Open Home: How a group of citizens responded to Luxembourg’s housing crisis by welcoming refugees into their homes

In 2019, Luxembourg received 2,047 applications for asylum. By the end of the year, its asylum centres hosted 3,208 people, including those granted refugee or protection status (BIP) who involuntarily linger on, unable to afford suitable accommodation.

Open Home: How a group of citizens responded to Luxembourg's housing crisis by welcoming refugees into their homes
The group's first meeting in 2016, including people interested in hosting and refugees looking for stable homes. Photo: Open Home

Frustrated with the long waiting times to receive this status and the crowded refugee centres, three citizens launched an open call in 2016 for residents to host asylum seekers and refugees in their homes. OH! Oppent Haus or Open Home, the missing connection between people who want to help and people needing a temporary home, was born.

This article is part of Changing the Narrative. Articles in this series are written by student or early career journalists who took part in The Local's training course on solutions-focused migration reporting. Find out more about the project here.

Of the challenges Luxembourg faces when it comes to the safe integration of asylum seekers, the oversaturation of its asylum centres is perhaps the most pressing. Both the Consultative Human Rights Commission of Luxembourg (CCDH) and the government itself in their most recent reports criticised the crowded living conditions of the centres. 

The asylum process can take up to 21 months, and living in a state of uncertainty when a place was considered to be the “end destination” can create additional trauma for asylum seekers who have already suffered difficult journeys. As Mahdi, who arrived in the country in 2015 and spent a year in a shelter, says, “you don't move forward”.

Luxembourg has a growing lack of affordable housing options even for permanent residents. For a person newly granted refugee status (BIP) with no financial stability, renting is often an impossibility, although in theory they are supposed to leave the shelters within three months. Despite financial aid from the government and from NGOs such as Caritas and the Red Cross, out of the 3,208 people living in asylum centres in 2019, 41,1 percent had already been granted a status.

To enable people to leave these centres and actively integrate into society, Marianne Donven, Frédérique Buck and Pascal Clément joined forces and founded Open Home to connect local residents with refugees.

Through her work at the Red Cross and specifically the local NGO Hariko, Donven was already involved with asylum seekers and BIP. She started the initiative by hosting a refugee back in 2015: “I sent a letter to a judge, asking whether I could live with a young refugee. One hearing and it was all settled.” From there, the project grew.

In October 2016, they set up an official Facebook page. “That same day we placed people in local families” says Buck, who also directed the 2018 migration documentary Grand H. She attributes the instant success both to high public awareness of the problem and to their communication campaign: “Without social media, it would not have worked.”

The inspiration for Open Home was a similar initiative in France called “Singa”. But while Singa places people in host families for a couple of months (although the stay can be prolonged), OH has no determined length. “This does scare some people, but what they need is stability. This is a long-term project,” says Donven.

While OH does help with administrative procedures such as signing off from centres, every family sets up their own rules, depending on the needs and availability of everyone involved. After filling out a form and meeting each other, the refugee moves in with their new family. The only criteria OH sets: a free room.

There's a trial period of around a week, which 25-year-old Mahdi, who's benefited from the initiative, says is is important, especially given the unlimited time period. Both Donven and Buck acknowledge that in some cases, the placement doesn't work. Circumstances might change or people may not be a good fit and you have to try different families until you find the right one.

The emergency contact, should something go wrong, is always Donven. She is also the one who helps families with the administrative processes, which can be tough for asylum seekers to navigate on their own. “It's overly complicated”, says Mahdi, who now lives with a local, and says the initiative brought him “stability and independence”.

“I would not have been able to make it without Open Home,” he says. Besides help with the paperwork, families provide key emotional and mental support and encourage cultural learning.

Immersed in a local family, most refugees are quick to pick up the official languages which leads to better chances to succeed in education and employment. Buck recalls a young Afghani who in two years learned perfect French and went on to complete his education in France.

People meet at OH's first meeting in late 2016. Photo: Open Home

Psychologist and president of the CCDH Gilbert Pregno explains: “[The OH initiative] offers an opportunity to integrate. Integration does not mean leaving behind the culture that defines me; it's a social enrichment through sharing.” As Mahdi and his housemate share traditional meals from their home countries, Pregno concludes, “this sharing goes into both directions.”

Over the past four years, OH has allocated people about 135 times, though the exact number of pairings is unknown. Given that some change family or that many households host more than one person, Donven reckons that about 70 families have opened their homes, mostly to young people. Here too, that data is not specific. “A lot of them are 18, 20-year-olds” who leave the centre for minors once they're of age. Because of the saturation of the other centres however, “they sometimes end up without a place to stay.” 

Sometimes people take in whole families. This is the case of Gessesse, who first came to Luxembourg following his wife who'd just given birth to a little girl. The centre they were in, Don Bosco, is known for its poor conditions.

“It was dirty, and we were living in one small room. Our girl was constantly ill during those times, it wasn't easy.”

Now, he's living with his wife, his two children, and an 87 year-old woman, who can not live on her own. They help her around the house, the children keep her company and call her 'Oma' – grandmother.

Gessesse explains that it's a win-win situation, which also reassures the host woman's own children. “They're happy somebody is here to take care of her, especially during the lockdown in March. We all feel like a real family.” 

The one problem that consistently arises is linked to financial help from the government, called REVIS. After one year of living with a host family, the state considers you as part of the household and the REVIS is taken away. This makes refugees even more dependent on the family they're living with, the opposite of what Open Home wants to achieve.

The law, Buck specifies, was actually created for prisoners coming out of jail. After a year in their family home, they were considered to be sufficiently reintegrated within their household for their own aid to be cut. But this can not apply for refugees who usually aim to find their own home to live independently.

“We have been very lucky”, says Gessesse. The family lives on the first floor of the house and owns their own kitchen, which under the law places their home into two different households. Gessesse's family can therefore still receive the REVIS, but many do not.

“Sometimes legal agents are sensible and willing to look at every case individually. We've had examples of people being granted the aid for another six months”, Donven explains. Still, even with the REVIS it's hardly enough “for a country like Luxembourg”, Gessesse tells me on the phone, happy chatter from his children in the background. Currently, he's finishing an apprenticeship and aims to open his own shop.

Similar initiatives already exist in other countries, proving that projects like Open Home do not necessarily rely on the word of mouth and small distances that are Luxembourg's natural advantages; the main requirement is citizens willing to help.

Critics of Open Home have pointed out the lack of legal or psychological experts accompanying the process. Yet Mahdi and Gessesse do not see this as a necessity. “These are normal people who make their own decisions – you meet up and if it works, that's great”, Mahdi explains.

The initiative itself receives no political or financial support.

Buck believes it would benefit from State funding, yet that this would be paradoxical: “It is the government which is part of the problem and the reason why the initiative exists in the first place.”

Donven says she has had difficulties having her project accepted, and even says she has faced resistance from some asylum centres which don’t inform those seeking a home of the project. Like in the case of Mahdi and Gessesse, it's mainly friends of friends who spread the word. 

Over the years, it's been harder to mobilise citizens, which both Buck and Donven attribute to decreasing media coverage of migrant issues.

And today, Donven is doing it all on her own, after Buck and Clément left the project due to other time commitments. For now, Donven keeps on working on the Facebook page, successfully pairing “couples” and providing valuable support to both newcomers and locals.

Recently, Open Home was turned into a non-profit organisation and Donven is adamant: rather than financial support, what is really needed are people willing to offer a bit of their time and volunteer alongside her. And while the project itself has lost momentum, it still manages to act as a missing connection, albeit a slower one, between open homes and people needing one.

María Elorza Saralegui is a freelance illustrator and journalist with an interest in cultural and social changes. 

Note: This article has been updated to correct the name of the NGO Hariko, not Haricot as previously written

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How tutor groups are trying to bridge the inequality gap in Swedish schools

In Sweden, every fourth student in compulsory education has a foreign background, which means that they were either born abroad or born in Sweden with both parents from abroad. However, students from Swedish families and their peers with foreign backgrounds are meeting less and less often in schools, in a result of increased segregation that is posing a challenge for many municipalities.

How tutor groups are trying to bridge the inequality gap in Swedish schools
Camilla Wennberg and Zamzam, one of her students. Photo: Private

This article is part of Changing the Narrative. Articles in this series are written by student or early career journalists who took part in The Local's training course on solutions-focused migration reporting. Find out more about the project here.

In 2019, Sweden's public broadcaster SVT surveyed 3,641 primary schools and reviewed data from Skolverket, the Swedish National Agency for Education, on the academic year 2017/2018. The results showed that the distribution of students from foreign backgrounds was very unequal, with some schools having almost only students from migrant families and others having as few as five percent. According to Skolverket, the concentration of students with the same social and migration background might be one of the reasons for an increased difference in school results, which poses a threat to the goal of offering equal opportunities for all.

The relation between segregation and difficulties in succeeding in school was pointed out by some of the migrant parents in study circles that Eva Lundgren Stenbom, a cultural producer, organised in Norrköping, central Sweden, in 2013. The very decision to found her own NGO, Imagine (what we can do), was motivated by an encounter with the mother of a girl who participated in a project Eva Stenbom worked previously. She wanted help to get to know more locals with whom she could practise her Swedish, because Eva was in fact the only Swede she talked to regularly.

Seeing how difficult it could be for a foreigner to establish relations and feel part of society, Lundgren Stenbom created the association and started the study circles, among other activities such as sewing workshops. The events were planned for locals and migrants living in neighboring areas of the city to meet once a week and discuss the everyday issues they faced in their community.

The meetings were attended mostly by adults, sometimes followed by their children. Topics on integrating into Swedish society and parenthood would often come up, and Lundgren Stenbom remembers many parents asking for help with problems that affected their children, especially in school. Thinking about the younger generations and hearing the demand from parents, she decided to expand the study circles to include children.

For the past four years, an increasing number of students with migrant background have enrolled on the tutoring programme organised by Imagine (what we can do). At first, the study circles took place in Lundgren Stenbom's home, located in a neighbourhood that is almost the perfect metaphor for the segregation between locals and migrants. On one side of the street is the Röda Stan neighbourhood, where most of the houses are owned by Swedes, while right across Värmlandsgatan many migrant families live in the Marielund buildings. The organisation started with the aim of creating places and opportunities for the neighbours to meet.

However, the study circles soon showed to be inefficient, Lundgren Stenbom says, because of the busy and loud atmosphere of several students sharing the attention of few tutors. “Sometimes there would be 10 or 12 students for two or three tutors, and it made it very difficult to advance in the lessons,” she remembers. A different system was needed.

The tutoring programme then became individualised, with better results, according to the NGO's evaluation. As it currently works, each student is paired with a tutor with whom they will work for at least one semester. The meetings usually take place at the tutor's house, which proved to be the best solution and one of the learnings the organisation had throughout the years. “Because many of the students live in families with more kids, very often it is more difficult for the student to focus and concentrate on the work without interruption,” Lundgren Stenbom explains.

The programme also recommends that the tutor/student pair set a schedule of weekly meetings on a pre-defined day and a time slot of one to two hours. Feedback and follow-ups are constant, but according to Lundgren Stenbom they lack data on how much the students' grades have improved after enrolling in the programme.

There are currently 35 pupils, mostly aged 11 to 19 years, receiving help with homework or preparing for exams, and another 20 people on the waiting list. Several of them have been in Sweden for almost 15 years, while some have moved to the country more recently. The goal, Lundgren Stenbom states, is to support the students so they progress to higher educational levels and get better opportunities on the job market.

One of the volunteers on the programme is Camilla Wennberg, an engineer who has tutored two students since 2017. Her current pupil is 14-year-old Somayo, from Somalia, with whom Wennberg has worked for the past one-and-a-half years. Before that, she taught Somayo's older sister Zamzam for two years.

Before stricter recommendations to lower the spread of the coronavirus came into effect in Sweden, every Wednesday evening Somayo and one of her parents would cross Norrköping by tram to go to Wennberg's house. The father or the mother accompanied her because they believe taking the tram alone at night is not safe, which Wennberg agrees with. During the weeks when social contact has been more restricted, tutor and student have met online.

The effort that Somayo and her family make to attend the tutoring session and the fact that she has been not only up to date with her homework, but a bit ahead of the class, is a sign for Wennberg that the Somalian teenager has high educational aspirations. “She is more ambitious,” states the proud tutor. 

Wennberg sees the language as a main factor for difficulties children from migrant backgrounds may have in school. “When it's just calculation it's easy, but when you have to understand what the question is asking for, then it is more complicated for her.” Sometimes they translate the questions to English, which helps.

Ann-Sofi Ringkvist and Madeleine Szente, who coordinate a programme by the Red Cross, which has provided support to schools in Linköping since 2011, also believe that improving language skills is an important feature of homework tutoring and one of the biggest challenges for migrant students and their families in the integration to the school system.

Although the programme was not created with the purpose of helping children from migrant backgrounds, but everyone who needs extra educational support, most of the students are currently from migrant families.

The three schools where the Red Cross is present in the city show the divide in the distribution of students with different backgrounds: in the Skäggetorp neighbourhood, the vast majority of students in the two schools participating in the programme belong to migrant families, while in Ekholmen the proportion of students who do not have a Swedish background is much smaller: around five per class. Ringkvist, who is herself a volunteer, believes that children benefit from a mixed class environment and stresses that several students need tutoring, independently of their family's country of origin.

The program is aimed at students from 8 to 16 years of age. In grades seven to nine, the tutoring takes place after school, while for younger pupils it takes place in a separate room during school time. Unlike the initiative in Norrköping, where the tutoring is requested by the families, the Red Cross volunteers collaborate with the school staff. The tutors, many of whom are retired teachers themselves, work with groups of students and follow the instructions from the teachers. During the sessions, two volunteers provide support for groups of 10 to 15 pupils, but there are times when as many as 25 young students are working together.

The large number of people attending tutoring sessions is seen by the organisation as both a challenge and a sign of success. Ringkvist explains that students wanting to receive tutoring is understood as a positive evaluation of the volunteer's work, but that many children in the same room can make it difficult for them to focus on school content.

“There are several goals, the main one is to make going to school pleasurable. We are not supposed to give them grades, we just want to help them, so maybe they find it easier to talk to a volunteer than to the teachers.They can feel more confident of themselves,” says Szente.


Although the adults involved in the homework tutoring programmes see language acquisition as one of the main challenges students with migrant background face in succeeding in the Swedish school system, what do the young students themselves think?

Somayo, who is being tutored by Camilla Wennberg, was unavailable to be interviewed because she was taking part in a two-week introductory programme to the job market and was working part-time in a fast-food chain. Due to her busy schedule, she was not able to attend the tutoring sessions when we spoke to Wennberg.

Somayo's absence did not seem to be a matter of concern, as her tutor stressed how important the work-training programme was for the teenager. Somayo's grades and accomplishments in maths can be understood as a sign of the programme's success, and alongside the fact that she was also doing part-time work, it can be inferred that her Swedish language skills might be much higher than it may seem.

One important aspect to consider, however, is the difference between the academic language skills required to pass exams such as the national high-school exam – usually a source of anxiety for young people, as it defines the educational pathway they are able to take – and the skills required for everyday interactions in informal settings or in lower-paid work.

The unequal representation of students from migrant families in Swedish schools may result in a daily experience of segregation for the young people who are trying to navigate a school system and a culture foreign to their parents. While governmental strategies to distribute students more evenly are being developed, volunteers in the homework tutoring programmes have been making individual efforts to orientate school children.

As Camilla Wennberg describes, her encounters with Somayo and her family are limited to the tutoring sessions, but these are occasions for her to answer questions from Somayo that go beyond mathematics. She thinks of their friendly exchange with her students as an opportunity she would not have had otherwise, something she values.

“It is nice to know her,” says Wennberg. “I think most people can help others teaching their own language, for example by correcting an essay. They just need to be open minded: whatever you can give, it is worth something.”

Myung Hwa Baldini is a journalist working in education and children's rights. She is based in Sweden.