, experiences of racism and xenophobia play crucial roles.

Northern and Central Mali are one of the most important “hotspots” of racial conflicts in both Mali itself and in the Sahelian region. In that regional context, the shared history of mobilities which connect Mali and Libya have a peculiar importance (Gary-Tounkara, 2013; Sylla, 2019, 2020). Although Libya is often seen as only a gateway to Europe, it was also one of the most important destination countries for Malian migrants and has been pivotal for inter-African labour migration. Today, that history continues in the form of deportations of Malian migrants from Libya. This is the latest turn in the shared Malian-Libyan history of mobility, which has, at certain moments, produced different experiences of exile, migration, violence, and racism.

The three Tuareg rebellions that have marked Mali's post-colonial history, in 1962-1964, 1990-1996, and 2006-2009, are among the most important of these moments. Many Tuaregs were pastoral nomads and caravan traders. Principally inhabiting the Sahara, the Tuareg "trace their origins to various places in the Maghreb and Libya" (Lecocq, 2004: 89). This means that their political organizations extend across national boundaries in a vast area stretching from Algeria, Burkina Faso, Libya, Mali, to Niger. Tuareg people have historically expressed aspirations to self-government: even before decolonization, they resisted the colonial power, as they later contested the modernist project of independent Mali. In the name of that project, the postcolonial Malian state sought to dismantle Tuareg and Fulani socio-political structures. It condemned these as feudal, backward and nothing less than a "premodern obstacle to modern life" (Lecocq, 2004: 105). This perception was particularly acute regarding the nomadic and pastoralist white-skinned chieftaincies that had acquired an ambivalent "colonial privilege" under French colonization (Lecocq and Klute, 2013: 426).

Tuareg and Fulani pastoralists were, thus, placed under considerable pressure. The postcolonial state created livestock cooperatives with the aim of integrating pastoralists into the national economy. The Tuaregs and the Fulani were obliged to sell their cattle through these monopolistic institutions (Boilley, 1999). Caravans to Algeria and Libya were drastically restricted. These policies were perceived by Tuaregs and pastoralists as a new form of colonization, this time carried out by southern, black, Mali. They became a major source of discontent among the Tuaregs and other pastoralist populations.
Between 1963 and 1964, therefore, the Malian government faced its first Tuareg
rebellion. The black-dominated Malian army brutally repressed the rebels: there
were public executions and massacres of both cattle and people (Boilley, 1999;
Lecocq, 2010; Hall, 2011a). Then, the central government in Bamako put the three
northern territories of Tombouctou, Gao, and Kidal under a military administra-
tion that local people saw as a military occupation. Many Tuareg people fled
to Algeria and Libya. The marginalization of northern populations (particularly
Tuareg groups), in postcolonial Mali was triggered by this bloody conflict. It
strongly reinforced a situation of widespread mistrust and division between the
"white" or "red" pastoralist populations of northern and central Mali and the
black populations of the south and the capital.

Then, in the 1970s and 1980s, Mali and the Sahelian region suffered two major droughts. These disasters destroyed many of the herds of cattle and small ruminants on which pastoralist populations depended for their subsistence, and whose stocks had not yet been replenished since the massacres of the first rebellion (Boilley 1999; Lecocq, 2004). The pastoral economy of the region almost collapsed. Moreover, little of the international aid intended for drought-stricken populations reached the north of Mali, due to high levels of corruption within the black-dominated ruling elites in Bamako (Bourgeot, 1990; Klute, 1995; Boilley, 1999; Lecocq, 2004). These droughts eroded the Tuareg's pastoral lifestyle and drove them to work in agriculture, urban wage-earning, and trans-Saharan smuggling activities. After that, Tuareg people and pastoralist populations have migrated to Libya and other countries in North or West Africa. Many young Tuareg men of different national origins enlisted in the Libyan armed forces. A shared experience of exile (Klute, 1995) contributed to the historical consciousness of these young Tuaregs, and their political consciousness, also, began to develop. A painful common past, a common language (albeit one divided into different dialects), and a shared brotherhood as soldiers in Libyan service all helped to unite them. The idea of reactivating the first insurrection began to grow.

In the 1990s, Tuareg militias rose again against the Malian state, in what would become known as the second Tuareg Rebellion (1990-1995). Following its blueprint of the 1960s rebellion, the Malian state responded with violence against rebels and civilians. These tactics degenerated quickly into violence based on local categories of racial and ethnic differences. The Tuareg and the Arab rebels identified themselves as "non-blacks", who were fighting against the black-dominated government and army of Mali. The rebels' grievances were often expressed in the language of racial oppression: "Tuareg intellectuals presented a picture of themselves as an oppressed racial minority forced to fight brutal and corrupt regimes that targeted them because of historically driven racial animus" (Hall, 2011a: 3).

Such language was not confined to the Tuareg. During the conflict in northern
Mali, a famous black vigilante movement called the Ganda Koy was created. It
grouped black farmers from different ethnic groups living in the north (mainly
Songhai, Bozo, Dogon, as well as slave descendants from Fulani and Tuareg
societies). Recalling the historical legacy of the trans-Saharan slave trade, the
Ganda Koy asserted that the "rebels" were racists, mercenaries of Gaddafi and
slave traders who considered all black people to be servile, inferior beings.
Between 1963 and 1964, therefore, the Malian government faced its first Tuareg rebellion. The black-dominated Malian army brutally repressed the rebels: there were public executions and massacres of both cattle and people (Boilley, 1999; Lecocq, 2010; Hall, 2011a). Then, the central government in Bamako put the three northern territories of Tombouctou, Gao, and Kidal under a military administration that local people saw as a military occupation. Many Tuareg people fled to Algeria and Libya. The marginalization of northern populations (particularly Tuareg groups), in postcolonial Mali was triggered by this bloody conflict. It strongly reinforced a situation of widespread mistrust and division between the "white" or "red" pastoralist populations of northern and central Mali and the black populations of the south and the capital.

Then, in the 1970s and 1980s, Mali and the Sahelian region suffered two major droughts. These disasters destroyed many of the herds of cattle and small ruminants on which pastoralist populations depended for their subsistence, and whose stocks had not yet been replenished since the massacres of the first rebellion (Boilley 1999; Lecocq, 2004). The pastoral economy of the region almost collapsed. Moreover, little of the international aid intended for drought-stricken populations reached the north of Mali, due to high levels of corruption within the black-dominated ruling elites in Bamako (Bourgeot, 1990; Klute, 1995; Boilley, 1999; Lecocq, 2004). These droughts eroded the Tuareg's pastoral lifestyle and drove them to work in agriculture, urban wage-earning, and trans-Saharan smuggling activities. After that, Tuareg people and pastoralist populations have migrated to Libya and other countries in North or West Africa. Many young Tuareg men of different national origins enlisted in the Libyan armed forces. A shared experience of exile (Klute, 1995) contributed to the historical consciousness of these young Tuaregs, and their political consciousness, also, began to develop. A painful common past, a common language (albeit one divided into different dialects), and a shared brotherhood as soldiers in Libyan service all helped to unite them. The idea of reactivating the first insurrection began to grow.

In the 1990s, Tuareg militias rose again against the Malian state, in what would become known as the second Tuareg Rebellion (1990-1995). Following its blueprint of the 1960s rebellion, the Malian state responded with violence against rebels and civilians. These tactics degenerated quickly into violence based on local categories of racial and ethnic differences. The Tuareg and the Arab rebels identified themselves as "non-blacks", who were fighting against the black-dominated government and army of Mali. The rebels' grievances were often expressed in the language of racial oppression: "Tuareg intellectuals presented a picture of themselves as an oppressed racial minority forced to fight brutal and corrupt regimes that targeted them because of historically driven racial animus" (Hall, 2011a: 3).

Such language was not confined to the Tuareg. During the conflict in northern Mali, a famous black vigilante movement called the Ganda Koy was created. It grouped black farmers from different ethnic groups living in the north (mainly Songhai, Bozo, Dogon, as well as slave descendants from Fulani and Tuareg societies). Recalling the historical legacy of the trans-Saharan slave trade, the Ganda Koy asserted that the "rebels" were racists, mercenaries of Gaddafi and slave traders who considered all black people to be servile, inferior beings.
They depicted Tuaregs "as foreign elements seeking to dominate the indigenous Malian population" (Lecocq, 2010: 370). The Ganda Koy also described the Tuaregs as having always been bandits, who lived from raiding and brigandage.<fnref n="7" /> According to Lecocq and Klute (2013: 427), "this movement carried out pogroms against Tuareg and Arab inhabitants of the major cities in northern Mali", resulting "in the mass flight of around 100,000 Tuareg and Arabs to neighbouring countries". Rumours held that the Ganda Koy and its violence had the support of the Malian army and government. Certainly, deep scars were left in traumatised Tuareg memories, and civilians were the main victims of army retaliation (Klute, 1995; Boilley, 1999; Lecocq and Klute, 2013).

In 2006, a decade after the end of the rebellions of the 1990s, Tuaregs took up arms again. Many elements of the new insurgency were reminiscent of the rebellion of the 1990s, notably the socio-political marginalization of Mali's north and the disproportionate development of the south. These both seemed to signify failures of the peace agreement. This time, the army unit fighting the rebel movement was led by a former Tuareg combatant who had been integrated into the Malian army in compliance with the peace agreement (Lecocq, 2010). In 2009, the Malian State won the military struggle, bringing a temporary end to the conflict.

Our Tuareg interlocutors, who felt marginalized by state policies, used the strong words of "ethnic cleansing" to describe the atrocities committed by the Malian army in suppressing the rebellions of the past sixty years and the violent massacres of non-black civilians and livestock (Hall, 2011b; Lecocq, 2010). According to Lecocq (2010: 369), racial arguments have played a significant role in these conflicts: "The discursive shape the conflict between the Malian state and [the Tuaregs] took, forms part of a problem that haunts all of the Sahel, a problem often seen as one of ethnicity, but locally phrased in terms of race." This led to the massive exodus of Tuareg populations to neighbouring countries, especially to Libya, and the crafting of a traumatic memory at the intersection of racial formation, violence and conflicts, and Malian state formation. The rest of the country, however, mainly recalled that rebel leaders were integrated into the national political and military apparatus, and that the north of the country had benefited from socio-economic reintegration programs. As Lecocq (2010: 370) rightly noted, "the most interesting side to the racial aspect of the conflict between the Malian state and the [Tuaregs] is that both sides were equally obsessed with race and that both used racial discourses" fuelled by "mutual distrust and negative preconceived stereotyped images".

In the context of these conflicts in Mali, Libya played a crucial role. From the time of Malian independence onwards, it hosted Tuareg people fleeing state violence. Nor was this all: in line with his Pan-Arab and Pan-African political ambitions, the Libyan leader Gaddafi long portrayed himself as a Tuareg and a defender of the Tuareg cause. As a result of his ambivalent geopolitical interests and intentions, many of the young Tuareg who were welcomed in Libya enlisted into the Libyan armed forces, and were deployed, during the 1970s and the 1980s, in several Libyan military campaigns, for instance in Chad and Lebanon. Others, however,

<footnote n="7">7 Le Monde diplomatique (1995) « Négrafricanisme » et racisme, [online]. URL: https://www.monde-diplomatique.fr/1995/04/CLAUDOT_HAWAD/6337</footnote>
They depicted Tuaregs "as foreign elements seeking to dominate the indigenous Malian population" (Lecocq, 2010: 370). The Ganda Koy also described the Tuaregs as having always been bandits, who lived from raiding and brigandage.<fnref n="7" /> According to Lecocq and Klute (2013: 427), "this movement carried out pogroms against Tuareg and Arab inhabitants of the major cities in northern Mali", resulting "in the mass flight of around 100,000 Tuareg and Arabs to neighbouring countries". Rumours held that the Ganda Koy and its violence had the support of the Malian army and government. Certainly, deep scars were left in traumatised Tuareg memories, and civilians were the main victims of army retaliation (Klute, 1995; Boilley, 1999; Lecocq and Klute, 2013).

In 2006, a decade after the end of the rebellions of the 1990s, Tuaregs took up arms again. Many elements of the new insurgency were reminiscent of the rebellion of the 1990s, notably the socio-political marginalization of Mali's north and the disproportionate development of the south. These both seemed to signify failures of the peace agreement. This time, the army unit fighting the rebel movement was led by a former Tuareg combatant who had been integrated into the Malian army in compliance with the peace agreement (Lecocq, 2010). In 2009, the Malian State won the military struggle, bringing a temporary end to the conflict.

Our Tuareg interlocutors, who felt marginalized by state policies, used the strong words of "ethnic cleansing" to describe the atrocities committed by the Malian army in suppressing the rebellions of the past sixty years and the violent massacres of non-black civilians and livestock (Hall, 2011b; Lecocq, 2010). According to Lecocq (2010: 369), racial arguments have played a significant role in these conflicts: "The discursive shape the conflict between the Malian state and [the Tuaregs] took, forms part of a problem that haunts all of the Sahel, a problem often seen as one of ethnicity, but locally phrased in terms of race." This led to the massive exodus of Tuareg populations to neighbouring countries, especially to Libya, and the crafting of a traumatic memory at the intersection of racial formation, violence and conflicts, and Malian state formation. The rest of the country, however, mainly recalled that rebel leaders were integrated into the national political and military apparatus, and that the north of the country had benefited from socio-economic reintegration programs. As Lecocq (2010: 370) rightly noted, "the most interesting side to the racial aspect of the conflict between the Malian state and the [Tuaregs] is that both sides were equally obsessed with race and that both used racial discourses" fuelled by "mutual distrust and negative preconceived stereotyped images".

In the context of these conflicts in Mali, Libya played a crucial role. From the time of Malian independence onwards, it hosted Tuareg people fleeing state violence. Nor was this all: in line with his Pan-Arab and Pan-African political ambitions, the Libyan leader Gaddafi long portrayed himself as a Tuareg and a defender of the Tuareg cause. As a result of his ambivalent geopolitical interests and intentions, many of the young Tuareg who were welcomed in Libya enlisted into the Libyan armed forces, and were deployed, during the 1970s and the 1980s, in several Libyan military campaigns, for instance in Chad and Lebanon. Others, however,

<footnote n="7">7 Le Monde diplomatique (1995) « Négrafricanisme » et racisme, [online]. URL: https://www.monde-diplomatique.fr/1995/04/CLAUDOT_HAWAD/6337</footnote>
waves of “irregular” migration and, according to official rhetoric, offer good working conditions to Malian migrants recruited through official channels (Sylla, 2020). Articles 2, 4, 5 and 11 of this agreement obliged Malian candidates for emigration to Libya to obtain a formal employment contract. Working conditions and employee rights were defined in these contracts, while obtaining a residence permit was conditional on the existence of an employment contract (Perrin, 2008). However, the bureaucratic and administrative costs involved in obtaining these formal contracts were a major obstacle for many Malians hoping to migrate legally to Libya. Many such migrants, therefore, continued to use informal migration networks to get to Libya. Once there, legal papers remained hard to get, keeping undocumented Malian migrants in Libya in a precarious situation. In 1987, 80% of Malians living in Libya were considered “illegal” immigrants (Sylla, 2020). The bilateral agreement of 1980 allowed for the “illegislation” of Malian undocumented workers in Libya and enabled their expulsion. As an oil-based “rentier” state, Libya “both needed to attract an immigrant workforce and was exposed to the volatility of oil prices [...] with periods of unemployment during which the presence of migrants was seen as a burden” (DeVargas and Donzelli, 2014: 246-247). Recruitment programmes tended to alternate with mass deportations, depending on changes in the political situation (Puig, 2020).

Over the historical course of this Mali-Libya relationship, there were several waves of expulsion of unwanted migrants from Libya, in 1979, 1981, 1985, 1995, 2000 and 2007 (Bensaâd, 2012): these events were related to Libyan domestic political matters and to Gaddafi's geopolitical ambitions. Expulsions happened in the form of both official repatriation convoys and violent, unannounced mass expulsions. In an economic context weakened by the decline of its rentier oil-based model, Libya ensured the "reversibility of migration" alternating periods of openness and closure (Bensaâd, 2012). Libya oscillated between calls for a new labour force, pan-Africanist claims, and expulsions.

The expulsions of the 2000s concerned exclusively sub-Saharan migrants and took on the appearance of race-based massacres (Bensaâd, 2002). The beginning of the 2000s also marked a major change in Gaddafi's agenda for migration: he aligned with European interests who were externalizing their "border control" (Haddad, 2009; Paoletti, 2011). Gaddafi presented himself as the EU's border guard, or the gatekeeper of black African migration flows towards Europe, and Libya as a respectable migration partner for the EU in the region. Several cooperation agreements on migration were concluded. This resulted in a tightening of border controls and an expansion of the detention infrastructure for those being repatriated. This was funded by the EU and characterized by inhuman conditions (Haddad, 2009; DeVargas and Donzelli, 2014). This shift in Gaddafi's strategy led from the illegalisation of irregular migrants to their criminalization "with direct consequences for the daily lives of migrants" (Puig, 2020: 163). Black Malian returnees from Libya generally told us that they had suffered various forms of racial violence, humiliations, and xenophobia while in Libya, reminding them of the servile, slave status associated with blackness. Many of them were arrested, molested, or imprisoned during their sojourn in Libya. Some of them reported failure to be paid after completing work. They were constantly subjected to verbal reactions ranging from mockery to outright hostility. Even children expressed disgust and insulted them in the streets.
waves of “irregular” migration and, according to official rhetoric, offer good working conditions to Malian migrants recruited through official channels (Sylla, 2020). Articles 2, 4, 5 and 11 of this agreement obliged Malian candidates for emigration to Libya to obtain a formal employment contract. Working conditions and employee rights were defined in these contracts, while obtaining a residence permit was conditional on the existence of an employment contract (Perrin, 2008). However, the bureaucratic and administrative costs involved in obtaining these formal contracts were a major obstacle for many Malians hoping to migrate legally to Libya. Many such migrants, therefore, continued to use informal migration networks to get to Libya. Once there, legal papers remained hard to get, keeping undocumented Malian migrants in Libya in a precarious situation. In 1987, 80% of Malians living in Libya were considered “illegal” immigrants (Sylla, 2020). The bilateral agreement of 1980 allowed for the “illegalisation” of Malian undocumented workers in Libya and enabled their expulsion. As an oil-based “rentier” state, Libya “both needed to attract an immigrant workforce and was exposed to the volatility of oil prices [...] with periods of unemployment during which the presence of migrants was seen as a burden” (DeVargas and Donzelli, 2014: 246-247). Recruitment programmes tended to alternate with mass deportations, depending on changes in the political situation (Puig, 2020).

Over the historical course of this Mali-Libya relationship, there were several waves of expulsion of unwanted migrants from Libya, in 1979, 1981, 1985, 1995, 2000 and 2007 (Bensaâd, 2012): these events were related to Libyan domestic political matters and to Gaddafi's geopolitical ambitions. Expulsions happened in the form of both official repatriation convoys and violent, unannounced mass expulsions. In an economic context weakened by the decline of its rentier oil-based model, Libya ensured the "reversibility of migration" alternating periods of openness and closure (Bensaâd, 2012). Libya oscillated between calls for a new labour force, pan-Africanist claims, and expulsions.

The expulsions of the 2000s concerned exclusively sub-Saharan migrants and took on the appearance of race-based massacres (Bensaâd, 2002). The beginning of the 2000s also marked a major change in Gaddafi's agenda for migration: he aligned with European interests who were externalizing their "border control" (Haddad, 2009; Paoletti, 2011). Gaddafi presented himself as the EU's border guard, or the gatekeeper of black African migration flows towards Europe, and Libya as a respectable migration partner for the EU in the region. Several cooperation agreements on migration were concluded. This resulted in a tightening of border controls and an expansion of the detention infrastructure for those being repatriated. This was funded by the EU and characterized by inhuman conditions (Haddad, 2009; DeVargas and Donzelli, 2014). This shift in Gaddafi's strategy led from the illegalisation of irregular migrants to their criminalization "with direct consequences for the daily lives of migrants" (Puig, 2020: 163). Black Malian returnees from Libya generally told us that they had suffered various forms of racial violence, humiliations, and xenophobia while in Libya, reminding them of the servile, slave status associated with blackness. Many of them were arrested, molested, or imprisoned during their sojourn in Libya. Some of them reported failure to be paid after completing work. They were constantly subjected to verbal reactions ranging from mockery to outright hostility. Even children expressed disgust and insulted them in the streets.
"In the street, bilakoro [boys] spit on you because you're black. But watch out if you react! If you react, their brothers will beat you. There's nowhere to complain. You should not answer, and you should let them pass." (Issiaka, Malian migrant back from Libya in 2012, Bamako, June 2012)

"People spat at me. They pinched their noses in the street as I walked by. The women took their loincloths to cover their noses, as if to say that we didn't wash ourselves. It was contemptuous. They threw stones at me." (Thomas, Malian migrant back from Libya in 2008, Bamako, September 2022)

In everyday life, black migrants were commonly referred to as "slave", attesting to their otherness and outsider-status in relation to Libyan society. Describing the anti-black racism he suffered, one of our interlocutors explained that: "In Libya, we were treated like donkeys, like dogs. We were considered slaves, dirty and sick, although there were a few exceptions and some people who appreciated our value." The racialization of black migrants portrayed them as a source of insecurity, and saw them accused of bringing delinquency, organized crime, drug trafficking, terrorism, prostitution, occult practices, disease, and epidemic diseases such as AIDS or Ebola.

Only subordinate jobs were available to Malian migrants. They were at the bottom of the social hierarchy in Libya and depended on their Libyan bosses for work, and, often, for accommodation and food as well.

"After the desert, we were taken to the city, where all the blacks like me often arrived. I started seeing a lot of the people we had met in the desert. We arrived at a Cameroonian restaurant, and they offered me something to eat. I ate like never before. I was so hungry. Then, they made us sleep in an old house with no roof and no door, but there was a tap with water. After that, we were told to come and eat in the restaurant every morning for free and to get our strength back for a week. After that, we started work on building sites, electricity, masonry, plumbing, etc. In other words, we walked behind a technician and in the evening, after the day's work, he gave us a little something." (Mahamadou, Malian migrant back from Libya in 2017, Bamako, December 2017)

The relationship between informal Malian workers and Libyan bosses was clearly asymmetrical and ambivalent: it constituted a form of patronage characterized by exploitation and care, based on an historical construction of blackness related to slavery and servility.

"Well, our relationship with the Libyans... it was a question of behaviour. You know, they are racist. They are really racist. Sometimes they make Africans suffer. Even if the Libyan authorities don't say to arrest black people, but if they see black people, they will arrest them to racketeer them, imprison them. [...] but there are situations where your boss can defend you. Because in general, if there are raids, bosses who are brave are at their door with guns, at the door of their workplace, and no policeman will dare to cross their door to come and arrest a black person even if your papers are not in order. [...] This life is not easy, I suffered too much there."
(Lassy, Malian migrant back from Libya in 2012, Bamako, May 2015)

Long-standing forms of racial discrimination and xenophobia took on a new dimension during the Libyan war in 2011, which led to the fall of Gaddafi and the collapse of his regime. Racism and the racialisation of black African migrants intensified (Puig, 2020). During the initial phase of the conflict, when Gaddafi was still in power, he threatened retaliation against Europe unless NATO countries ceased their military campaign against Libya. One form of retaliation would
"In the street, bilakoro [boys] spit on you because you're black. But watch out if you react! If you react, their brothers will beat you. There's nowhere to complain. You should not answer, and you should let them pass." (Issiaka, Malian migrant back from Libya in 2012, Bamako, June 2012)

"People spat at me. They pinched their noses in the street as I walked by. The women took their loincloths to cover their noses, as if to say that we didn't wash ourselves. It was contemptuous. They threw stones at me." (Thomas, Malian migrant back from Libya in 2008, Bamako, September 2022)

In everyday life, black migrants were commonly referred to as "slave", attesting to their otherness and outsider-status in relation to Libyan society. Describing the anti-black racism he suffered, one of our interlocutors explained that: "In Libya, we were treated like donkeys, like dogs. We were considered slaves, dirty and sick, although there were a few exceptions and some people who appreciated our value." The racialization of black migrants portrayed them as a source of insecurity, and saw them accused of bringing delinquency, organized crime, drug trafficking, terrorism, prostitution, occult practices, disease, and epidemic diseases such as AIDS or Ebola.

Only subordinate jobs were available to Malian migrants. They were at the bottom of the social hierarchy in Libya and depended on their Libyan bosses for work, and, often, for accommodation and food as well.

"After the desert, we were taken to the city, where all the blacks like me often arrived. I started seeing a lot of the people we had met in the desert. We arrived at a Cameroonian restaurant, and they offered me something to eat. I ate like never before. I was so hungry. Then, they made us sleep in an old house with no roof and no door, but there was a tap with water. After that, we were told to come and eat in the restaurant every morning for free and to get our strength back for a week. After that, we started work on building sites, electricity, masonry, plumbing, etc. In other words, we walked behind a technician and in the evening, after the day's work, he gave us a little something." (Mahamadou, Malian migrant back from Libya in 2017, Bamako, December 2017)

The relationship between informal Malian workers and Libyan bosses was clearly asymmetrical and ambivalent: it constituted a form of patronage characterized by exploitation and care, based on an historical construction of blackness related to slavery and servility.

"Well, our relationship with the Libyans... it was a question of behaviour. You know, they are racist. They are really racist. Sometimes they make Africans suffer. Even if the Libyan authorities don't say to arrest black people, but if they see black people, they will arrest them to racketeer them, imprison them. [...] but there are situations where your boss can defend you. Because in general, if there are raids, bosses who are brave are at their door with guns, at the door of their workplace, and no policeman will dare to cross their door to come and arrest a black person even if your papers are not in order. [...] This life is not easy, I suffered too much there."
(Lassy, Malian migrant back from Libya in 2012, Bamako, May 2015)

Long-standing forms of racial discrimination and xenophobia took on a new dimension during the Libyan war in 2011, which led to the fall of Gaddafi and the collapse of his regime. Racism and the racialisation of black African migrants intensified (Puig, 2020). During the initial phase of the conflict, when Gaddafi was still in power, he threatened retaliation against Europe unless NATO countries ceased their military campaign against Libya. One form of retaliation would
have involved an opening of Libya's maritime border, enabling an "invasion to Europe" of undocumented black African migrants. Alleging that Al-Qaeda was responsible for the Libyan uprising, Gaddafi also added that Europe would have to face an Islamic jihad "on its doorstep" in the Mediterranean. At that time, black Malian migrants were caught up in the violence of the conflict and trapped between two fronts: the pro-Gaddafi armed groups and the rebels. As one of our interlocutors explained:

"The rebels attacked black people accused of being pro-Gaddafi. The pro-Gaddafi groups attacked blacks because they were suspected of being Chadian or Sudanese black rebels. So, Blacks were systematically searched and hunted [la chasse aux noirs'.] Our belongings were taken away [....] And some ill-intentioned Libyans thought that Gaddafi had given good opportunities to black people in various towns and that, since Gaddafi was on the run, these groups should be targeted and attacked. This is how the Malians lost all their belongings during this conflict. They were between two fronts, and nobody liked them. The rebels considered them pro-Gaddafi. The pro-Gaddafi groups saw them as black African infiltrators." (Djibril, member of an association of returnees from Libya in Bamako, Bamako, December 2017)

This testimony<fnref n="13" /> alludes to the shady game Gaddafi played before his fall. In early 2011, it was rumoured that he had recruited Tuareg fighters and other black Sahelian mercenaries to join his troops fighting Libyan rebels, as he had done in the past (Sylla, 2020). According to Forte (2011), opposition spokesmen and anonymous "Libyan" Twitter accounts who would become associated with the Libyan rebels spread racial fear and propagated "accusations about foreign/black/African mercenaries engaged in 'massacres' against Libyans" (Forte, 2011). They brandished the black spectre of African mercenaries supposedly known for their ferocity and barbarism, another well-known racist trope (DeVargas and Donzelli, 2014). Libyan geopolitics thus continued its long history of producing racial formations of blackness as subalternity and outsiderness, formations that resonate with the anti-migrant and anti-black EU migration agenda.

## Black Returnees Contest Migration Governance in Mali: The Unexpected Racial Dimension

The outbreak of war in Libya in early 2011 saw hundreds of thousands of African migrants flee the country. After Gaddafi finally fell in October 2011, many Tuareg ex-combatants returned to Mali by the north of the country, bringing their weapons with them (Gary-Tounkara, 2013). Tuareg people were also victims of retaliation by Libyan rebels for their (real or presumed) support for Gaddafi. Many Malian migrants also went back, either by their own routes or through repatriation programmes organized by international organizations such as the IOM. NGOs were also active in the repatriation process, as was the High Council for Malians Living Abroad. Those who returned to Mali generally returned with nothing: most of them had lost everything. Their life projects were disrupted, provoking feelings of failure, shame, and frustration (Kleist, 2017). Once back

<footnote n="13">13 See for instance NPR quoting BBC interview: NPR (2005) *In Libya, African Migrants Say They Face Hostility*, [online]. URL: https://www.npr.org/2011/02/25/134065767/-/African-Migrants-Say-They-Face-Hostility-From-Libyans</footnote>
have involved an opening of Libya's maritime border, enabling an "invasion to Europe" of undocumented black African migrants. Alleging that Al-Qaeda was responsible for the Libyan uprising, Gaddafi also added that Europe would have to face an Islamic jihad "on its doorstep" in the Mediterranean. At that time, black Malian migrants were caught up in the violence of the conflict and trapped between two fronts: the pro-Gaddafi armed groups and the rebels. As one of our interlocutors explained:

"The rebels attacked black people accused of being pro-Gaddafi. The pro-Gaddafi groups attacked blacks because they were suspected of being Chadian or Sudanese black rebels. So, Blacks were systematically searched and hunted [la chasse aux noirs'.] Our belongings were taken away [....] And some ill-intentioned Libyans thought that Gaddafi had given good opportunities to black people in various towns and that, since Gaddafi was on the run, these groups should be targeted and attacked. This is how the Malians lost all their belongings during this conflict. They were between two fronts, and nobody liked them. The rebels considered them pro-Gaddafi. The pro-Gaddafi groups saw them as black African infiltrators." (Djibril, member of an association of returnees from Libya in Bamako, Bamako, December 2017)

This testimony<fnref n="13" /> alludes to the shady game Gaddafi played before his fall. In early 2011, it was rumoured that he had recruited Tuareg fighters and other black Sahelian mercenaries to join his troops fighting Libyan rebels, as he had done in the past (Sylla, 2020). According to Forte (2011), opposition spokesmen and anonymous "Libyan" Twitter accounts who would become associated with the Libyan rebels spread racial fear and propagated "accusations about foreign/black/African mercenaries engaged in 'massacres' against Libyans" (Forte, 2011). They brandished the black spectre of African mercenaries supposedly known for their ferocity and barbarism, another well-known racist trope (DeVargas and Donzelli, 2014). Libyan geopolitics thus continued its long history of producing racial formations of blackness as subalternity and outsiderness, formations that resonate with the anti-migrant and anti-black EU migration agenda.

## Black Returnees Contest Migration Governance in Mali: The Unexpected Racial Dimension

The outbreak of war in Libya in early 2011 saw hundreds of thousands of African migrants flee the country. After Gaddafi finally fell in October 2011, many Tuareg ex-combatants returned to Mali by the north of the country, bringing their weapons with them (Gary-Tounkara, 2013). Tuareg people were also victims of retaliation by Libyan rebels for their (real or presumed) support for Gaddafi. Many Malian migrants also went back, either by their own routes or through repatriation programmes organized by international organizations such as the IOM. NGOs were also active in the repatriation process, as was the High Council for Malians Living Abroad. Those who returned to Mali generally returned with nothing: most of them had lost everything. Their life projects were disrupted, provoking feelings of failure, shame, and frustration (Kleist, 2017). Once back

<footnote n="13">13 See for instance NPR quoting BBC interview: NPR (2005) *In Libya, African Migrants Say They Face Hostility*, [online]. URL: https://www.npr.org/2011/02/25/134065767/-/African-Migrants-Say-They-Face-Hostility-From-Libyans</footnote>
in Mali, Malian migrants had two main options for mitigating their unexpected and empty-handed return: to "take the road again" ("prendre la route encore une fois") to another destination as our interlocutors explained; or else to stay in Mali and try to build a new life project, often starting from scratch. Those who decided to stay often returned to their hometowns and villages; if not, they tried to navigate the new landscape of international aid through reintegration processes due to their new condition as "forced returnees" or "repatriates" (Puig, 2020).

In Mali, the management of return migration and expulsions from European and African countries has been a central parameter of political life. Non-state actors from the Malian diaspora and civil society have succeeded in politicizing the national public debate about migration. Migrant associations have generally argued for increased protection of migrants by the state, whose shortcomings and absence on the ground they have denounced (Gary-Tounkara, 2013; Siméant, 2014; Lecadet, 2016; Soukouna, 2020; Sylla, 2019 and 2020). In 2014, Mali became one of the first African countries to adopt a national migration policy (PONAM). One of its priorities was to better support Mali's repatriated migrants by offering them more protection and better conditions on their return home. Humanitarian and emergency assistance for Malian citizens abroad was also a key element of this policy. These policies required funds, which left their implementation dependent on contributions from international organizations and bilateral donors. PONAM's implementation took place, also, in the aftermath of the 2015 EU-Africa Valletta Summit on Migration, which saw the launch of the EU Emergency Trust Fund for Africa (EUTF for Africa). The declared purpose of this fund is to enhance stability by addressing the root causes of irregular migration and displaced persons in Africa. Today, the EUTF for Africa funds fifteen national programmes in Mali and the country is part of seventeen EUTF regional programmes — many of which have a security focus. European Development Cooperation Agencies, international organisations, and European NGOs are the “partners” that have received this funding: when implementing these programmes, they often subcontract some activities to Malian organisations. In this context, the IOM emerged as the main player in migration governance in Mali.

For "humanitarian" reasons, the Malian government is now collaborating with these EU and international organisations to implement the Assisted Voluntary Return and Reintegration programmes (AVRR). Collaboration, in this case, means that the Malian government lacks any real capacity to influence these policies and actions (Keita and Maïga, 2022). In any case, the moral force of the humanitarian motive (Fassin, 2011) makes it impossible to refuse or even contest the implementation of these programmes. In the context of the Libyan civil war and its aftermath, the IOM has presented the AVRR programmes as a humanitarian rescue operation aiding migrants in distress. It gives the impression of humanizing expulsions (Frowd, 2018: 1660), even if the aims were to stop and repatriate undocumented migrants. On their return, they might be promised access to them individual or collective reintegration projects, while their pain and the forced nature of the deportation of migrants would be veiled through seductive and depoliticizing development language and activities (Sylla and Cold-Ravnkilde, 2021). As we have seen, the expulsion of Malian migrants from Libya is not a novelty and is the continuation of practices that have existed since
in Mali, Malian migrants had two main options for mitigating their unexpected and empty-handed return: to "take the road again" ("prendre la route encore une fois") to another destination as our interlocutors explained; or else to stay in Mali and try to build a new life project, often starting from scratch. Those who decided to stay often returned to their hometowns and villages; if not, they tried to navigate the new landscape of international aid through reintegration processes due to their new condition as "forced returnees" or "repatriates" (Puig, 2020).

In Mali, the management of return migration and expulsions from European and African countries has been a central parameter of political life. Non-state actors from the Malian diaspora and civil society have succeeded in politicizing the national public debate about migration. Migrant associations have generally argued for increased protection of migrants by the state, whose shortcomings and absence on the ground they have denounced (Gary-Tounkara, 2013; Siméant, 2014; Lecadet, 2016; Soukouna, 2020; Sylla, 2019 and 2020). In 2014, Mali became one of the first African countries to adopt a national migration policy (PONAM). One of its priorities was to better support Mali's repatriated migrants by offering them more protection and better conditions on their return home. Humanitarian and emergency assistance for Malian citizens abroad was also a key element of this policy. These policies required funds, which left their implementation dependent on contributions from international organizations and bilateral donors. PONAM's implementation took place, also, in the aftermath of the 2015 EU-Africa Valletta Summit on Migration, which saw the launch of the EU Emergency Trust Fund for Africa (EUTF for Africa). The declared purpose of this fund is to enhance stability by addressing the root causes of irregular migration and displaced persons in Africa. Today, the EUTF for Africa funds fifteen national programmes in Mali and the country is part of seventeen EUTF regional programmes — many of which have a security focus. European Development Cooperation Agencies, international organisations, and European NGOs are the “partners” that have received this funding: when implementing these programmes, they often subcontract some activities to Malian organisations. In this context, the IOM emerged as the main player in migration governance in Mali.

For "humanitarian" reasons, the Malian government is now collaborating with these EU and international organisations to implement the Assisted Voluntary Return and Reintegration programmes (AVRR). Collaboration, in this case, means that the Malian government lacks any real capacity to influence these policies and actions (Keita and Maïga, 2022). In any case, the moral force of the humanitarian motive (Fassin, 2011) makes it impossible to refuse or even contest the implementation of these programmes. In the context of the Libyan civil war and its aftermath, the IOM has presented the AVRR programmes as a humanitarian rescue operation aiding migrants in distress. It gives the impression of humanizing expulsions (Frowd, 2018: 1660), even if the aims were to stop and repatriate undocumented migrants. On their return, they might be promised access to them individual or collective reintegration projects, while their pain and the forced nature of the deportation of migrants would be veiled through seductive and depoliticizing development language and activities (Sylla and Cold-Ravnkilde, 2021). As we have seen, the expulsion of Malian migrants from Libya is not a novelty and is the continuation of practices that have existed since
the 1980s: what is new is the institutional set-up of the repatriation process, and
the reception of migrants by international agencies such as the IOM.

Additionally, the number of protests about migration on Malian streets has declined since the adoption of the Global Compact for Migration by the UN in 2018. The negotiations that produced this Global Compact included civil society representatives from all over the world. The Malian representative was the president of a well-known association heavily involved in politicising migration issues in Mali. However, it is now more difficult for these associations to criticise a negotiated global political framework, in whose negotiations they were formally involved. During our interview in 2022, a representative of the Malian government denounced these Malian associations: "All they do is shout, but that's just to eat. They were there for the Global Compact. They took part in the negotiations." Moreover, since the launch of the EUTF for Africa, actors previously active in politicising migration issues in Mali have been co-opted into a "post-expulsion" market by implementing EU-funded reintegration projects for returnees.

The expectations of returnees and migrant associations are far from being met even if protest has declined. Some migrant associations benefit from a small part of donors' funding but feel excluded from access to the main funds. They criticize the state for being co-opted by its donors, who increasingly use funds for security matters. During the last decade, dissatisfaction among Malian black returnees "assisted" by international organisations and the Malian state has increased. For example, in 2020, returnees vandalized the reception centre in Bamako (La maison des Maliens de l'extérieur) because of the loss of their luggage during the repatriation process. This centre, financed by the EU and equipped by the IOM, has a capacity of around 200 places. It symbolically materialized the collaboration between the Malian government, OIM and the EU. Another example: following the fall of Gaddafi in Libya in 2011 and the Malian coup d'État of March 2012, the Malian government's management of the return of former Tuareg ex-combatants and black-skinned migrants from Libya was contested (Gary-Tounkara, 2013). The General Secretary of the Association malienne des expulsés (AME) in Bamako, meanwhile, publicly argued that one of the reasons behind the 2012 coup was the Malian government's handling of returnees from Libya in Mali: "Failure to care for people in forced return situations, particularly those returning from Libya, while at the same time, Tuaregs from that country were welcomed with arms and baggage to the palace of the President of the Republic. As if that was not enough, food and money were sent to these people to help them settle in."

Here, again, the problem was phrased in racial terms by black returnees as our
interlocutors regularly recalled: "I tell you, an adventurer from Libya, a black
adventurer from Libya, is worthless in the eyes of the Malian government." Black
returnees felt that they were unwanted, discriminated against, and abandoned
by "their" state. One of our interlocutors explained that in 2012: "When we
got off the plane [in Bamako], they put us on a bus that dropped us at the fair-
grounds. There was no mat, no food. There was no guide to tell you where to go
or how to organize yourself. They left us like that, like orphans." Black returnees
perceived racial discrimination by their own state, which, in their view, privileges
red-skinned Tuareg people over black returnees.
the 1980s: what is new is the institutional set-up of the repatriation process, and
the reception of migrants by international agencies such as the IOM.

Additionally, the number of protests about migration on Malian streets has declined since the adoption of the Global Compact for Migration by the UN in 2018. The negotiations that produced this Global Compact included civil society representatives from all over the world. The Malian representative was the president of a well-known association heavily involved in politicising migration issues in Mali. However, it is now more difficult for these associations to criticise a negotiated global political framework, in whose negotiations they were formally involved. During our interview in 2022, a representative of the Malian government denounced these Malian associations: "All they do is shout, but that's just to eat. They were there for the Global Compact. They took part in the negotiations." Moreover, since the launch of the EUTF for Africa, actors previously active in politicising migration issues in Mali have been co-opted into a "post-expulsion" market by implementing EU-funded reintegration projects for returnees.

The expectations of returnees and migrant associations are far from being met even if protest has declined. Some migrant associations benefit from a small part of donors' funding but feel excluded from access to the main funds. They criticize the state for being co-opted by its donors, who increasingly use funds for security matters. During the last decade, dissatisfaction among Malian black returnees "assisted" by international organisations and the Malian state has increased. For example, in 2020, returnees vandalized the reception centre in Bamako (La maison des Maliens de l'extérieur) because of the loss of their luggage during the repatriation process. This centre, financed by the EU and equipped by the IOM, has a capacity of around 200 places. It symbolically materialized the collaboration between the Malian government, OIM and the EU. Another example: following the fall of Gaddafi in Libya in 2011 and the Malian coup d'État of March 2012, the Malian government's management of the return of former Tuareg ex-combatants and black-skinned migrants from Libya was contested (Gary-Tounkara, 2013). The General Secretary of the Association malienne des expulsés (AME) in Bamako, meanwhile, publicly argued that one of the reasons behind the 2012 coup was the Malian government's handling of returnees from Libya in Mali: "Failure to care for people in forced return situations, particularly those returning from Libya, while at the same time, Tuaregs from that country were welcomed with arms and baggage to the palace of the President of the Republic. As if that was not enough, food and money were sent to these people to help them settle in."

Here, again, the problem was phrased in racial terms by black returnees as our
interlocutors regularly recalled: "I tell you, an adventurer from Libya, a black
adventurer from Libya, is worthless in the eyes of the Malian government." Black
returnees felt that they were unwanted, discriminated against, and abandoned
by "their" state. One of our interlocutors explained that in 2012: "When we
got off the plane [in Bamako], they put us on a bus that dropped us at the fair-
grounds. There was no mat, no food. There was no guide to tell you where to go
or how to organize yourself. They left us like that, like orphans." Black returnees
perceived racial discrimination by their own state, which, in their view, privileges
red-skinned Tuareg people over black returnees.
"After the problems of arrivals, the Tuaregs were escorted to the presidency while the rest of us were brought here to the fairgrounds [...]. The white Libyan adventurers were escorted from the airport to the White House [the presidential palace]. And we were picked up and brought here to the fairgrounds. [...] But we were all at zero. So, both groups, the blacks and the whites, tried to claim their rights. We, the blacks, were 13,000 while the Tuaregs were about 300. They received 50 million. Here in Mali, we, the 13,000, were granted 500,000 CFA francs." (Mohamed, Malian migrant repatriated from Libya, Bamako, March 2012)

They also denounced a range of eligibility criteria used to profile applicants to reintegration programs and to determine whether they were former combatants or repatriates from a country along the pre-defined "European Migration routes", or just simple people on the move. These criteria seem arbitrary to them.

"As we do not yet have a stable government [referring to the coups d'État and the transition], we didn't go to see them, we do not know how things are going. In any case, we will continue our actions. When there will be a stable government, we will approach them. Until now those who have come from Gao (in the north) receive aid, sugar, rice. This is what we have been looking for and have not yet received. We are not jealous or selfish of those who receive aid, but we have also the right to receive it. We also have the right to sugar because there are fathers among us, there are husbands with their wives and children and who do not know what to eat today. They can give sugar, rice, oil, but none of this has been given to us." (Mohamed, Malian migrant repatriated from Libya, Bamako, March 2013)

When black returnees fail to receive aid, this means a lot — both materially and symbolically. To be unrecognized by international organisations and the Malian state as legitimate beneficiaries of reintegration funds has an impact on their attempts to regain a positive social status as providers, and, according to local ideals of masculinity, as men (Kleist, 2017: 322).

Black returnees denounce the attention given to Tuareg people, who are often associated with terrorists and rebels, as a form of racial discrimination. They explain that former Tuareg combatants were enrolled in DDR (demobilization, disarmament, and reintegration) programs, which gives them an advantage over black returnees where possible economic reintegration is concerned (furthermore, these programmes were implemented exclusively in Mali's northern and central regions by MINUSMA, the United Nations Multidimensional Integrated Stabilization Mission in Mali). Moreover, humanitarian aid for internally displaced persons was, at first, mainly directed to the north, and then, later, to the central region of the country. Our interlocutors have the impression that they have been left out of the aid industry, which has a massive presence in Mali. They see themselves as unable to benefit from the aid rent despite their condition as "forced returnees" and the violence they have encountered. As Behrends (2020: 31) underlines, "technologies of aid work well with clearly delineated boundaries of who is and who is not entitled to aid. Those who are entitled to aid are rendered highly visible, while those not entitled to it are relegated to an invisible place, one in which aid can only be provided in a limited way". This structural disadvantage created by the aid industry takes the path of racial discrimination. It draws a colour line between, on one hand, "black returnees" who occupied subaltern positions in Libya and feel abandoned by the Malian state and, on the
"After the problems of arrivals, the Tuaregs were escorted to the presidency while the rest of us were brought here to the fairgrounds [...]. The white Libyan adventurers were escorted from the airport to the White House [the presidential palace]. And we were picked up and brought here to the fairgrounds. [...] But we were all at zero. So, both groups, the blacks and the whites, tried to claim their rights. We, the blacks, were 13,000 while the Tuaregs were about 300. They received 50 million. Here in Mali, we, the 13,000, were granted 500,000 CFA francs." (Mohamed, Malian migrant repatriated from Libya, Bamako, March 2012)

They also denounced a range of eligibility criteria used to profile applicants to reintegration programs and to determine whether they were former combatants or repatriates from a country along the pre-defined "European Migration routes", or just simple people on the move. These criteria seem arbitrary to them.

"As we do not yet have a stable government [referring to the coups d'État and the transition], we didn't go to see them, we do not know how things are going. In any case, we will continue our actions. When there will be a stable government, we will approach them. Until now those who have come from Gao (in the north) receive aid, sugar, rice. This is what we have been looking for and have not yet received. We are not jealous or selfish of those who receive aid, but we have also the right to receive it. We also have the right to sugar because there are fathers among us, there are husbands with their wives and children and who do not know what to eat today. They can give sugar, rice, oil, but none of this has been given to us." (Mohamed, Malian migrant repatriated from Libya, Bamako, March 2013)

When black returnees fail to receive aid, this means a lot — both materially and symbolically. To be unrecognized by international organisations and the Malian state as legitimate beneficiaries of reintegration funds has an impact on their attempts to regain a positive social status as providers, and, according to local ideals of masculinity, as men (Kleist, 2017: 322).

Black returnees denounce the attention given to Tuareg people, who are often associated with terrorists and rebels, as a form of racial discrimination. They explain that former Tuareg combatants were enrolled in DDR (demobilization, disarmament, and reintegration) programs, which gives them an advantage over black returnees where possible economic reintegration is concerned (furthermore, these programmes were implemented exclusively in Mali's northern and central regions by MINUSMA, the United Nations Multidimensional Integrated Stabilization Mission in Mali). Moreover, humanitarian aid for internally displaced persons was, at first, mainly directed to the north, and then, later, to the central region of the country. Our interlocutors have the impression that they have been left out of the aid industry, which has a massive presence in Mali. They see themselves as unable to benefit from the aid rent despite their condition as "forced returnees" and the violence they have encountered. As Behrends (2020: 31) underlines, "technologies of aid work well with clearly delineated boundaries of who is and who is not entitled to aid. Those who are entitled to aid are rendered highly visible, while those not entitled to it are relegated to an invisible place, one in which aid can only be provided in a limited way". This structural disadvantage created by the aid industry takes the path of racial discrimination. It draws a colour line between, on one hand, "black returnees" who occupied subaltern positions in Libya and feel abandoned by the Malian state and, on the
other hand, white/red-skinned Tuareg, perceived as former combatants who held
a higher social status in Gaddafi's army. However, left-out black returnees were
not passive. They actively challenged (albeit without much success) their invisibi-
lization through racial discrimination claims and demonstrations targeting the
Malian state. In so doing, they were trying to make themselves visible to those
who should have been able to see them.

Conclusion

To challenge the idea of the African continent as a non-racialized space, this
article has explored how racial arguments were unexpectedly deployed by black
returnees in Bamako after their repatriation from Libya. The racial consciousness
of returnees in Mali is rooted in processes of global racialization induced by
global migration governance, on one hand, and in local, situated legacies of
race and slavery in the Sahelian region, on the other. The language of slavery,
servility and subalternity is historically at the heart of racial formations in both
Mali and Libya. Race and racialization processes were also one of the corner-
stones of French colonization, and then of the post-colonial Malian state in
many respects. The Malian state has been enmeshed in racial violence and racial
formations linked to ethnicity since independence.

Today, in the context of the current conflict in Mali, the repatriation and rein-
tegration programmes and the exclusionary power effected upon those who
remain excluded from the aid industry have created a structural disadvantage
for black returnees in Bamako who are left out. We argue, therefore that the racial
grammar of the past, historically rooted in the country since the pre-colonial
period, is now being updated for the twenty-first century. It is being updated by
the Euro-African "migration-development-security" nexus and the contempo-
rary migration governance in Mali, as it is implemented through the aid industry.
They mobilize situated racial formations and migration politics that are mutually
constitutive and interrelated: they bring together multiple actors, institutions,
processes, histories, and scales. They intersect with long and situated histories
of mobility, racial violence and state formation in both Mali and Libya.

As Omi and Winant (2014: 10) argue, “race operates in the space of intersections, at the crossroads where social structure and experience meet”. Racial formations change over time and contexts. In Mali, a violent, double traumatic memory of whiteness and blackness roots contemporary racial formations and nationhood. Racial formations of blackness as subalternity and outsiderness resonate with an anti-migrant and anti-black EU migration agenda, while also being entangled with Mali’s current overlapping crises and conflicts since 2011.
other hand, white/red-skinned Tuareg, perceived as former combatants who held
a higher social status in Gaddafi's army. However, left-out black returnees were
not passive. They actively challenged (albeit without much success) their invisibi-
lization through racial discrimination claims and demonstrations targeting the
Malian state. In so doing, they were trying to make themselves visible to those
who should have been able to see them.

Conclusion

To challenge the idea of the African continent as a non-racialized space, this
article has explored how racial arguments were unexpectedly deployed by black
returnees in Bamako after their repatriation from Libya. The racial consciousness
of returnees in Mali is rooted in processes of global racialization induced by
global migration governance, on one hand, and in local, situated legacies of
race and slavery in the Sahelian region, on the other. The language of slavery,
servility and subalternity is historically at the heart of racial formations in both
Mali and Libya. Race and racialization processes were also one of the corner-
stones of French colonization, and then of the post-colonial Malian state in
many respects. The Malian state has been enmeshed in racial violence and racial
formations linked to ethnicity since independence.

Today, in the context of the current conflict in Mali, the repatriation and rein-
tegration programmes and the exclusionary power effected upon those who
remain excluded from the aid industry have created a structural disadvantage
for black returnees in Bamako who are left out. We argue, therefore that the racial
grammar of the past, historically rooted in the country since the pre-colonial
period, is now being updated for the twenty-first century. It is being updated by
the Euro-African "migration-development-security" nexus and the contempo-
rary migration governance in Mali, as it is implemented through the aid industry.
They mobilize situated racial formations and migration politics that are mutually
constitutive and interrelated: they bring together multiple actors, institutions,
processes, histories, and scales. They intersect with long and situated histories
of mobility, racial violence and state formation in both Mali and Libya.

As Omi and Winant (2014: 10) argue, “race operates in the space of intersections, at the crossroads where social structure and experience meet”. Racial formations change over time and contexts. In Mali, a violent, double traumatic memory of whiteness and blackness roots contemporary racial formations and nationhood. Racial formations of blackness as subalternity and outsiderness resonate with an anti-migrant and anti-black EU migration agenda, while also being entangled with Mali’s current overlapping crises and conflicts since 2011.
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**Gazzotti Lorena, Mouthaan Melissa and Natter Katharina** (2022) *Embracing complexity in “Southern” migration governance, Territory, Politics, Governance*, 11 (2), pp. 1-13.

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**IOM** (2012) *Migrants Caught in Crisis: The IOM Experience in Libya*, International Organization of Migration, Genève, Switzerland.

**Keita Boulaye et Maïga Soumana** (2022) La mise en œuvre du plan d’actions de la Valette au Mali : Initiatives de dissuasion migratoire et de « réinsertion », des migrants de retour pour quel résultat ?, *L’Espace politique*, 46, [en ligne]. DOI : https://doi.org/10.4000/espacepolitique.10900

**King Stephen Juan** (2021) Black Arabs and African migrants: Between slavery and racism in North Africa, *The Journal of North African Studies*, 26 (1), pp. 8-50.

**Kleist Nauja** (2017) Disrupted migration projects: the moral economy of involuntary return to Ghana from Libya, *Africa. Journal of the International African Institute*, 87 (2), pp. 322-342.

**Klute Georg** (1995) Hostilités et alliances. Archéologie de la dissidence des Touaregs au Mali, *Cahiers d'Etudes Africaines*, 137, pp. 55-71.

**Lecadet Clara** (2016) *Le manifeste des expulsés. Errance, survie et politique au Mali*, Tours, Presses universitaires François Rabelais.

**Lecocq Baz** (2010) *Disputed Desert: Decolonisation, Competing Nationalisms and Tuareg Rebellions in Northern Mali*, Leiden, Brill.

**Lecocq Baz** (2005) The Bellah question: Slave emancipation, race and social categories in late twentieth-century northern Mali, *Canadian Journal of African Studies*, 39 (1), pp. 42-68.

**Lecocq Baz** (2004) Unemployed Intellectuals in the Sahara: The Teshumara Nationalist Movement and the Revolutions in Tuareg Society, *International Review of Social History*, 49 (S12), pp. 87-109.

**Lecocq Baz and Klute Georg** (2013) Tuareg Separatism in Mali, *International Journal*, 68 (3), pp. 424-434.

**Lemberg-Pedersen Martin** (2019) Manufacturing Displacement. Externalization and Postcoloniality in European Migration Control, *Global Affairs*, 5 (3), pp. 247-271.

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**Mafu Lucas** (2019) The Libyan/Trans-Mediterranean Slave Trade, the African Union, and the Failure of Human Morality, *SAGE Open*, 9 (1), [online]. DOI: https://doi.org/10.1177/2158244019828849

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**Perrin Delphine** (2008) *Aspects juridiques de la migration circulaire dans l'espace Euro-Méditerranéen. Le cas de la Libye*, Florence, Institut universitaire européen.

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**Pierre Jemima** (2020) Slavery, Anthropological Knowledge, and the Racialization of Africans, *Current Anthropology*, 61 (S22), pp. 220-231.

**Puig Cepero Oriol** (2020) The Nigerien migrants in Gaddafi's Libya: between visibility and invisibility, in Jesper Bjarnesen and Simon Turner Eds., *Invisibility in African Displacements. From Structural Marginalization to Strategies of Avoidance*, London, Zed Books, pp. 160-177.

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**Sáenz Rogelio and Manges Douglas Karen** (2015) A Call for the Racialization of Immigration Studies: On the Transition of Ethnic Immigrants to Racialized Immigrants, *Sociology of Race and Ethnicity*, 1 (1), pp. 166-180.

**Scheele Judith** (2012) *Smugglers and Saints of the Sahara. Regional Connectivity in the Twentieth Century*, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

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**Soukouna Sadio** (2020) L'État malien entre négociations et résistances dans la formulation de politiques sur les migrations, *Anthropologie & développement*, 51, pp. 69-84.

**Stock Inka, Üstübici Ayşen and Schultz Susanne U.** (2019) *Externalization at work: responses to migration policies from the Global South*, 7 (48), [online]. DOI: https://doi.org/10.1186/s40878-019-0157-z

**Sylla Almamy** (2020) L'aventure libyenne et ses vécus politiques et sécuritaires pour les migrants maliens, *Anthropologie & développement*, 51, pp. 137-153.

**Sylla Almamy** (2019) « C'est devenu si je savais » : les trajectoires de réinsertion des rapatriés maliens de la Côte d'Ivoire et de la Libye entre 2002 et 2017, Thèse de doctorat en anthropologie, Bamako, Institut de Pédagogie Universitaire de Bamako.

**Sylla Almamy and Cold-Ravnkilde Signe Marie** (2021) *En Route to Europe? The Anti-politics of Deportation from North Africa to Mali*, *Geopolitics*, 27 (5), pp. 1390-1409.

**Triandafyllidou Anna** (2020) Decentering the study of migration governance: a radical view, *Geopolitics*, 27 (3), pp. 811-825.
**Paoletti Emanuela** (2011) Migration and foreign policy: the case of Libya, *The Journal of North African Studies*, 16 (2), pp. 215-231.

**Perrin Delphine** (2009) Les migrations en Libye, un instrument de la diplomatie Kadhafienne, *Outre-Terre*, 3 (23), pp. 289-303.

**Perrin Delphine** (2008) *Aspects juridiques de la migration circulaire dans l'espace Euro-Méditerranéen. Le cas de la Libye*, Florence, Institut universitaire européen.

**Pelckmans Lotte** (2015) Mali: Intra-ethnic fragmentation and the emergence of new (in-)security actors, in Kasper Hoffman and Louise Wiuff Moe Eds., *Protection and (in)Security beyond the State: Insights from Eastern Africa and Sahel*, Copenhagen, DIIS, pp. 43-50.

**Pierre Jemima** (2020) Slavery, Anthropological Knowledge, and the Racialization of Africans, *Current Anthropology*, 61 (S22), pp. 220-231.

**Puig Cepero Oriol** (2020) The Nigerien migrants in Gaddafi's Libya: between visibility and invisibility, in Jesper Bjarnesen and Simon Turner Eds., *Invisibility in African Displacements. From Structural Marginalization to Strategies of Avoidance*, London, Zed Books, pp. 160-177.

**Rétaillé Denis** (2011) Du paradigme sahélian du lieu à l'espace (mondial) mobile, *L'Information géographique*, 75 (1), pp. 71-85.

**Sáenz Rogelio and Manges Douglas Karen** (2015) A Call for the Racialization of Immigration Studies: On the Transition of Ethnic Immigrants to Racialized Immigrants, *Sociology of Race and Ethnicity*, 1 (1), pp. 166-180.

**Scheele Judith** (2012) *Smugglers and Saints of the Sahara. Regional Connectivity in the Twentieth Century*, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

**Siméant Johanna** (2014) *Contester au Mali. Formes de la mobilisation et de la critique à Bamako*, Paris, Karthala.

**Security Council** (2017) 72nd year: 8122nd meeting, [online] accessed on 12/04/2023. URL: https://digitallibrary.un.org/record/1325827#record-files-col-lapse-header

**Soukouna Sadio** (2020) L'État malien entre négociations et résistances dans la formulation de politiques sur les migrations, *Anthropologie & développement*, 51, pp. 69-84.

**Stock Inka, Üstübici Ayşen and Schultz Susanne U.** (2019) *Externalization at work: responses to migration policies from the Global South*, 7 (48), [online]. DOI: https://doi.org/10.1186/s40878-019-0157-z

**Sylla Almamy** (2020) L'aventure libyenne et ses vécus politiques et sécuritaires pour les migrants maliens, *Anthropologie & développement*, 51, pp. 137-153.

**Sylla Almamy** (2019) « C'est devenu si je savais » : les trajectoires de réinsertion des rapatriés maliens de la Côte d'Ivoire et de la Libye entre 2002 et 2017, Thèse de doctorat en anthropologie, Bamako, Institut de Pédagogie Universitaire de Bamako.

**Sylla Almamy and Cold-Ravnkilde Signe Marie** (2021) *En Route to Europe? The Anti-politics of Deportation from North Africa to Mali, Geopolitics*, 27 (5), pp. 1390-1409.

**Triandafyllidou Anna** (2020) Decentering the study of migration governance: a radical view, *Geopolitics*, 27 (3), pp. 811-825.
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**Youssef Nour** (2017) Sale of migrants as slaves in Libya causes outrage in Africa and Paris, *The New York Times*, [online] accessed on 12/04/2023. URL: https://www.nytimes.com/2017/11/19/world/africa/libya-migrants-slavery.html
**Ticktin Miriam** (2014) Transnational Humanitarianism, *Annual review of anthro-pology*, 43, pp. 273-289.

**Vincent Léonard** (2017) Marchés aux esclaves en Libye : un enfer qui ne date pas d'hier, *RFI*, [en ligne] consulté le 12/04/2023. URL : https://www.rfi.fr/fr/afri-que/20171120-indignation-apres-diffusion-cnn-images-marches-esclaves-libye

**Youssef Nour** (2017) Sale of migrants as slaves in Libya causes outrage in Africa and Paris, *The New York Times*, [online] accessed on 12/04/2023. URL: https://www.nytimes.com/2017/11/19/world/africa/libya-migrants-slavery.html
# Marie Deridder and Almamy Sylla

## Racialized Impacts of Migration Governance in Mali

Perceptions of Africa as a non-racial space are belied by cases such as Mali. This article explores how racial arguments were deployed by black returnees in Bamako after their repatriation from Libya. Race, racialization processes, and racial violence were one of the cornerstones of French colonization in Mali, and then of the post-colonial state. Mali had a complex relationship with its northern neighbour Libya, for many decades a destination for Malian migrants. The fall of the Gaddafi regime in Libya in 2011 created new problems, as both black Malian migrant workers and Tuareg ex-combatants were returned to the country. Both experienced, in different ways, the effects of a migration regime, influenced by European Union programmes. This article shows how racial categories and migration politics intersect in Mali, becoming mutually constituent and interrelated, and leaving various actors, institutions, processes, histories, and multiple scales entangled with each other.

## Impacts racialisés de la gouvernance migratoire au Mali

Les perceptions de l'Afrique comme un espace non racial sont démenties par des cas comme celui du Mali. Cet article explore la manière dont les arguments raciaux ont été déployés par les rapatriés noirs à Bamako après leur retour de Libye. La race, les processus de racialisation et la violence raciale ont été l'une des pierres angulaires de la colonisation française au Mali, puis de l'État post-colonial. Le Mali a entretenu une relation complexe avec son voisin du nord, la Libye, qui a été pendant de nombreuses décennies une destination pour les migrants maliens. La chute du régime de Kadhafi en Libye en 2011 a créé de nouveaux problèmes, quand les travailleurs migrants maliens noirs et les ex-combattants touaregs ont été renvoyés dans le pays. Ces groupes ont subi, de manière différente, les effets d'un régime migratoire influencé par l'Union européenne. Cet article montre comment les catégories raciales et les politiques migratoires s'entrecroisent au Mali, devenant mutuellement constitutives et interdépendantes, et laissant divers acteurs, institutions, processus, histoires et échelles multiples enchevêtrés les uns avec les autres.

## Impacto racial de la gobernanza de la migración en Malí

La percepción de África como un espacio no-racial queda desmentida por casos como el de Malí. Este artículo explora cómo los retornados negros en Bamako desplegaron argumentos raciales tras su repatriación desde Libia. La raza, los procesos de racialización y la violencia racial fueron una de las piedras angulares de la colonización francesa en Malí y, posteriormente, del Estado poscolonial. Malí mantuvo una compleja relación con su vecino del norte, Libia, durante muchas décadas destino de los emigrantes malienses. La caída del régimen de Gadafi en Libia en 2011 creó nuevos problemas, ya que tanto los trabajadores migrantes malienses negros como los excombatientes tuaregs fueron devueltos al país. Ambos experimentaron, de diferentes maneras, los efectos de un régimen migratorio, influido por los programas de la Unión Europea. Este artículo muestra cómo las categorías raciales y las políticas migratorias se entrecruzan en Mali, constituyéndose e interrelacionándose mutuamente, y dejando enredados entre sí a diversos actores, instituciones, procesos, historias y múltiples escalas.
# Marie Deridder and Almamy Sylla

## Racialized Impacts of Migration Governance in Mali

Perceptions of Africa as a non-racial space are belied by cases such as Mali. This article explores how racial arguments were deployed by black returnees in Bamako after their repatriation from Libya. Race, racialization processes, and racial violence were one of the cornerstones of French colonization in Mali, and then of the post-colonial state. Mali had a complex relationship with its northern neighbour Libya, for many decades a destination for Malian migrants. The fall of the Gaddafi regime in Libya in 2011 created new problems, as both black Malian migrant workers and Tuareg ex-combatants were returned to the country. Both experienced, in different ways, the effects of a migration regime, influenced by European Union programmes. This article shows how racial categories and migration politics intersect in Mali, becoming mutually constituent and interrelated, and leaving various actors, institutions, processes, histories, and multiple scales entangled with each other.

## Impacts racialisés de la gouvernance migratoire au Mali

Les perceptions de l'Afrique comme un espace non racial sont démenties par des cas comme celui du Mali. Cet article explore la manière dont les arguments raciaux ont été déployés par les rapatriés noirs à Bamako après leur retour de Libye. La race, les processus de racialisation et la violence raciale ont été l'une des pierres angulaires de la colonisation française au Mali, puis de l'État post-colonial. Le Mali a entretenu une relation complexe avec son voisin du nord, la Libye, qui a été pendant de nombreuses décennies une destination pour les migrants maliens. La chute du régime de Kadhafi en Libye en 2011 a créé de nouveaux problèmes, quand les travailleurs migrants maliens noirs et les ex-combattants touaregs ont été renvoyés dans le pays. Ces groupes ont subi, de manière différente, les effets d'un régime migratoire influencé par l'Union européenne. Cet article montre comment les catégories raciales et les politiques migratoires s'entrecroisent au Mali, devenant mutuellement constitutives et interdépendantes, et laissant divers acteurs, institutions, processus, histoires et échelles multiples enchevêtrés les uns avec les autres.

## Impacto racial de la gobernanza de la migración en Malí

La percepción de África como un espacio no-racial queda desmentida por casos como el de Malí. Este artículo explora cómo los retornados negros en Bamako desplegaron argumentos raciales tras su repatriación desde Libia. La raza, los procesos de racialización y la violencia racial fueron una de las piedras angulares de la colonización francesa en Malí y, posteriormente, del Estado poscolonial. Malí mantuvo una compleja relación con su vecino del norte, Libia, durante muchas décadas destino de los emigrantes malienses. La caída del régimen de Gadafi en Libia en 2011 creó nuevos problemas, ya que tanto los trabajadores migrantes malienses negros como los excombatientes tuaregs fueron devueltos al país. Ambos experimentaron, de diferentes maneras, los efectos de un régimen migratorio, influido por los programas de la Unión Europea. Este artículo muestra cómo las categorías raciales y las políticas migratorias se entrecruzan en Mali, constituyéndose e interrelacionándose mutuamente, y dejando enredados entre sí a diversos actores, instituciones, procesos, historias y múltiples escalas.
<figure><img src="image_11.png" /></figure>
<figure><img src="image_9.png" /></figure>
# Hosting Syrian Refugees through the Development Lens: The Case of Jordan

Zaid Awamleh<fnref n="1" /> and Alexandrine Dupras<fnref n="2" />

It is estimated that more than 6.8 million Syrian flew their country since 2011 (UNHCR, 2022). Jordan has received the second biggest number of Syrian refugees per capita, after Lebanon. Today, there are still around 1.3 million Syrian refugees in Jordan (ACAPS, 2023), out of 10.2 million inhabitants in total. As a receiving country, Jordan's trajectory for hosting Syrian refugees within its borders has been fluctuating, based on its own previous history of hosting other refugees, while also adapting to the events and perceived threats that the situation brought in.

In this article, we shed light on the Jordanian government's pivotal role in ensuring stability for refugees, thereby contributing to the country's economy in the form of a "refugee rent" (Kelberer, 2017; Tsourapas, 2019). In essence, delving into the refugee governance of the Syrian crisis in Jordan is not merely a case study but a lens through which to explore a new shift of governance toward a development approach to migration. In this article, we propose to retrospectively look back at how the Jordanian government changed its approach to hosting the Syrian population, considering also how this country has been shaped through previous waves of refugees from neighbouring countries. Zooming into the effects of the Syrian conflict, we look at how the Jordanian government — faced with a series of challenges such as popular discontent, the strain on its own resources, and security threats — modified its strategy throughout the years, shifting towards a more "development" approach.<fnref n="3" />

This article emphasizes the importance of considering historical events and the current socio-economic landscape of host countries when examining the migration-development *nexus*. The majority of refugees come from the Global South and remain there, hosted in other countries in the South (Betts, 2010). It is therefore key to study how these countries deal with refugee populations.

<footnote n="1">1 Lecturer of Architecture, PhD Candidate, Research Engineer in Migration Governance and Asylum Crises (MAGYC), CNRS, Leeds Beckett University, Leeds, United Kingdom; https://orcid.org/0000-0003-0346-353X; zaid.awamleh@live.com</footnote>

<footnote n="2">2 Sociologist, PhD, Université de Genève, IRS and Ifpo Amman (associate member), Geneva, Switzerland; https://orcid.org/0000-0003-1248-0198; alexandrine.dupras@gmail.com</footnote>

<footnote n="3">3 While we acknowledge the role of subnational actors in mediating the implementation of refugee policies in host countries, such as municipalities (Betts et al., 2021), our research further questions the strategies these hosting governments deploy.</footnote>
# Hosting Syrian Refugees through the Development Lens: The Case of Jordan

Zaid Awamleh<fnref n="1" /> and Alexandrine Dupras<fnref n="2" />

It is estimated that more than 6.8 million Syrian flew their country since 2011 (UNHCR, 2022). Jordan has received the second biggest number of Syrian refugees per capita, after Lebanon. Today, there are still around 1.3 million Syrian refugees in Jordan (ACAPS, 2023), out of 10.2 million inhabitants in total. As a receiving country, Jordan's trajectory for hosting Syrian refugees within its borders has been fluctuating, based on its own previous history of hosting other refugees, while also adapting to the events and perceived threats that the situation brought in.

In this article, we shed light on the Jordanian government's pivotal role in ensuring stability for refugees, thereby contributing to the country's economy in the form of a "refugee rent" (Kelberer, 2017; Tsourapas, 2019). In essence, delving into the refugee governance of the Syrian crisis in Jordan is not merely a case study but a lens through which to explore a new shift of governance toward a development approach to migration. In this article, we propose to retrospectively look back at how the Jordanian government changed its approach to hosting the Syrian population, considering also how this country has been shaped through previous waves of refugees from neighbouring countries. Zooming into the effects of the Syrian conflict, we look at how the Jordanian government — faced with a series of challenges such as popular discontent, the strain on its own resources, and security threats — modified its strategy throughout the years, shifting towards a more "development" approach.<fnref n="3" />

This article emphasizes the importance of considering historical events and the current socio-economic landscape of host countries when examining the migration-development *nexus*. The majority of refugees come from the Global South and remain there, hosted in other countries in the South (Betts, 2010). It is therefore key to study how these countries deal with refugee populations.

<footnote n="1">1 Lecturer of Architecture, PhD Candidate, Research Engineer in Migration Governance and Asylum Crises (MAGYC), CNRS, Leeds Beckett University, Leeds, United Kingdom; https://orcid.org/0000-0003-0346-353X; zaid.awamleh@live.com</footnote>

<footnote n="2">2 Sociologist, PhD, Université de Genève, IRS and Ifpo Amman (associate member), Geneva, Switzerland; https://orcid.org/0000-0003-1248-0198; alexandrine.dupras@gmail.com</footnote>

<footnote n="3">3 While we acknowledge the role of subnational actors in mediating the implementation of refugee policies in host countries, such as municipalities (Betts et al., 2021), our research further questions the strategies these hosting governments deploy.</footnote>
This article is structured as follows: after describing the methodology (see Box 1), it provides an overview of Jordan's contemporary history in hosting refugees. The subsequent sections delve into various facets of the Government of Jordan's (GoJ) policies towards Syrian refugees from 2011 to the present day. This exploration includes an investigation into the decisions regarding the establishment of refugee camps, an assessment of the impact of security concerns, and an examination of the influence of economic agreements with international partners on the refugee population. The article concludes with a discussion of the multifaceted factors that underpinned GoJ's policy decisions concerning the hosting of Syrian refugees.

Box 1: Methodology

The study draws upon the conceptual framework provided by the MAGYC (Migration Governance and Asylum Crises) project, funded by the European Commission's Horizon 2020 Research and Innovation Programme, which seeks to assess how migration governance has been influenced by recent refugee crises and how crises shape policy responses on migration. Jordan, hosting the second-highest share of refugees per capita in the world, is one of the focal points of the MAGYC project, and the case of Jordan's response to the Syrian crisis from 2011 to 2023 is examined through it and subsequently outlined and discussed in this paper. The study mobilizes an exhaustive inventory through a collective database of ninety components encompassing government decisions, drafts of legislation, and news articles related to historical events, all meticulously explored in chronological order. Additionally, it incorporates grey literature and twenty-five official correspondences disclosed between government officials and the UN. This repository is made accessible through the website (www.refgov.net), housing a database encompassing decisions, testimonials, reports, official documents, and correspondence that were further reflected and discussed in this paper by analysing and comparing Jordan's policy responses in light of the Syrian refugee crisis. To enrich the analysis presented in this paper and to deepen the understanding of policy decisions and their execution, the authors supplemented the data through follow-up interviews with the UNHCR Jordan spokesperson and in-depth interviews with four Syrian refugees, who shared detailed narratives of their journeys from Syria to Jordan. The refugees' semi-structured interviews told their stories of fleeing the Syrian war, passing through neighbouring villages, and eventually reaching the Jordanian border. While certain data obtained from the interviews was directly quoted, others were used to explore additional resources from literature, official government statements, and information from the United Nations to support the narrative. The search strictly applied ethical considerations, including obtaining informed consent from interviewees, ensuring the confidentiality, safety, and anonymity of participants, and adhering to ethical guidelines for research involving vulnerable populations, such as refugees. Accordingly, all personal details, including names, villages, and origins, were carefully omitted from the collected data. The collected data is subjected to qualitative analysis techniques, while the discussion incorporates quantitative data presented in figures. Thematic analysis is employed to identify recurring themes and patterns in the narratives of Syrian refugees. Moreover, government decisions and policy shifts are analysed within a retrospective framework to understand their motivations and implications. The study's retrospective design and the volume of historical data available are among the potential limitations acknowledged by the authors.
This article is structured as follows: after describing the methodology (see Box 1), it provides an overview of Jordan's contemporary history in hosting refugees. The subsequent sections delve into various facets of the Government of Jordan's (GoJ) policies towards Syrian refugees from 2011 to the present day. This exploration includes an investigation into the decisions regarding the establishment of refugee camps, an assessment of the impact of security concerns, and an examination of the influence of economic agreements with international partners on the refugee population. The article concludes with a discussion of the multifaceted factors that underpinned GoJ's policy decisions concerning the hosting of Syrian refugees.

Box 1: Methodology

The study draws upon the conceptual framework provided by the MAGYC (Migration Governance and Asylum Crises) project, funded by the European Commission's Horizon 2020 Research and Innovation Programme, which seeks to assess how migration governance has been influenced by recent refugee crises and how crises shape policy responses on migration. Jordan, hosting the second-highest share of refugees per capita in the world, is one of the focal points of the MAGYC project, and the case of Jordan's response to the Syrian crisis from 2011 to 2023 is examined through it and subsequently outlined and discussed in this paper. The study mobilizes an exhaustive inventory through a collective database of ninety components encompassing government decisions, drafts of legislation, and news articles related to historical events, all meticulously explored in chronological order. Additionally, it incorporates grey literature and twenty-five official correspondences disclosed between government officials and the UN. This repository is made accessible through the website (www.refgov.net), housing a database encompassing decisions, testimonials, reports, official documents, and correspondence that were further reflected and discussed in this paper by analysing and comparing Jordan's policy responses in light of the Syrian refugee crisis. To enrich the analysis presented in this paper and to deepen the understanding of policy decisions and their execution, the authors supplemented the data through follow-up interviews with the UNHCR Jordan spokesperson and in-depth interviews with four Syrian refugees, who shared detailed narratives of their journeys from Syria to Jordan. The refugees' semi-structured interviews told their stories of fleeing the Syrian war, passing through neighbouring villages, and eventually reaching the Jordanian border. While certain data obtained from the interviews was directly quoted, others were used to explore additional resources from literature, official government statements, and information from the United Nations to support the narrative. The search strictly applied ethical considerations, including obtaining informed consent from interviewees, ensuring the confidentiality, safety, and anonymity of participants, and adhering to ethical guidelines for research involving vulnerable populations, such as refugees. Accordingly, all personal details, including names, villages, and origins, were carefully omitted from the collected data. The collected data is subjected to qualitative analysis techniques, while the discussion incorporates quantitative data presented in figures. Thematic analysis is employed to identify recurring themes and patterns in the narratives of Syrian refugees. Moreover, government decisions and policy shifts are analysed within a retrospective framework to understand their motivations and implications. The study's retrospective design and the volume of historical data available are among the potential limitations acknowledged by the authors.
When Development Meets Migration:
Framing the Hosting of Refugees for Governance

Drawing on insights from migration studies, migration-development dynamics
can be comprehended by considering the reciprocity between, on the one hand,
the migratory trajectories of refugees and, on the other hand, the broader macro
and local development contexts (Nyberg-Sørensen et al., 2002; de Haas, 2010).
In this context, the interconnection between migration and development has
gained traction, advocating to examine the potential economic growth stemming
from migration processes and other subsistence perspectives stemming from
development approaches, such as transnational remittances (Glick Schiller et al.,
1995; de Haas, 2010). The migration-development *nexus* framework highlights
the interdependence between the migration process and the local development
context of both the sending and receiving countries, which is affected by the
broader macro-level development context (de Haas, 2010). This frame of thought
influenced European states' policies to tackle refugee-related issues through the
lens of "co-development" since the 2000s (Pastore, 2007). This approach mainly
considers transnational migrants to be assets of development for their home
country through remittances (Glick Schiller, 2018). It thus depends on the possi-
bility for refugees to work in the host country.

The migration-development *nexus* mainly conceives “development” in economic
terms, although more broadly, development is a multifold process that seeks to
address structural issues through social, political, economic, and institutional
concerted efforts (de Haas, 2010). Initially, development was conceived as the
outcome of a linear process in which economic growth would ultimately ensure
the governed population an enhanced living standard (Desai, 2012). Today’s
development approach is mainly driven by neoliberal economics (Fisher, 1997).
These pro-market policies, in conjunction with reduced state intervention, are
regarded as effective mechanisms for promoting a country’s economic develop-
ment (Atlani-Duault, 2005).

At the crossroad between migration and development resides the refugee policies in place in the host country, policies made to respond to an emergency, yet often lasting due to long-term protracted conflicts (Nyberg-Sørensen et al., 2002). As most refugees come from countries from the Global South and are hosted by countries from the South as well (Betts, 2010), we examine the literature on host countries with limited economic resources. The development of refugee policies by host countries is not done in a vacuum but is rather the result of several factors that influence how policies are shaped over time.

Jacobsen (1996), in her seminal article, identified four crucial factors that
influence the formulation of refugee policies by policymakers in low-
income host countries: 1) the bureaucratic and administrative structure of
the host country's government; 2) the economic capacity and willingness
of the host community to accommodate incoming refugees; 3) potential
security concerns; and 4) the host country's relations with foreign actors.
First, the pre-existing legal and institutional framework in place prior to the
refugee influx significantly shapes the host government's ability to respond to
the crisis within its borders. It determines which authority will take responsibility
for the matter. For example, the response may differ if managed by the Ministry
When Development Meets Migration:
Framing the Hosting of Refugees for Governance

Drawing on insights from migration studies, migration-development dynamics
can be comprehended by considering the reciprocity between, on the one hand,
the migratory trajectories of refugees and, on the other hand, the broader macro
and local development contexts (Nyberg-Sørensen et al., 2002; de Haas, 2010).
In this context, the interconnection between migration and development has
gained traction, advocating to examine the potential economic growth stemming
from migration processes and other subsistence perspectives stemming from
development approaches, such as transnational remittances (Glick Schiller et al.,
1995; de Haas, 2010). The migration-development *nexus* framework highlights
the interdependence between the migration process and the local development
context of both the sending and receiving countries, which is affected by the
broader macro-level development context (de Haas, 2010). This frame of thought
influenced European states' policies to tackle refugee-related issues through the
lens of "co-development" since the 2000s (Pastore, 2007). This approach mainly
considers transnational migrants to be assets of development for their home
country through remittances (Glick Schiller, 2018). It thus depends on the possi-
bility for refugees to work in the host country.

The migration-development *nexus* mainly conceives “development” in economic
terms, although more broadly, development is a multifold process that seeks to
address structural issues through social, political, economic, and institutional
concerted efforts (de Haas, 2010). Initially, development was conceived as the
outcome of a linear process in which economic growth would ultimately ensure
the governed population an enhanced living standard (Desai, 2012). Today’s
development approach is mainly driven by neoliberal economics (Fisher, 1997).
These pro-market policies, in conjunction with reduced state intervention, are
regarded as effective mechanisms for promoting a country’s economic develop-
ment (Atlani-Duault, 2005).

At the crossroad between migration and development resides the refugee policies in place in the host country, policies made to respond to an emergency, yet often lasting due to long-term protracted conflicts (Nyberg-Sörensen et al., 2002). As most refugees come from countries from the Global South and are hosted by countries from the South as well (Betts, 2010), we examine the literature on host countries with limited economic resources. The development of refugee policies by host countries is not done in a vacuum but is rather the result of several factors that influence how policies are shaped over time.

Jacobsen (1996), in her seminal article, identified four crucial factors that
influence the formulation of refugee policies by policymakers in low-
income host countries: 1) the bureaucratic and administrative structure of
the host country's government; 2) the economic capacity and willingness
of the host community to accommodate incoming refugees; 3) potential
security concerns; and 4) the host country's relations with foreign actors.
First, the pre-existing legal and institutional framework in place prior to the
refugee influx significantly shapes the host government's ability to respond to
the crisis within its borders. It determines which authority will take responsibility
for the matter. For example, the response may differ if managed by the Ministry
of Social Development or the Ministry of National Security, as it influences the perception and treatment of incoming refugees. Second, refugee policies are contingent on the host community's capacity to receive and support displaced individuals. Factors such as the host country's economic situation and the local community's perception and willingness to accommodate refugees significantly impact policy decisions. Third, Jacobsen underscores how mass refugee inflows can pose security threats to the host country. For instance, refugee camps may inadvertently shelter militia groups, or refugees can be potential targets for attacks. The presence of refugees on the host country's territory can also lead to competition with local communities, fostering a sense of unfairness that may result in public protests and strikes. These events can undermine the legitimacy of the incumbent government.

Fourth and finally, the nature of a refugee crisis is inherently transnational, triggered by conflicts in other countries that force masses of people to cross borders. Consequently, domestic refugee policies are inherently tied to geopolitical considerations. Additionally, refugee policies can be influenced by what Jacobsen terms the “international refugee regime.” This regime encompasses international organizations like the UNHCR, mandated with refugee protection, and international legal frameworks, including conventions. It serves the dual role of providing practical support, such as financial aid and infrastructure, and establishing normative standards, ensuring that the host government complies with international conventions. Building on this emphasis on the host country’s relationship with international actors, recent research highlighted how host countries have been mobilizing the issue of refugees on their territory as a diplomatic strategy. Termed as “migration diplomacy”, this approach is characteristic of host states that “use [...] diplomatic tools, processes, and procedures to manage cross-border population mobility” (Adamson and Tsourapas, 2019: 115).

When examining the Jordanian regime's hosting of Syrian refugees, the concept of "migration diplomacy" provides valuable insights into the Kingdom's diplomatic relations with foreign partners and its diplomatic strategies that enable the negotiation of a "refugee rent". Tsourapas (2019: 467) defines a refugee rentier state as "a state that hosts forcibly displaced population group(s) and relies financially on external income linked to its treatment of these group(s)". Therefore, a refugee rent is that external income that can "come from international organizations or third states in a variety of forms, including direct economic aid or grants, debt relief, preferential trade treatment, and so on" (Tsourapas, 2019: 467). Jordan's heavy dependence on foreign aid is a crucial aspect of this dynamic, with some researchers contending that hosting refugees is contingent on the receipt of such aid (Kelberer, 2017; Kumaraswamy, 2019; Freier et al., 2021). Over time, the country has strategically developed mechanisms to maximize the benefits derived from providing international aid to refugees (Kelberer, 2017; Tsourapas, 2019; Freier et al., 2021). Drawing on Jordan's historical role as both a "refugee host" and a "rentier state" (Knowles, 2005), Kelberer (2017) characterized Jordan as a "refugee rentier" state, which consists of hosting refugees as a mechanism to seek international rent. Researchers have observed this strategy of collecting a rent in the form of international aid for hosting refugees in countries other than Jordan (Tsourapas, 2019; Freier et al., 2021). Various states engage in this form of "refugee rent-seeking behavior" within their diplomatic relations, effectively transforming refugees into a resource for the host country's
of Social Development or the Ministry of National Security, as it influences the perception and treatment of incoming refugees. Second, refugee policies are contingent on the host community's capacity to receive and support displaced individuals. Factors such as the host country's economic situation and the local community's perception and willingness to accommodate refugees significantly impact policy decisions. Third, Jacobsen underscores how mass refugee inflows can pose security threats to the host country. For instance, refugee camps may inadvertently shelter militia groups, or refugees can be potential targets for attacks. The presence of refugees on the host country's territory can also lead to competition with local communities, fostering a sense of unfairness that may result in public protests and strikes. These events can undermine the legitimacy of the incumbent government.

Fourth and finally, the nature of a refugee crisis is inherently transnational, triggered by conflicts in other countries that force masses of people to cross borders. Consequently, domestic refugee policies are inherently tied to geopolitical considerations. Additionally, refugee policies can be influenced by what Jacobsen terms the “international refugee regime.” This regime encompasses international organizations like the UNHCR, mandated with refugee protection, and international legal frameworks, including conventions. It serves the dual role of providing practical support, such as financial aid and infrastructure, and establishing normative standards, ensuring that the host government complies with international conventions. Building on this emphasis on the host country’s relationship with international actors, recent research highlighted how host countries have been mobilizing the issue of refugees on their territory as a diplomatic strategy. Termed as “migration diplomacy”, this approach is characteristic of host states that “use [...] diplomatic tools, processes, and procedures to manage cross-border population mobility” (Adamson and Tsourapas, 2019: 115).

When examining the Jordanian regime's hosting of Syrian refugees, the concept of "migration diplomacy" provides valuable insights into the Kingdom's diplomatic relations with foreign partners and its diplomatic strategies that enable the negotiation of a "refugee rent". Tsourapas (2019: 467) defines a refugee rentier state as "a state that hosts forcibly displaced population group(s) and relies financially on external income linked to its treatment of these group(s)". Therefore, a refugee rent is that external income that can "come from international organizations or third states in a variety of forms, including direct economic aid or grants, debt relief, preferential trade treatment, and so on" (Tsourapas, 2019: 467). Jordan's heavy dependence on foreign aid is a crucial aspect of this dynamic, with some researchers contending that hosting refugees is contingent on the receipt of such aid (Kelberer, 2017; Kumaraswamy, 2019; Freier et al., 2021). Over time, the country has strategically developed mechanisms to maximize the benefits derived from providing international aid to refugees (Kelberer, 2017; Tsourapas, 2019; Freier et al., 2021). Drawing on Jordan's historical role as both a "refugee host" and a "rentier state" (Knowles, 2005), Kelberer (2017) characterized Jordan as a "refugee rentier" state, which consists of hosting refugees as a mechanism to seek international rent. Researchers have observed this strategy of collecting a rent in the form of international aid for hosting refugees in countries other than Jordan (Tsourapas, 2019; Freier et al., 2021). Various states engage in this form of "refugee rent-seeking behavior" within their diplomatic relations, effectively transforming refugees into a resource for the host country's
economic development (Tsourapas, 2019). This, in turn, leads to the "commodification" of refugees as an economic incentive for these states (Freier et al., 2021).

This review of the state of the art provides insights into the multifaceted factors that underpin the development of refugee policies in host countries, particularly in the Global South. In a nutshell, considering the literature, understanding the unfolding of a host country's refugee policy lies on a complex balance between their socio-economic capacity to host, the country's administrative structure, the country's perception of security threats, and its diplomatic relationships, including its diplomatic negotiation to secure a rent from international aid actors.

Prior theoretical frameworks have emphasized the paramount role of economic factors in shaping refugee policy. Notwithstanding the importance of this element, our archival research and our historical perspective enables us to propose that we consider the legacy of past events and policies in the making of refugee policies (Lenner, 2020). Past experiences with refugee influxes also inform contemporary responses to ongoing refugee crises. This factor, in a reciprocal relationship, significantly influences the policies that, in turn, govern the experiences of refugees. In this article, we delve into the Jordanian government's policy evolution to analyse how it has undertaken the governance of the incoming Syrian population within its borders.

### Context: Past Jordanian Responses to the Waves of Refugee Inflow

Jordan has a long history of hosting refugees on its territory. It can be traced back to the 19th century Ottoman Empire, when Chechens and Circassians found asylum from Russians and Anatolia (Kelberer, 2017). The country's recent evolution is intimately intertwined in opposition to the events occurring on its western border. Following the creation of Israel in 1948 after the "Nakbah" (referring to the forced displacement and dispossession of hundreds of thousands of Palestinian Arabs) and only two years after the independence of Jordan, it is estimated that 100,000 Palestinian refugees sought protection across the Jordan River (Achilli, 2014). In 1951, the Jordanian regime annexed the West Bank. The Palestinian refugees were then welcomed onto Jordanian territory as one of them, while camps were set up temporarily with the regime's aim of integrating them rapidly (Achilli, 2014). It is important to note that Jordan has never signed the 1951 Geneva Convention and thus does not officially recognize the status of "refugee". Jordan rather hosts refugees as "guests" or "hosts" (İçduygu and Nimer, 2020: 148). In the period that followed, this strategy implied that the inhabitants of the West Bank could claim Jordanian citizenship following an inclusive integration of both the West and the East Banks (Nanes, 2010). However, this welcoming attitude did not last.

Following the 1967 Six-Day War, a second influx of Palestinians landed in Jordan, and this time, while still wanting to keep its ties with the West Bank, the regime was facing more severe demographic and geopolitical constraints (Achilli, 2014). Besides, the 1960s were characterized by the rise of a "Palestinian national consciousness" leading to the creation of revolutionary organizations such as the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO), which, in the wake of the
economic development (Tsourapas, 2019). This, in turn, leads to the "commodification" of refugees as an economic incentive for these states (Freier et al., 2021).

This review of the state of the art provides insights into the multifaceted factors that underpin the development of refugee policies in host countries, particularly in the Global South. In a nutshell, considering the literature, understanding the unfolding of a host country's refugee policy lies on a complex balance between their socio-economic capacity to host, the country's administrative structure, the country's perception of security threats, and its diplomatic relationships, including its diplomatic negotiation to secure a rent from international aid actors.

Prior theoretical frameworks have emphasized the paramount role of economic factors in shaping refugee policy. Notwithstanding the importance of this element, our archival research and our historical perspective enables us to propose that we consider the legacy of past events and policies in the making of refugee policies (Lenner, 2020). Past experiences with refugee influxes also inform contemporary responses to ongoing refugee crises. This factor, in a reciprocal relationship, significantly influences the policies that, in turn, govern the experiences of refugees. In this article, we delve into the Jordanian government's policy evolution to analyse how it has undertaken the governance of the incoming Syrian population within its borders.

### Context: Past Jordanian Responses to the Waves of Refugee Inflow

Jordan has a long history of hosting refugees on its territory. It can be traced back to the 19th century Ottoman Empire, when Chechens and Circassians found asylum from Russians and Anatolia (Kelberer, 2017). The country's recent evolution is intimately intertwined in opposition to the events occurring on its western border. Following the creation of Israel in 1948 after the "Nakbah" (referring to the forced displacement and dispossession of hundreds of thousands of Palestinian Arabs) and only two years after the independence of Jordan, it is estimated that 100,000 Palestinian refugees sought protection across the Jordan River (Achilli, 2014). In 1951, the Jordanian regime annexed the West Bank. The Palestinian refugees were then welcomed onto Jordanian territory as one of them, while camps were set up temporarily with the regime's aim of integrating them rapidly (Achilli, 2014). It is important to note that Jordan has never signed the 1951 Geneva Convention and thus does not officially recognize the status of "refugee". Jordan rather hosts refugees as "guests" or "hosts" (İçduygu and Nimer, 2020: 148). In the period that followed, this strategy implied that the inhabitants of the West Bank could claim Jordanian citizenship following an inclusive integration of both the West and the East Banks (Nanes, 2010). However, this welcoming attitude did not last.

Following the 1967 Six-Day War, a second influx of Palestinians landed in Jordan, and this time, while still wanting to keep its ties with the West Bank, the regime was facing more severe demographic and geopolitical constraints (Achilli, 2014). Besides, the 1960s were characterized by the rise of a "Palestinian national consciousness" leading to the creation of revolutionary organizations such as the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO), which, in the wake of the
defeat of the Six-Day War, settled in the Palestinian camps in Jordan (Achilli, 2014: 238). The militants (fedayeen) established a parallel governing system in the camps with their own military authorities in parallel to Jordanian authorities, which the Jordanian government came to see as threatening. Eventually, in September 1970, tensions between the Palestinian military groups and the Jordanian army led to a civil war, known as "Black September" which ended with the expulsion of the PLO to Lebanon (Achilli, 2014). That event changed the way the Jordanian government perceived and hosted refugees in the following influxes of displaced people from neighbouring countries.

A first influx of Iraqi refugees followed the 1991 Gulf War. While as in 1948 and 1967, Jordan had built refugee camps to host Palestinians, the 1991 influx of Iraqi refugees was managed in a completely different manner. Fearing that camps could potentially be the nest of new hurdles and adversity, like during the Black September in 1970-1971, Jordan shifted its governance of refugees. It adopted a refugee policy that forbade the establishment of camps, encouraging the refugees to "settle among the local population" while also granting them access to public schools and to the health care system (Kelberer, 2017). What stance did the Jordanian government hold at the beginning of the Syrian civil war and the influx of refugees within its borders? In the following sections, we dive into these policy decisions.

However, before proceeding, it is key to highlight that Jordan's economy is fragile. Besides potash and phosphate, the country does not have much natural resources. It relies on the importation of both natural resources and consumer goods. In 2017, the country's economy was predominantly based on the service and manufacturing sectors, with services contributing 66.6% to its gross domestic product (GDP), industries making up 28.8%, and agriculture accounting for 4.5% (The World Factbook, 2022). The market is not able to absorb the demand for employment. The country's unemployment rate among young women and men (aged between fifteen and twenty-four) has varied between 28% and 35% since 1995 (World Bank, 2022).

## The Unfolding of the Syrian Refugee Crisis in Jordan: Towards the Containment of the Influx of Refugees

March 15, 2011 marks the beginning of the Syrian civil war. The situation in Syria deteriorated from a revolt to a civil war in a wave of uprisings that occurred during what is known as the "Arab Spring." As a result of the uprising, the administration of President Bashar al-Assad, who has ruled Syria since 2000 without offering any political or social changes, repressed residents (Żuber and Moussa, 2018). Consequently, a massive number of Syrians sought refuge in neighbouring countries, including Jordan, through the 362 kilometres-long Jordanian/Syrian borders. Jordan thereby became the third highest country in the world for hosting Syrian refugees.

At first, the Jordanian government had an open-door policy, keeping their borders open, as was already the case prior to the Syrian conflict. Indeed, Jordan and Syria had established "bilateral treaties [...] permitting reciprocal freedom
defeat of the Six-Day War, settled in the Palestinian camps in Jordan (Achilli, 2014: 238). The militants (fedayeen) established a parallel governing system in the camps with their own military authorities in parallel to Jordanian authorities, which the Jordanian government came to see as threatening. Eventually, in September 1970, tensions between the Palestinian military groups and the Jordanian army led to a civil war, known as "Black September" which ended with the expulsion of the PLO to Lebanon (Achilli, 2014). That event changed the way the Jordanian government perceived and hosted refugees in the following influxes of displaced people from neighbouring countries.

A first influx of Iraqi refugees followed the 1991 Gulf War. While as in 1948 and 1967, Jordan had built refugee camps to host Palestinians, the 1991 influx of Iraqi refugees was managed in a completely different manner. Fearing that camps could potentially be the nest of new hurdles and adversity, like during the Black September in 1970-1971, Jordan shifted its governance of refugees. It adopted a refugee policy that forbade the establishment of camps, encouraging the refugees to "settle among the local population" while also granting them access to public schools and to the health care system (Kelberer, 2017). What stance did the Jordanian government hold at the beginning of the Syrian civil war and the influx of refugees within its borders? In the following sections, we dive into these policy decisions.

However, before proceeding, it is key to highlight that Jordan's economy is fragile. Besides potash and phosphate, the country does not have much natural resources. It relies on the importation of both natural resources and consumer goods. In 2017, the country's economy was predominantly based on the service and manufacturing sectors, with services contributing 66.6% to its gross domestic product (GDP), industries making up 28.8%, and agriculture accounting for 4.5% (The World Factbook, 2022). The market is not able to absorb the demand for employment. The country's unemployment rate among young women and men (aged between fifteen and twenty-four) has varied between 28% and 35% since 1995 (World Bank, 2022).

## The Unfolding of the Syrian Refugee Crisis in Jordan: Towards the Containment of the Influx of Refugees

March 15, 2011 marks the beginning of the Syrian civil war. The situation in Syria deteriorated from a revolt to a civil war in a wave of uprisings that occurred during what is known as the "Arab Spring." As a result of the uprising, the administration of President Bashar al-Assad, who has ruled Syria since 2000 without offering any political or social changes, repressed residents (Żuber and Moussa, 2018). Consequently, a massive number of Syrians sought refuge in neighbouring countries, including Jordan, through the 362 kilometres-long Jordanian/Syrian borders. Jordan thereby became the third highest country in the world for hosting Syrian refugees.

At first, the Jordanian government had an open-door policy, keeping their borders open, as was already the case prior to the Syrian conflict. Indeed, Jordan and Syria had established "bilateral treaties [...] permitting reciprocal freedom
of movement and work permits" prior to the Syrian conflict (İçduygu and Nimer, 2020: 418). Therefore, at the onset of the Syrian uprising, and building on previous experiences with other influxes of refugees, the Jordanian approach to the influx of refugees was mostly hands-off, letting Syrians enter the country as they used to in the past.

A shift occurred in mid-2012, more than a year into the conflict, when new laws were instituted that endorsed encampments over rural settlements. Jordan opened the Zaatari refugee camp in 2012, the second largest refugee camp in the world, located in the northern Jordanian city of Mafraq. With expectations of a successive and massive refugee influx, the camp grew quickly from a collection of tents to a 76,000-person urban metropolis, later reaching up to 156,000 refugees in March 2013 (Tsourapas, 2019: 469). In collaboration with governmental, national, and international nongovernmental organizations, the UNHCR and the Jordanian government ran the camp (UNHCR, 2020). Approaching the end of 2012, the Jordanian government opened the King Abdullah Park (KAP) refugee camp located in the Irbid governorate, Ramtha, offering limited space and resources to refugees. Turner (2015) argues that the encampment of masses has strategically brought up more attention to the issue on Jordanian territory.

As the number of refugees increased, the great majority (about 80%) remained nonetheless in urban, peri-urban, and rural regions, despite the encampment policy. And host communities were impacted (UNHCR, 2020). Basic public services and infrastructure rapidly became overstressed, exacerbating pre-existing challenges (Kumaraswamy and Singh, 2017). Besides, the fact that refugees settled in cities and villages and not in camps generated heated tensions between the local community members and the newcomers as it put additional strain on scarce resources and jobs. Host communities often asserted that Syrian refugees had been significantly encroaching on job opportunities that might otherwise have gone to Jordanians, even if statistics and studies have rather shown that those most affected by the arrival of Syrians in the labour market were worker migrants like Egyptians and South East Asians (Sahin Mencutek and Nashwan, 2021).

In March 2013, UNHCR announced that the registered Syrian refugees in Jordan had reached 289,268 as they were settled almost evenly across rural areas and refugee camps (UNHCR, 2023). The number of Syrian refugees entering Jordan doubled over the same year, increasing significantly by more than 570,000 settled mostly in rural areas (see Graph 1). This increase coincided with the Jordanian government's decision to establish the Syrian Refugee Camp Directorate (SRCD) to manage the situation of refugees in camps, which was later replaced by the Syrian Refugee Affairs Directorate (SRAD) to include refugees settled in urban, pre-urban, and rural populations, which constitute the majority.
of movement and work permits" prior to the Syrian conflict (İçduygu and Nimer, 2020: 418). Therefore, at the onset of the Syrian uprising, and building on previous experiences with other influxes of refugees, the Jordanian approach to the influx of refugees was mostly hands-off, letting Syrians enter the country as they used to in the past.

A shift occurred in mid-2012, more than a year into the conflict, when new laws were instituted that endorsed encampments over rural settlements. Jordan opened the Zaatari refugee camp in 2012, the second largest refugee camp in the world, located in the northern Jordanian city of Mafraq. With expectations of a successive and massive refugee influx, the camp grew quickly from a collection of tents to a 76,000-person urban metropolis, later reaching up to 156,000 refugees in March 2013 (Tsourapas, 2019: 469). In collaboration with governmental, national, and international nongovernmental organizations, the UNHCR and the Jordanian government ran the camp (UNHCR, 2020). Approaching the end of 2012, the Jordanian government opened the King Abdullah Park (KAP) refugee camp located in the Irbid governorate, Ramtha, offering limited space and resources to refugees. Turner (2015) argues that the encampment of masses has strategically brought up more attention to the issue on Jordanian territory.

As the number of refugees increased, the great majority (about 80%) remained nonetheless in urban, peri-urban, and rural regions, despite the encampment policy. And host communities were impacted (UNHCR, 2020). Basic public services and infrastructure rapidly became overstressed, exacerbating pre-existing challenges (Kumaraswamy and Singh, 2017). Besides, the fact that refugees settled in cities and villages and not in camps generated heated tensions between the local community members and the newcomers as it put additional strain on scarce resources and jobs. Host communities often asserted that Syrian refugees had been significantly encroaching on job opportunities that might otherwise have gone to Jordanians, even if statistics and studies have rather shown that those most affected by the arrival of Syrians in the labour market were worker migrants like Egyptians and South East Asians (Sahin Mencutek and Nashwan, 2021).

In March 2013, UNHCR announced that the registered Syrian refugees in Jordan had reached 289,268 as they were settled almost evenly across rural areas and refugee camps (UNHCR, 2023). The number of Syrian refugees entering Jordan doubled over the same year, increasing significantly by more than 570,000 settled mostly in rural areas (see Graph 1). This increase coincided with the Jordanian government's decision to establish the Syrian Refugee Camp Directorate (SRCD) to manage the situation of refugees in camps, which was later replaced by the Syrian Refugee Affairs Directorate (SRAD) to include refugees settled in urban, pre-urban, and rural populations, which constitute the majority.
<figure><img src="image_12.png" /><figcaption>Graph 1: Number of Registered Syrian Refugees, 2012-2017</figcaption></figure>

Source: UNHCR Operational Data (2023).

## Building More Refugee Camps: An Ongoing Traditional Emergency Response

During the unstructured settling of the majority of refugees outside of the camps, the Jordanian government opted to provide a more regulated hosting environment by establishing additional refugee camps in various regions around Jordan, despite the previous negative experiences with militia groups in camps in the 1960s as mentioned above.

Following the establishment of the Zaatari and the King Abdullah Park (KAP) refugee camps in 2012, a United Arab Emirates-funded refugee camp opened in April 2013 in Mrajeeb Al Fhood. The Emirati Red Crescent Society administered the camp, which had a capacity to house 25,000 people in trailers, located about thirty-seven kilometers from the border (Associated Press, 2013). A year later, in 2014, the Jordanian government, in partnership with the UNHCR, established the Azraq refugee camp, the second largest after Zaatari, in the northeast of the country.

The Azraq camp is uniquely designed to host refugees in six separate villages, apart from each other. Each village is divided into districts and then into plots that contain a similar set of shelters. UNHCR reasoned that the new village-based approach of planning aimed to foster a greater sense of ownership and community among residents (UNHCR, 2021). They considered the camp's design was informed by novel strategies and lessons learned from previous experiences in the Zaatari refugee camp. The camp that is promoted as "one of the best refugee camps in the world" (Oddone, 2014), has many opponents who believe that its planning strategies contributed to excessive control over its inhabitants (Awamleh and Dorai, 2023), and prioritized easing the work for the humanitarian actors and security over the refugees' quality of life (Hoffmann, 2017). This encampment strategy, which is rooted back to the Palestinian refugee camps, has proposed a governance model that is based primarily on counterinsurgency, where everyone is a potential suspect. It is described by some activists as a plague-strike colony from the Middle Ages (Hanafi, 2010).
<figure><img src="image_10.png" /><figcaption>Graph 1: Number of Registered Syrian Refugees, 2012-2017</figcaption></figure>

Source: UNHCR Operational Data (2023).

## Building More Refugee Camps: An Ongoing Traditional Emergency Response

During the unstructured settling of the majority of refugees outside of the camps, the Jordanian government opted to provide a more regulated hosting environment by establishing additional refugee camps in various regions around Jordan, despite the previous negative experiences with militia groups in camps in the 1960s as mentioned above.

Following the establishment of the Zaatari and the King Abdullah Park (KAP) refugee camps in 2012, a United Arab Emirates-funded refugee camp opened in April 2013 in Mrajeeb Al Fhood. The Emirati Red Crescent Society administered the camp, which had a capacity to house 25,000 people in trailers, located about thirty-seven kilometers from the border (Associated Press, 2013). A year later, in 2014, the Jordanian government, in partnership with the UNHCR, established the Azraq refugee camp, the second largest after Zaatari, in the northeast of the country.

The Azraq camp is uniquely designed to host refugees in six separate villages, apart from each other. Each village is divided into districts and then into plots that contain a similar set of shelters. UNHCR reasoned that the new village-based approach of planning aimed to foster a greater sense of ownership and community among residents (UNHCR, 2021). They considered the camp's design was informed by novel strategies and lessons learned from previous experiences in the Zaatari refugee camp. The camp that is promoted as "one of the best refugee camps in the world" (Oddone, 2014), has many opponents who believe that its planning strategies contributed to excessive control over its inhabitants (Awamleh and Dorai, 2023), and prioritized easing the work for the humanitarian actors and security over the refugees' quality of life (Hoffmann, 2017). This encampment strategy, which is rooted back to the Palestinian refugee camps, has proposed a governance model that is based primarily on counterinsurgency, where everyone is a potential suspect. It is described by some activists as a plague-strike colony from the Middle Ages (Hanafi, 2010).
### Fragmented Encampment Solutions: Terror and Geopolitical Deadlock

Jordan had an open policy of travel and trading through its borders with Syria before the war. However, since 2011, there have been significant changes in the border crossing point's administration, particularly with regard to Syrians who are seeking refuge in the country. This section will outline the border closures, discuss the policies behind them, and identify the shift in border management towards a series of closures that replaced the Kingdom's earlier open-door policy. In-depth interviews were conducted with four Syrian refugees, who were asked to narrate the details of their journey from Syria to Jordan. We use the interviews to illustrate how the changes in policies have impacted the refugee journey to Jordan. The abbreviation (S.R.) is being used to refer to the interviewees in order to protect their anonymity.

Along with an initial welcoming policy for Syrian refugees on Jordanian land, the two official border crossings — Daraa and Nasib — as well as a number of unofficial crossings nearby, allowed refugees from Syria to seek refuge in Jordan during the beginning of the conflict. But in the middle of 2013, crossing borders to Jordan became less easy as the Jordanian government decided to close all unofficial border crossings, which led to the start of a series of restrictions on entering the Jordanian territory (Francis, 2015). A (S.R.) described the situation in Daraa:

> "Daraa was a very poor village! Many Syrians from various regions had gathered there in an effort to cross the border into Jordan, yet we found that Jordan was not allowing access to any refugees from this crossing point. People suffered from hunger, and the only thing we could buy was cheese. This was due to the lack of food and the extremely high prices. One chicken I remember cost sixty USD! At that time, everyone had lost a lot of weight. I looked like a skeleton with forty kilograms." (Interview, S.R., 2022)

As a consequence of the 2013 closure, refugees were forced to travel hundreds of kilometers in the desert and in active conflict areas to seek refuge in Jordan through official crossing points (Human Rights Watch, 2015). An interviewee commented:

> "The journey was very long and dangerous. It took us three days to arrive under some devastating conditions, war, bombings, and airforce. We were transported via trucks that are used to carry sheep. We were in very poor conditions; hungry, sick, and barefoot." (Interview, S.R., 2022)

Emergency medical cases were still allowed access to seek treatment in Jordan following the 2012 decision to establish a medical evacuation procedure. This was set up by the Jordanian government, international organizations, and organizations connected to the Free Syrian Army (FSA), an armed opposition group in Syria, to enable those injured in battle and civilians to receive emergency medical care in Jordan (Jordan Times, 2015).

In July 2014, the Jordanian authorities applied new restrictions on entry for Syrian refugees through all eastern border crossings. Syrian refugees were forced to remain at the Jordanian limit of a border zone between Syria and Jordan called "the Berm", which is literally a raised barrier of sand located in the "Rukban" area.
### Fragmented Encampment Solutions: Terror and Geopolitical Deadlock

Jordan had an open policy of travel and trading through its borders with Syria before the war. However, since 2011, there have been significant changes in the border crossing point's administration, particularly with regard to Syrians who are seeking refuge in the country. This section will outline the border closures, discuss the policies behind them, and identify the shift in border management towards a series of closures that replaced the Kingdom's earlier open-door policy. In-depth interviews were conducted with four Syrian refugees, who were asked to narrate the details of their journey from Syria to Jordan. We use the interviews to illustrate how the changes in policies have impacted the refugee journey to Jordan. The abbreviation (S.R.) is being used to refer to the interviewees in order to protect their anonymity.

Along with an initial welcoming policy for Syrian refugees on Jordanian land, the two official border crossings — Daraa and Nasib — as well as a number of unofficial crossings nearby, allowed refugees from Syria to seek refuge in Jordan during the beginning of the conflict. But in the middle of 2013, crossing borders to Jordan became less easy as the Jordanian government decided to close all unofficial border crossings, which led to the start of a series of restrictions on entering the Jordanian territory (Francis, 2015). A (S.R.) described the situation in Daraa:

> "Daraa was a very poor village! Many Syrians from various regions had gathered there in an effort to cross the border into Jordan, yet we found that Jordan was not allowing access to any refugees from this crossing point. People suffered from hunger, and the only thing we could buy was cheese. This was due to the lack of food and the extremely high prices. One chicken I remember cost sixty USD! At that time, everyone had lost a lot of weight. I looked like a skeleton with forty kilograms." (Interview, S.R., 2022)

As a consequence of the 2013 closure, refugees were forced to travel hundreds of kilometers in the desert and in active conflict areas to seek refuge in Jordan through official crossing points (Human Rights Watch, 2015). An interviewee commented:

> "The journey was very long and dangerous. It took us three days to arrive under some devastating conditions, war, bombings, and airforce. We were transported via trucks that are used to carry sheep. We were in very poor conditions; hungry, sick, and barefoot." (Interview, S.R., 2022)

Emergency medical cases were still allowed access to seek treatment in Jordan following the 2012 decision to establish a medical evacuation procedure. This was set up by the Jordanian government, international organizations, and organizations connected to the Free Syrian Army (FSA), an armed opposition group in Syria, to enable those injured in battle and civilians to receive emergency medical care in Jordan (Jordan Times, 2015).

In July 2014, the Jordanian authorities applied new restrictions on entry for Syrian refugees through all eastern border crossings. Syrian refugees were forced to remain at the Jordanian limit of a border zone between Syria and Jordan called "the Berm", which is literally a raised barrier of sand located in the "Rukban" area.
"We heard that the Rukban crossing border point was open, so we decided to try to enter Jordan from this point. Bedouin sheep vehicles were the only transportation means to reach Rukban. It cost $100 per person, and the people who didn't have money had no option other than to stay in Daraa." (Interview, S.R., 2022)

Nearly 4,000 Syrians were stranded at the borders, left without essential aid, when the restrictions resulted in irregular access to UN relief agencies and several international organizations (Williams, 2014). Later in December, the Jordanian government decided to reopen the eastern border crossings for Syrian refugees. It did not take too long to announce another partial closure in 2015, again at the eastern border crossing with permitted relief access.

"After a long journey, we were shocked to learn that our hope to cross the borders and seek help was destroyed as the Jordanian government decided to close the Rukban crossing point. The Bedouins took the money from us and left us with around 500 people stranded alone in the desert without any shelter or basic living essentials. A few days later, we faced a huge sandstorm that left us helpless. People were panicking. We had difficulty breathing, nil visibility, and sand getting trapped in our nose, mouth, and eyes. Babies were crying, and we could not protect ourselves from the sandstorm since we had no tents or shelters to hide in." (Interview, S.R., 2022)

The Rukban refugee camp represented a geopolitical deadlock in the midst of the Syrian crisis in Jordan. This camp came into existence as a result of the gathering of refugees fleeing Syria who ended up at the arid no-man's land at the intersection of the Jordanian, Syrian, and Iraqi territories in 2014 (Kayyali, 2017). More than 10,000 refugees settled there in a space that was very inhospitable for people to live in, in the absence of organized aid campaigns across the borders.

"I observed people literally perish from starvation and illness caused by the intense sun rays." (Interview, S.R., 2022)

The dire situation at the Rukban camp did not go unnoticed. Concurrently with the border closures, the Jordanian prime minister, Abdullah Ensor, announced during the third International Pledging Conference for Syria in Kuwait that the number of Syrian refugees had exceeded Jordan's capacity to respond, implying that international donors should support Jordanian development strategies as a response to the Syrian refugee crisis (Human Rights Watch, 2015). Human Rights Watch added that other countries should also share responsibility for hosting Syrian refugees. UNHCR also made requisitions to non-Middle Eastern countries to initiate resettlement programs for Syrian refugees in their nations, as they were only able to take in 2% of the total number of refugees through 2015. According to Houry, the deputy Middle East and North Africa director for Human Rights Watch, "Each Syrian stuck in the desert is a testament to the failure of the critically needed international refugee response [...] But leaving desperate people in a desert border zone is not the answer" (Westcott, 2015).

The border policies changed again in 2016, after the tragic attack in the informal Rukban camp. A terrorist attack left six Jordanian army personnel dead and fourteen injured. The authorities suspected some Syrian refugees of having potential ties with ISIS. Consequently, the area was declared a closed military zone, and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs decided to lock down the borders with
"We heard that the Rukban crossing border point was open, so we decided to try to enter Jordan from this point. Bedouin sheep vehicles were the only transportation means to reach Rukban. It cost $100 per person, and the people who didn't have money had no option other than to stay in Daraa." (Interview, S.R., 2022)

Nearly 4,000 Syrians were stranded at the borders, left without essential aid, when the restrictions resulted in irregular access to UN relief agencies and several international organizations (Williams, 2014). Later in December, the Jordanian government decided to reopen the eastern border crossings for Syrian refugees. It did not take too long to announce another partial closure in 2015, again at the eastern border crossing with permitted relief access.

"After a long journey, we were shocked to learn that our hope to cross the borders and seek help was destroyed as the Jordanian government decided to close the Rukban crossing point. The Bedouins took the money from us and left us with around 500 people stranded alone in the desert without any shelter or basic living essentials. A few days later, we faced a huge sandstorm that left us helpless. People were panicking. We had difficulty breathing, nil visibility, and sand getting trapped in our nose, mouth, and eyes. Babies were crying, and we could not protect ourselves from the sandstorm since we had no tents or shelters to hide in." (Interview, S.R., 2022)

The Rukban refugee camp represented a geopolitical deadlock in the midst of the Syrian crisis in Jordan. This camp came into existence as a result of the gathering of refugees fleeing Syria who ended up at the arid no-man's land at the intersection of the Jordanian, Syrian, and Iraqi territories in 2014 (Kayyali, 2017). More than 10,000 refugees settled there in a space that was very inhospitable for people to live in, in the absence of organized aid campaigns across the borders.

"I observed people literally perish from starvation and illness caused by the intense sun rays." (Interview, S.R., 2022)

The dire situation at the Rukban camp did not go unnoticed. Concurrently with the border closures, the Jordanian prime minister, Abdullah Ensor, announced during the third International Pledging Conference for Syria in Kuwait that the number of Syrian refugees had exceeded Jordan's capacity to respond, implying that international donors should support Jordanian development strategies as a response to the Syrian refugee crisis (Human Rights Watch, 2015). Human Rights Watch added that other countries should also share responsibility for hosting Syrian refugees. UNHCR also made requisitions to non-Middle Eastern countries to initiate resettlement programs for Syrian refugees in their nations, as they were only able to take in 2% of the total number of refugees through 2015. According to Houry, the deputy Middle East and North Africa director for Human Rights Watch, "Each Syrian stuck in the desert is a testament to the failure of the critically needed international refugee response [...] But leaving desperate people in a desert border zone is not the answer" (Westcott, 2015).

The border policies changed again in 2016, after the tragic attack in the informal Rukban camp. A terrorist attack left six Jordanian army personnel dead and fourteen injured. The authorities suspected some Syrian refugees of having potential ties with ISIS. Consequently, the area was declared a closed military zone, and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs decided to lock down the borders with
Syria (Ghazal, 2016), a decision that was heavily criticized by humanitarian organizations and the international community (Black, 2016). The government's decision was accused of putting the refugees' lives at risk, while putting in place adequate reception and screening procedures would have addressed their security concerns. The Jordanian administration also refused to provide aid across its borders to Rukban, which marks a journey of ongoing misery and evasion of responsibilities between nations to a camp that hosted, at its peak, nearly 60,000 refugees. As a result, UN agencies operating in Syria were given "a theoretical responsibility" for delivering aid to Rukban. However, because the Syrian regime controlled the capital of the country, where humanitarian organizations are situated, most of the aid was unable to reach the Rukban refugee camp. The thirty-five-kilometer distance between the Rukban camp and a US military base made it more challenging to bring aid. The US-base authorities thought that providing supplies to the camp would take the focus away from the military mission, while they were accused by Russia of using the refugees as "human shields" to protect their opposition forces (Sennett, 2020).

As the burden of responsibility shifted among countries, the prevention of aid lifelines due to the regime, the military forces engaged in the war, and the Jordanian blockage, the camp was suffering from a protracted crisis of excessive hunger and the absence of basic humanitarian aid. Situated in the desert, where children and infants lose their lives due to the drastic weather conditions and the spread of diseases (Edwards and al-Homsi, 2020), there has not been a supply of aid to the camp in years (Christou, 2022), The United Nations last managed to deliver aid in late 2019.

### A Shift from Humanitarian to Development Response: A Path Paved with Good Intentions

The UNDP and the UNHCR launched the first response strategy in December 2012 with the Regional Refugee and Resilience Plan (3RP), which consists of a regional mechanism with five hosting countries: Turkey, Lebanon, Jordan, Iraq, and Egypt. Combining both humanitarian and development approaches to respond to the needs of refugees and host communities, the 3RP's stakeholders have developed country-specific response plans. The refugee component addresses the needs of refugees for protection and humanitarian assistance, whereas the resilience component addresses the needs of impacted individuals, communities, and institutions for resilience, stabilization, and development, with the objective of enhancing the capacities of national actors. Following Jordan's participation in the 3RP, in 2014, the Jordanian government established the Host Community Support Platform (HCSP) and the National Resilience Plan (NRP), a three-year program of high-priority investments by the Jordanian government in cooperation with the UN and other NGOs. The program aimed to identify the dual nature of challenges to building resilience and strengthening social cohesion and to address the impacts of the crisis on Jordanian host communities (REACH, 2014).

The Syrian refugee crisis marks the establishment of Jordanian structured governance of refugee influx. This structured response resulted from the realization that the 1998 Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) between Jordan and the UNHCR was insufficient to replace Jordan's disapproval of the 1967 Geneva Convention regarding the status
Syria (Ghazal, 2016), a decision that was heavily criticized by humanitarian organizations and the international community (Black, 2016). The government's decision was accused of putting the refugees' lives at risk, while putting in place adequate reception and screening procedures would have addressed their security concerns. The Jordanian administration also refused to provide aid across its borders to Rukban, which marks a journey of ongoing misery and evasion of responsibilities between nations to a camp that hosted, at its peak, nearly 60,000 refugees. As a result, UN agencies operating in Syria were given "a theoretical responsibility" for delivering aid to Rukban. However, because the Syrian regime controlled the capital of the country, where humanitarian organizations are situated, most of the aid was unable to reach the Rukban refugee camp. The thirty-five-kilometer distance between the Rukban camp and a US military base made it more challenging to bring aid. The US-base authorities thought that providing supplies to the camp would take the focus away from the military mission, while they were accused by Russia of using the refugees as "human shields" to protect their opposition forces (Sennett, 2020).

As the burden of responsibility shifted among countries, the prevention of aid lifelines due to the regime, the military forces engaged in the war, and the Jordanian blockage, the camp was suffering from a protracted crisis of excessive hunger and the absence of basic humanitarian aid. Situated in the desert, where children and infants lose their lives due to the drastic weather conditions and the spread of diseases (Edwards and al-Homsi, 2020), there has not been a supply of aid to the camp in years (Christou, 2022), The United Nations last managed to deliver aid in late 2019.

### A Shift from Humanitarian to Development Response: A Path Paved with Good Intentions

The UNDP and the UNHCR launched the first response strategy in December 2012 with the Regional Refugee and Resilience Plan (3RP), which consists of a regional mechanism with five hosting countries: Turkey, Lebanon, Jordan, Iraq, and Egypt. Combining both humanitarian and development approaches to respond to the needs of refugees and host communities, the 3RP's stakeholders have developed country-specific response plans. The refugee component addresses the needs of refugees for protection and humanitarian assistance, whereas the resilience component addresses the needs of impacted individuals, communities, and institutions for resilience, stabilization, and development, with the objective of enhancing the capacities of national actors. Following Jordan's participation in the 3RP, in 2014, the Jordanian government established the Host Community Support Platform (HCSP) and the National Resilience Plan (NRP), a three-year program of high-priority investments by the Jordanian government in cooperation with the UN and other NGOs. The program aimed to identify the dual nature of challenges to building resilience and strengthening social cohesion and to address the impacts of the crisis on Jordanian host communities (REACH, 2014).

The Syrian refugee crisis marks the establishment of Jordanian structured governance of refugee influx. This structured response resulted from the realization that the 1998 Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) between Jordan and the UNHCR was insufficient to replace Jordan's disapproval of the 1967 Geneva Convention regarding the status
of refugees (Beaujouan and Rasheed, 2020). Approaching the end of a crowded year of decisions in 2014, Jordan began the establishment of the “Jordan Response Plan” (JRP), a series of financial models of partnership through interventions between the host country and the international community. The JRP is seen as the nationally-led country strategy that came as a consequence of the 3RP (3RP, 2019).

Through collaboration with more than 150 local, national, and international partners, the government of Jordan presented the “Jordan Response Plan” (JRP) as the highlight of their efforts towards a development governance strategy. The government promotes the JRP as the only national comprehensive plan through which the international community provides financial support to respond to the Syrian crisis, and it presents a yearly program to embed the refugee crisis response into “development-oriented” programs with sustainable goals for both the refugees and the host communities (MoPIC, 2015). The shift to a development approach is thus explicitly acknowledged in the policy published in 2015, leading the government to establish a series of mechanisms to integrate Syrian refugees into the economy of the Kingdom. A definite step in the direction of a development strategy followed the spike in the numbers of Syrian refugees coming to Jordan at the end of 2013 and early 2014. As mentioned above, between March and September 2013, the number of Syrians seeking refuge more than doubled (UNHCR, 2023). The shift is also apparent in the different types of funding channelled to the country. The graphs below present the flow of Official development assistance (ODA) and the flow of humanitarian funding Jordan has received between 2010 and 2019. It clearly shows how ODA fluctuates along with the humanitarian crisis.

<figure><img src="image_13.png" /><figcaption>Graph 2: Net Official Development Assistance Received (Current USD) for Jordan, 2010-2019 (in Billion USD)</figcaption></figure>

Source: World Bank (2020).
of refugees (Beaujouan and Rasheed, 2020). Approaching the end of a crowded year of decisions in 2014, Jordan began the establishment of the “Jordan Response Plan” (JRP), a series of financial models of partnership through interventions between the host country and the international community. The JRP is seen as the nationally-led country strategy that came as a consequence of the 3RP (3RP, 2019).

Through collaboration with more than 150 local, national, and international partners, the government of Jordan presented the “Jordan Response Plan” (JRP) as the highlight of their efforts towards a development governance strategy. The government promotes the JRP as the only national comprehensive plan through which the international community provides financial support to respond to the Syrian crisis, and it presents a yearly program to embed the refugee crisis response into “development-oriented” programs with sustainable goals for both the refugees and the host communities (MoPIC, 2015). The shift to a development approach is thus explicitly acknowledged in the policy published in 2015, leading the government to establish a series of mechanisms to integrate Syrian refugees into the economy of the Kingdom. A definite step in the direction of a development strategy followed the spike in the numbers of Syrian refugees coming to Jordan at the end of 2013 and early 2014. As mentioned above, between March and September 2013, the number of Syrians seeking refuge more than doubled (UNHCR, 2023). The shift is also apparent in the different types of funding channelled to the country. The graphs below present the flow of Official development assistance (ODA) and the flow of humanitarian funding Jordan has received between 2010 and 2019. It clearly shows how ODA fluctuates along with the humanitarian crisis.

<figure><img src="image_11.png" /><figcaption>**Graph 2: Net Official Development Assistance Received (Current USD) for Jordan, 2010-2019 (in Billion USD)**</figcaption></figure>

Source: World Bank (2020).
<figure><img src="image_14.png" /><figcaption>Graph 3: Humanitarian Funding Reported, Jordan, 2012-2022 (in Billion USD)</figcaption></figure>

Source: OCHA (2020).

Graph 2 shows an increase in development funding since the beginning of the Syrian crisis, whereas Graph 3 shows a decrease in humanitarian funding since 2016. Put together, Graphs 2 and 3 support the hypothesis that the general orientation of aid in Jordan is shifting from humanitarian response to a more development approach.

After the first Gulf War, the incoming Iraqi refugees “led to a major shift in the international community’s presence in Jordan” (Kelberer, 2017: 151). This influx of refugees was coupled with the arrival of humanitarian organizations to reduce the strain placed on national services. Amman, the capital, hosts several humanitarian and development international agencies and, throughout the years affected by conflicts in neighbouring countries, has become a hub in the region for international organizations and UN agencies (Benthall and Bellion-Jourdan, 2009). Between 2010 and 2013, incoming humanitarian funding to Jordan jumped from $52 million to more than $958 million USD (OCHA, 2020). Since the beginning of the Syrian crisis, international nongovernmental organizations (INGOs) and UN agencies have cemented their presence in the country with support from international funding, Jordan becoming the “de facto regional hub for Syria humanitarian operations” (Sida et al., 2016).

Looking at the patterns of foreign funding, Kelberer (2017) shows how the Jordanian regime has grown skillful in negotiating direct state funding from the UNHCR or the World Bank in exchange for more flexible refugee policies. At the 2016 London Conference, Jordan's statement shifted the narrative of the Syrian crisis from a purely humanitarian crisis to a development concern of host countries, framing the crisis as a “developmental disaster” (Kelberer, 2017: 154). In all its public interventions, the regime insists on the burden that hosting refugees represents while also emphasizing that Jordan needs direct support for its own population as well. Even if Jordan is classified as an upper middle-income country by the World Bank, it keeps receiving important sums of international assistance.
<figure><img src="image_12.png" /><figcaption>Graph 3: Humanitarian Funding Reported, Jordan, 2012-2022 (in Billion USD)</figcaption></figure>

Source: OCHA (2020).

Graph 2 shows an increase in development funding since the beginning of the Syrian crisis, whereas Graph 3 shows a decrease in humanitarian funding since 2016. Put together, Graphs 2 and 3 support the hypothesis that the general orientation of aid in Jordan is shifting from humanitarian response to a more development approach.

After the first Gulf War, the incoming Iraqi refugees “led to a major shift in the international community’s presence in Jordan” (Kelberer, 2017: 151). This influx of refugees was coupled with the arrival of humanitarian organizations to reduce the strain placed on national services. Amman, the capital, hosts several humanitarian and development international agencies and, throughout the years affected by conflicts in neighbouring countries, has become a hub in the region for international organizations and UN agencies (Benthall and Bellion-Jourdan, 2009). Between 2010 and 2013, incoming humanitarian funding to Jordan jumped from $52 million to more than $958 million USD (OCHA, 2020). Since the beginning of the Syrian crisis, international nongovernmental organizations (INGOs) and UN agencies have cemented their presence in the country with support from international funding, Jordan becoming the “de facto regional hub for Syria humanitarian operations” (Sida et al., 2016).

Looking at the patterns of foreign funding, Kelberer (2017) shows how the Jordanian regime has grown skillful in negotiating direct state funding from the UNHCR or the World Bank in exchange for more flexible refugee policies. At the 2016 London Conference, Jordan's statement shifted the narrative of the Syrian crisis from a purely humanitarian crisis to a development concern of host countries, framing the crisis as a “developmental disaster” (Kelberer, 2017: 154). In all its public interventions, the regime insists on the burden that hosting refugees represents while also emphasizing that Jordan needs direct support for its own population as well. Even if Jordan is classified as an upper middle-income country by the World Bank, it keeps receiving important sums of international assistance.