The Deportation Rule the West Applies Selectively

Millions of Afghans are being pushed back from Pakistan and Iran into a Taliban-ruled country many of them have never known, while the Dominican Republic is removing Haitians at a scale that would dominate debate in Washington or London. Yet the loudest moral judgement of deportation remains attached to Donald Trump, whose enforcement programme is treated as a unique political crime rather than one expression of a global system.

The disparity is not proof that every government is equally cruel, or that every removal is lawful. It is evidence of something more revealing: public outrage is often distributed according to the identity of the government, the language of the story and the emotional appeal of the person being removed. The world has borders. The question is whether the principles used to police them are applied consistently.

The largest returns are the least visible

At the Torkham crossing between Pakistan and Afghanistan, the argument about deportation arrives in human form. An elderly person struggles on crutches. Children carry chickens rescued from homes they did not choose to leave. Families stand beneath Taliban flags at registration counters, entering a country that is legally their own but, for some, entirely unfamiliar.

One woman described by the BBC, Nazia, was born in Pakistan. “But I’ve never been to Afghanistan before,” she said, adding that many people arriving had not even enough bread to eat. Nearly her entire family had been deported from Pakistan or Iran. The border was not a line on a map in that moment. It was the point at which one hard life ended and another began.

The numbers make the scene more than an isolated tragedy. The United Nations refugee agency has said that about 5.4 million Afghans returned to the country between late 2023 and 2026, with returns taking place under conditions that included deportation and pressure-driven departures. The BBC reported that the total had reached roughly six million in less than three years, a population larger than many countries. ¹

There is no single legal or moral category covering all those people. Some chose to return. Some were deported. Some left after authorities made continued residence so precarious that “voluntary” departure became a phrase with little practical meaning. Some were refugees; others were undocumented workers; others were children born in the host country. The common fact is that an enormous population has been moved across a border, and that the movement has received nothing like the sustained cultural attention given to individual American enforcement cases.

That silence cannot be explained by scale. Six million people are not difficult to notice. Nor can it be explained by the absence of danger. Afghanistan remains under Taliban rule, with girls excluded from secondary education and women subjected to severe restrictions on work, movement and public life. The receiving state is not a neutral destination chosen from a menu of safe alternatives.

The explanation is closer to the structure of modern attention. A family being removed from a wealthy English-speaking country can be filmed in a school uniform, interviewed outside an airport and discussed by politicians who share the audience’s cultural references. A family arriving in Afghanistan after decades in Pakistan becomes a distant humanitarian item. The same moral vocabulary is available, but the story has fewer domestic targets and fewer people who see themselves in it.

Security explains the policy; it does not settle the moral question

Pakistan and Iran did not invent the idea that a neighbouring country’s crisis can become a host state’s security problem. Both have hosted millions of Afghans over decades, often with limited international support and under severe economic pressure. Both now argue that the original emergency has lasted too long, that their own citizens must come first and that a state cannot be expected to provide indefinite residence to a population that crossed its border because of war.

That argument has force. A border is not merely a moral invitation. Governments are expected to maintain public order, plan housing and schools, protect employment, control entry and identify people who may present a security risk. A country that accepts no limit to irregular migration has not abolished hard choices; it has transferred them to people already living in overcrowded neighbourhoods, informal labour markets and underfunded public services.

But the security argument does not settle the question of return. It identifies a state interest. It does not erase the interests of the person being expelled. A family may have spent 30 years in the host country, paid taxes, formed marriages and raised children there. The fact that the parents crossed a border without a durable legal status does not make the children’s memories, schooling or language disappear.

The tension becomes sharper when the destination is dangerous. States may say that Afghan refugees are returning to their country of nationality, but nationality is not the same as belonging and a passport is not a guarantee of safety. A child born in Peshawar or Tehran may have no meaningful knowledge of Kabul, Kandahar or Herat. The phrase “go home” assumes that home is a physical place waiting intact behind the border. For millions of displaced people, home is a place known through family stories, not personal experience.

There is also an unspoken hierarchy in international politics. Wealthy democracies are expected to justify removals through detailed procedures and are judged against expansive standards of individual rights. Poorer states are often granted a narrower vocabulary: security, capacity, sovereignty. Their conduct may be condemned by human-rights organisations, but it rarely becomes a central test of the moral character of the global political left or right.

This is not because the poorer states are less responsible. It is because international attention follows power. A US president can be blamed, praised, satirised and litigated in a media system that reaches the world. A Pakistani interior ministry or an Iranian enforcement operation is harder to turn into a domestic political symbol in Britain, Canada or the United States. The moral concern may be real, but the political theatre is weaker.

The Dominican Republic has turned the island into a border argument

The Dominican Republic offers a smaller but equally revealing case. It shares the island of Hispaniola with Haiti, whose state has been weakened by gang control, political paralysis and the collapse of basic services. Dominican President Luis Abinader has made border security a central part of national policy, presenting the frontier not only as an immigration issue but as a barrier against disorder that could spread across the island.

The country has built a sensor-equipped border wall and expanded surveillance along a frontier of about 392 kilometres. It has also carried out large-scale removals of Haitians. Official figures for 2024 placed the number of deportations at roughly 380,000, while later reporting showed the programme continuing at high volume. In August 2026, Reuters reported that nearly 200,000 people had been forcibly returned to Haiti in the first eight months of the year, according to a United Nations official. ²

The Dominican case is not a simple morality play. Haiti’s crisis is real. Armed groups have controlled large parts of Port-au-Prince and displaced huge numbers of people inside the country. The Dominican Republic is a much more stable state with limited resources and a population that has its own anxieties about employment, public services and national identity. The government’s claim that it is defending order is not a fantasy created by foreign observers.

Nor does a legitimate security concern give the authorities a blank cheque. Rights groups have accused Dominican officials of racialised treatment, abusive detention and removals that fail to distinguish between recent arrivals, long-term residents, asylum seekers and people born on the Dominican side of the border. Pregnant women and children have been caught up in enforcement. Reports of trucks with cage-like interiors have turned an administrative operation into a symbol of humiliation.

The relevant question is not whether the Dominican Republic may control its border. Every functioning state claims that power. The question is what process it uses, whom it removes and what it does when the destination country cannot provide basic safety. The answer may be that some removals are legally justified and others are not. The point is that the argument must be made case by case rather than settled by a slogan about sovereignty.

Yet the volume of Western moral protest has remained modest compared with the reaction to American immigration enforcement. There are explanations. The Dominican Republic is not the central power in a global media ecosystem. Its politics are less familiar to English-speaking audiences. Its conflict does not fit as neatly into the American contest between progressive identity and conservative nationalism. Haitian migrants also occupy a more complicated place in public debate: they are victims of a catastrophic state failure, but the governments removing them are not always the governments Western activists are accustomed to confronting.

The result is a curious imbalance. The Dominican Republic’s hard border is discussed as regional statecraft. Trump’s hard border is discussed as a referendum on civilisation. The difference may reflect important distinctions in law and rhetoric, but it also reflects which country is presumed to carry the whole moral burden of immigration.

Australia made deterrence into a bipartisan system

Australia offers a different example because its policy is not an improvised response to one president or one crisis. Operation Sovereign Borders was established in 2013 as a military-led border operation. People attempting to reach Australia by boat without authorisation are intercepted and turned back where possible, returned to their port of departure or transferred to another country for processing. The official policy is blunt: there is no settlement in Australia for those who arrive by unauthorised boat. ³

Australian governments of different political colours have defended the central architecture. Its advocates say the system stopped people-smuggling routes, reduced dangerous sea journeys and restored the state’s control over entry. They point to the deaths that occurred when smugglers sent people to sea in unsafe vessels and argue that deterrence, however unpleasant, may save lives in the long run.

Critics answer that deterrence has been achieved by transferring suffering offshore. People intercepted on the water have been held for long periods in Nauru or Papua New Guinea. Refugees recognised as having protection claims have spent years in uncertainty. The system’s secrecy has made independent scrutiny difficult, while the physical distance between Australian voters and offshore detention has weakened the political cost of the policy.

Both descriptions can be true. A policy can reduce boat arrivals and still impose cruel conditions. It can be popular with voters and still deserve legal challenge. It can be less chaotic than a border that is not enforced and still violate a moral obligation owed to people fleeing persecution. The language of “successful border protection” does not end the argument; it identifies the government’s chosen priority.

Australia’s example matters because it exposes a distinction often hidden in American debate. The act of preventing entry is not always called deportation, even when people are intercepted and sent away before they establish a life in the receiving country. The moral response changes with the administrative label. “Turnback” sounds operational. “Deportation” sounds punitive. For the person placed on a vessel and returned to danger, the difference may be less significant.

The United Kingdom has drawn from the Australian model while presenting its own policies through the language of controlled migration. The points-based system is intended to select people according to skills, salary, sponsorship and other criteria rather than granting an automatic route based on geography or historical ties. That may be a reasonable way to manage labour migration. It also makes clear what many political arguments prefer to obscure: immigration systems are designed to discriminate between categories of people.

Every system distinguishes between citizens and non-citizens, refugees and economic migrants, temporary workers and permanent residents, lawful entrants and those who overstay. The argument is not whether distinctions exist. It is whether they are intelligible, fairly administered and capable of recognising the human consequences of a legal decision.

Windrush was a failure of the state, not a refutation of borders

Britain’s Windrush scandal belongs in this discussion because it demonstrates what happens when the machinery of immigration control loses sight of the legal status of the people it is supposed to regulate. The victims were not simply unauthorised migrants who had lived in Britain for a long time. Many were Commonwealth citizens who had arrived legally as children, built their lives in Britain and possessed a right to remain.

They were detained, denied jobs and healthcare, threatened with removal and, in some cases, deported. The Home Office had failed to provide many of them with documentary proof of their status. Records that might have helped establish their arrival and residence were destroyed or unavailable. A later government-commissioned report described the scandal as connected to institutional failures, historical ignorance and a hostile environment that placed the burden of proof on people whose rights the state had failed to document. ⁴

Windrush carries a particular moral force because it reversed the normal relationship between the state and the migrant. The people affected were not asking for an exceptional favour. They were asking the government to recognise a right they already possessed. The system treated missing paperwork as evidence against them, even though the missing paperwork was partly the product of government decisions.

The racial history matters. The Windrush generation came from Caribbean countries that had been part of the British Empire. They were invited into the postwar labour force and then exposed to a political climate that increasingly treated non-white migration as a problem to be deterred. The later administrative disaster did not arise in a historical vacuum. It grew in institutions that had too often viewed Commonwealth migration through suspicion.

That is why Windrush deserves serious shame and reform. It is also why it should not be used as a shortcut to the conclusion that all immigration enforcement is morally illegitimate. The scandal shows that a state must distinguish between a person with no right to remain and a person whose right has been ignored. It shows that due process is not decorative. It is the mechanism that prevents the state from confusing a paperwork failure with a human being’s legal disappearance.

There is a temptation in political argument to use Windrush as a general indictment of border control. That is too easy. A government may control entry while accepting responsibility for people it has admitted. It may remove someone whose visa has expired while recognising that an individual case requires discretion. It may enforce rules and still be judged by the quality of its evidence, its treatment of children and its willingness to correct mistakes.

The stronger lesson is more demanding: immigration rules must be enforced with enough precision to know when they do not apply. The state cannot claim unlimited power over entry and then disclaim responsibility for its own records. Nor can opponents of enforcement claim that every removal is equivalent to Windrush. Moral seriousness begins with making the distinction.

America’s deportation debate confuses law with personality

Donald Trump has made immigration enforcement personal. His speeches, slogans and attacks on migrants ensure that every arrest can be read as an extension of his character. For supporters, that personal style signals resolve. For opponents, it turns ordinary administrative action into evidence of authoritarian intent. The president’s rhetoric has changed the atmosphere surrounding deportation, and the change is politically important.

But rhetoric does not mean that the underlying machinery was created by one man. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Customs and Border Protection, immigration courts and the statutory grounds for removal existed before Trump. Presidents establish priorities, propose budgets, appoint officials and define the public language of enforcement. They do not personally issue every charging document or decide every individual case.

This distinction is not an excuse for presidential responsibility. A president who instructs agencies to arrest more people, removes restrictions on where enforcement can occur or publicly treats migrants as enemies is responsible for the consequences of those choices. The existence of a civil service does not absolve political leaders. It does, however, make the claim that one president invented deportation historically weak.

The United States has deported people under Democratic and Republican administrations. The legal system has continued to distinguish between formal removals and returns, between people apprehended at the border and people arrested inside the country, and between those with criminal convictions and those whose immigration violation is the central allegation. These categories matter because a headline number can create a false impression of what an administration actually did.

The current debate often collapses four separate questions into one. Is the person legally removable? Was the arrest carried out lawfully? Was the removal proportionate to the person’s history and family circumstances? Was the destination safe? A government can have a legal power to remove someone and still exercise that power badly. A person can have broken an immigration rule and still deserve a process that does not treat the breach as a licence for humiliation.

Public discussion becomes less intelligent when every arrest is treated as a moral verdict on the president, while every overseas removal is treated as a technical act of another sovereign state. The same questions should travel: What was the person’s status? What process was available? What facts were considered? What happened to children and family members? Was return compatible with the state’s obligations?

The case of Milo Yiannopoulos made the selectivity visible because the person being removed had spent years supporting the policy used against him. He entered the United States in 2019, overstayed his authorisation, missed an immigration hearing and received a final order of removal in July 2026. ICE detained him at a New Orleans airport and he was returned to Britain. The Department of Homeland Security described him as an “illegal alien from the United Kingdom”, language that echoed the hard-edged vocabulary he had used against other migrants. ⁵

The story received coverage. It did not become the defining symbol of the American immigration debate. That is understandable in one sense: Yiannopoulos is a prominent adult who knew the politics of the system he supported. He was not a child brought across a border, a family separated after years of settlement or a refugee returned to a war zone. Yet the muted reaction also demonstrates how strongly public concern depends on narrative innocence.

When the person being removed is a vocal immigration hawk, the story complicates the preferred moral map. It becomes possible to say both that the rule was valid and that the experience was frightening. It becomes necessary to ask whether the objection is to deportation itself or only to deportation carried out by a political enemy.

The Obama numbers expose the difference between scale and theatre

Barack Obama’s administration was labelled “deporter in chief” by immigrant-rights critics. The description was not invented by conservatives. During Obama’s presidency, the United States recorded high levels of removals and returns, particularly in the early years. The Migration Policy Institute calculated that removals and returns were higher in Obama’s first term than in his second, while noting that the composition of enforcement changed as border apprehensions fell and priorities shifted towards serious criminals and recent arrivals. ⁶

In fiscal year 2016, the final full year of Obama’s presidency, ICE and CBP reported 450,954 removals and returns, including 344,354 formal removals and 106,600 returns. ICE said that 240,255 people were removed or returned through its operations, with the largest share involving people apprehended at or near the border. The agency also reported that 99.3 per cent of its removals met one or more stated enforcement priorities. ⁷

Those figures do not prove that Obama’s policy was humane. A person sent back across a border is not less displaced because the removal appears in a spreadsheet under “return”. A parent taken from a workplace does not experience the arrest as an abstract question of enforcement priorities. Nor does an official classification of “serious criminal” settle every question about rehabilitation, family life or proportionality.

The figures do establish that large-scale deportation was not introduced by Trump. The machinery already had money, personnel, courts and legal authority. Obama’s administration used it at a scale that led immigrant-rights activists to condemn him, but the broader liberal public never treated his record as an existential threat to democratic government in the way Trump’s record is treated.

Part of the difference lies in who was removed. A large share of Obama-era activity involved people apprehended at the border or people in criminal custody. Trump’s enforcement has made interior arrests more visible and has placed greater emphasis on people who may not have serious criminal convictions. An immigration raid at a workplace or outside a courthouse produces a different image from a transfer that begins in a detention facility. The difference in policy is real. So is the difference in presentation.

Another part lies in language. Obama spoke in the vocabulary of enforcement priorities, legal process and public safety. Trump speaks in the vocabulary of invasion, enemies and national decline. A government can carry out a severe policy while presenting it as administration. Another can carry out a comparable policy while presenting it as combat. The public responds not only to what the state does but to the story the state tells about the people subjected to it.

That is why statistics are so often used selectively. Critics may cite total removals under Obama when challenging conservative claims about Democratic softness, then cite a single family raid under Trump when demonstrating cruelty. Supporters may cite Obama’s numbers to accuse the media of hypocrisy, then dismiss the conditions surrounding Trump-era arrests as irrelevant because the people lacked legal status. Both sides choose the metric that makes the opposing administration look morally exceptional.

A serious account must resist both forms of manipulation. It must count removals, separate categories and examine the process. It must also recognise that an administration’s public language influences how its institutions behave and how citizens understand the people being removed. The numbers show continuity. The rhetoric shows change. Neither cancels the other.

The child who cries changes the category

Immigration arguments are often settled in the public imagination by a child. The child may be standing at a border fence, sitting in a detention room or crying in front of a head of government. The image is powerful because it compresses a legal dispute into an apparent moral fact: children did not choose the journey, and a state that sends them away appears to punish them for the decisions of adults.

The United States created a particularly strong version of this political category through the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals programme. DACA applies to people brought to the country as children who meet specified requirements, including arrival before the age of 16 and continuous residence from June 15, 2007. It offers temporary protection from removal and work authorisation; it does not itself create lawful permanent residence or a route to citizenship. ⁸

The word “Dreamer” is therefore not simply a description of childhood. It is a political achievement. It gives a population a name that captures innocence, effort and national belonging. A young person who speaks American English, attends an American school and has no serious criminal record can appear more American than foreign even when the law remains uncertain. The category asks the public to judge a person by the life they have lived rather than by the manner in which they entered.

Pakistan and Iran have not created an equally powerful public category for the children of Afghan refugees. Pakistan’s citizenship law contains a territorial principle, but Afghan families have often remained vulnerable to treatment as foreigners and to gaps between formal law and administrative practice. Iran’s citizenship system has traditionally placed greater weight on descent, although changes have expanded possibilities for some children of Iranian mothers. In both countries, the children of Afghan parents can live for years without the political protection that comes from being recognised as part of the national “us”.

That absence is not simply a consequence of poverty. It is a consequence of political membership. In the United States, the DACA debate produced a constituency of lawyers, universities, employers, religious groups and voters who could argue that people brought as children had become part of the country. In Pakistan and Iran, decades of hosting did not produce the same durable consensus that Afghan children belonged to the host nation. The state retained the idea that the refugee presence was temporary, even when temporary became a lifetime.

Angela Merkel encountered the emotional force of the child during a televised discussion in 2015. Reem Sahwil, a Palestinian teenager who had arrived in Germany from a refugee camp in Lebanon, described the fear of being deported while her classmates continued their ordinary lives. Merkel told her that politics was difficult and that Germany could not accept everyone. The girl began to cry; Merkel put a hand on her shoulder. The encounter became a global image of the collision between an individual’s future and a government’s claim of limited capacity. ⁹

The image did not abolish immigration law. It did something subtler: it changed the emotional category of the case. A deportation that might have been described as enforcement became a question about whether a young person already belonged. The public could see a classroom, a language and a future. It could not see the thousands of other cases that would follow if one story became the rule.

Labels make disagreement look like wickedness

One reason immigration debates have become so bitter is that labels increasingly replace distinctions. “Fascist”, “racist”, “open borders”, “illegal” and “far right” are often used before the underlying policy has been described. Once the label is accepted, the facts become supporting material. A person who wants lower immigration is assumed to want racial exclusion. A person who opposes mass deportation is assumed to want uncontrolled borders. The argument becomes a test of character rather than a dispute about rules.

This is not merely a problem of bad manners. It makes governments less accountable. If all restrictions are called fascist, then there is no language left for ordinary border administration. If all migrants are described as invaders, then there is no language left for people with genuine refugee claims. The political vocabulary becomes too blunt to identify the difference between an enforceable rule and an abusive practice.

The British debate shows how quickly this happens. Rising net migration, small-boat crossings, hotel accommodation and pressure on housing have moved immigration from a specialist policy area to a central electoral question. Parties that once treated tighter controls as an embarrassment now compete to promise faster removals and longer waits for settlement. The label “far right” is sometimes applied to genuinely extremist movements, but it is also used against voters who want lower numbers or believe that the state should be able to remove people who have no right to remain.

That usage has a predictable effect. It tells ordinary voters that their concern is not a disagreement about capacity, public spending or social cohesion but evidence of a defective personality. They are not invited to examine the trade-offs. They are invited to prove that they are morally acceptable. The consequence is not the disappearance of the concern. It is the growth of resentment against institutions that appear to use moral language to avoid answering practical questions.

The same dynamic operates on the opposite side. Stories of migrants being removed are sometimes presented as proof that the entire legal category of unauthorised residence is illegitimate. A person’s vulnerability is treated as evidence that no state may enforce a border. That conclusion does not follow. The existence of unjust removals does not make all removals unjust, just as the existence of lawful removals does not make every enforcement method humane.

The central discipline is to separate the questions that emotion wants to merge. Does the state have authority to regulate entry? Does the person have a legal claim to remain? Was the evidence reliable? Was the process fair? Are children or long-term residents involved? Is the destination safe? What remedy exists if officials are wrong? These questions are not bureaucratic obstacles to compassion. They are the structure that makes compassion governable rather than arbitrary.

A standard must survive the identity of the enforcer

The strongest objection to selective outrage is not that critics of Trump are wrong to criticise him. They may be right about his rhetoric, priorities and treatment of detainees. The objection is that the criticism often stops at the American border. Deportation is condemned as uniquely sinister when carried out by a president whose politics are detested, while similar actions by governments regarded as peripheral, pragmatic or politically useful are treated as unfortunate necessities.

Iran and Pakistan can argue that the Afghan war is over and that the burden of refuge cannot last for ever. The Dominican Republic can argue that Haiti’s gang crisis threatens the security of the island. Australia can argue that boat arrivals created a market for smugglers and that offshore processing deters dangerous journeys. Britain can argue that a points-based system is a democratic choice about who may enter. The United States can argue that a person who overstays a visa and ignores an immigration hearing may be removed.

None of those arguments is automatically decisive. Each must be tested against the treatment of the people affected. A government that invokes security must show how security is being assessed. A government that invokes sovereignty must obey its own law. A government that sends people to a dangerous country must confront the consequences rather than hide behind formal nationality. A government that uses detention must allow scrutiny and meaningful legal challenge.

The test must also distinguish between different kinds of failure. Windrush involved the state removing or excluding people who had a lawful right to remain. That was not equivalent to the removal of a person whose visa had expired. Australia’s offshore system may be legal under domestic arrangements and still be condemned for prolonged detention. Pakistan’s right to manage its border does not answer whether a second-generation Afghan child can be expelled into a country they have never seen. Trump’s administration may have authority to enforce immigration law and still be responsible for inflammatory rhetoric and abusive implementation.

Consistency does not require identical policies. Countries face different borders, histories, economies and security risks. It requires that the same moral questions be asked of each policy. The identity of the enforcer may explain the intensity of scrutiny, but it should not determine the standard.

The awkward conclusion is that most states, including liberal democracies, regard the reversal of unauthorised residence as a legitimate power. They differ over who is targeted, how much discretion officials have, what evidence is required, how family life is weighed and whether the destination is safe. The political argument should concern those differences. It should not pretend that one government invented the underlying principle.

Nor should scepticism about fashionable moral narratives become an excuse for indifference. The Afghan families at Torkham are not props in an argument about Western hypocrisy. Haitian children detained in the Dominican Republic are not evidence that critics of Trump have no principles. Windrush victims are not ammunition for a general case against borders. Milo Yiannopoulos’s removal is not proof that every person facing deportation is equally situated. Each case has its own facts.

But facts are not served by selective attention. A moral judgement that can see only the deportation carried out by a political enemy is not a universal principle. It is a political preference dressed in universal language. The more honest position is harder to announce and harder to share: states may enforce borders, but the enforcement must be lawful, proportionate, scrutinised and responsive to the human reality on the other side. That rule should apply in Washington, London, Santo Domingo, Islamabad, Tehran and Canberra, whether the government is admired, despised or barely noticed.

References

1. BBC, “I’ve never been to Afghanistan: Six million deportees forced to start over under the Taliban.” ↩
2. Reuters, “Nearly 200,000 people forcibly returned to Haiti so far this year, UN says.” ↩
3. Australian Department of Home Affairs, “New agreement to secure our region from maritime people smuggling.” ↩
4. UK Government, “The Historical Roots of the Windrush Scandal: independent research report.” ↩
5. Reuters, “Far-right commentator Milo Yiannopoulos deported to UK.” ↩
6. Migration Policy Institute, “The Obama Record on Deportations: Deporter in Chief or Not?” ↩
7. US Immigration and Customs Enforcement, “DHS releases end of fiscal year 2016 statistics.” ↩
8. US Citizenship and Immigration Services, DACA programme information. ↩
9. BBC, “Refugee defends German leader’s response in tearful encounter.” ↩