A million more Afghans could be sent back from Iran, Red Cross warns
Over 1.2 million people have been returned to Afghanistan from Iran since the start of this year, according to data from the U.N. refugee agency, with the number of returns surging since Iran and Israel launched strikes on each other last month.
Sami Fakhouri, Head of Delegation for Afghanistan at the International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies, said he witnessed bus loads of people returning to a border crossing at the Islam Qala border in Herat province in recent days.
"(We) are anticipating that an additional one million people, possibly more, may return from Iran to Afghanistan by the end of this year," he told reporters at a Geneva press briefing, voicing concern about their futures with many having left their home country years ago and were now homeless.
"The majority didn't have a say in coming back. They were put on buses and driven to the border," he said.
Afghanistan is already battling a humanitarian crisis and aid groups worry that the new arrivals from Iran - on top of hundreds of thousands pressured to return from Pakistan - risks further destabilising the country.
Fakhouri said the IFRC appeal for 25 million Swiss francs ($31.40 million) to help returning Afghans at the border and in transit camps is only 10% funded, voicing concerns about whether it could maintain support for people.
Babar Baloch, a spokesperson at the U.N. refugee agency, said tens of thousands were arriving from Iran daily with over 50,000 crossing on July 4.
He also voiced concerns about family separations.
"The psychological scars are going to stay with Afghans who have been made to come back to the country in this way,' he said at the same press briefing.
($1 = 0.7963 Swiss francs)

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Hamilton Spectator
a day ago
- Hamilton Spectator
New city garden grows veggies for Hamilton Food Share
A brand-new, recently planted vegetable garden in Gage Park is helping to feed a hungry city. In the northern edge of the park, between the main fountain and Main Street East, lie several large vegetable patches containing neatly planted rows of kale, squash, carrot, zucchini, beans and tomatoes. Produce from the patches is harvested when ready and given to local food network and non-profit Hamilton Food Share (HFS), which collects and distributes mostly fresh and nutritious food to 23 local agencies daily. 'Our staff brought the idea to management a few years ago and thought it would be a nice thing for them to do for the city,' says Robyn Pollard, the city's manager of forestry and horticulture. Radish and Swiss chard were harvested recently and handed over to Hamilton Food Share. 'It's a great example of how local, community-led efforts are helping to address food insecurity in Hamilton,' says Radhika Subramanyan, CEO of the agency. The planning is meticulous at Gage Park, where the gardens typically feature flowers. Interspersed between rows of squash and zucchini lie flowering plants like alyssum. 'Squash and zucchini have flowers that need pollinating and alyssum does this for them,' says Pollard. While there are other gardens supported by the City of Hamilton, including the McQuesten Urban Farm, the Community Garden Network and a small patch near city hall, this is the only one where produce is donated entirely to the community. The plants are initially grown from seed in greenhouses at Gage Park and then transplanted when ready into the vegetable garden. 'It's a rule of thumb that everything gets installed around the May 24 weekend, but it's really just when the weather allows us to do so,' says Pollard. Thanks to the garden, this year's bounty promises to be even more substantial. 'In the past, with our other gardens, we've seen close to a thousand pounds of food donated over a season. So, we're expecting a significant increase over that this time around,' adds Pollard. The Gage Park garden couldn't have come at a more crucial juncture for a city whose population experiences chronic hunger. On average, 17,600 residents of the city visit Hamilton food banks each month, 6,200 of whom are children, according to Hamilton Food Share. 'The work happening at Gage Park really complements what we do. It brings food access right into the neighbourhood, especially in areas like Ward 3, where food insecurity is high,' adds Subramanyan. According to the city, more than one in four households (27.3 per cent) lived with food insecurity in 2023, compared to an average of 24.2 per cent in all of Ontario. Figures for 2024 are yet to be released. 'If we want long-term solutions to hunger, we need to combine efforts like ours with grassroots initiatives like Gage Park's,' adds Subramanyan. 'Community gardens not only help get food to people — they also build local resilience, teach growing skills and create real connection. That matters.' Error! Sorry, there was an error processing your request. There was a problem with the recaptcha. Please try again. You may unsubscribe at any time. By signing up, you agree to our terms of use and privacy policy . This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google privacy policy and terms of service apply. Want more of the latest from us? Sign up for more at our newsletter page .

a day ago
Perilous journey: A gay Tanzanian man's quest for freedom across the English Channel
ECAULT FOREST, France -- Isaac stared down at his sandals and wondered out loud how suitable they'd be for the ordeal ahead: A perilous crossing of the English Channel, where scores of desperate people before him have drowned trying to reach the U.K. The 35-year-old from Tanzania never expected, or wanted, to be here, surviving hand-to-mouth in a makeshift woodland camp in northern France, with dozens of other migrants. They, too, fled conflict, oppression, poverty and other miseries for the hope, however uncertain, that life someplace else — somewhere, anywhere — must surely be better. 'I wouldn't be sitting here if I had a choice,' Isaac said. 'I didn't know what to expect. I didn't even bring a jacket or sweater.' All Isaac wants is to live freely as himself, a gay man. That aspiration is denied in Tanzania, where homosexuality is taboo and criminalized. A ferocious beating by a group of men that left his shoulder with permanent pain convinced him that his East African homeland, where he'd worked to put himself through school, would never accept him. So he left. Three years later, Isaac now finds himself sitting on dirt and pine needles, hungrily chewing a boiled-egg baguette sandwich provided by men that he paid for a place on a flimsy inflatable boat. When it will leave, whether French police will stop it from setting off from a nearby beach, whether Isaac and other men, women and children waiting with him will reach the U.K. or die trying — all these are unknowns. But Isaac is all out of options. His petition for asylum in Germany, where he fled to from Tanzania, was rejected, snatching away what had been his first experience of LGBTQ+ freedom. Facing deportation, Isaac packed as best he could and hit the road again, hoping that refugee officers in the U.K. might be more understanding. His wish: 'A better place where I can really feel accepted.' The fact that Isaac and other migrating people along France's northern coast don't, almost as a rule, want to be identified by their full names or, in many cases, be photographed is, in itself, a story. Their trust, like their health, their shoes, their belongings and whatever money they have, is whittled away by often atrocious migration journeys and brutality along the way. Speaking different languages, followers of different religions and each pushed onto the road by their own unique reasons and hopes, the Afghans, Iraqis, Iranians, Kurds, Somalis, Eritreans, Palestinians, Kenyans and others who form a sort of United Nations of hardship in camps along the coast do share one thing in common: They're proof that the roulette wheel of human existence is anything but fair. Had they been born, say, in an English town or an American city, in a Japanese hospital or on a Brazilian farm, it's a fair bet that they wouldn't be here, sleeping rough around a campfire, fretting about their children with coughs and dirty diapers, and a sea crossing ahead that tends to prey on the most vulnerable, with kids sometimes suffocated and trampled to death in the squeeze of bodies aboard crammed boats. And yet, here they are — essentially nowhere — breathing the sickly fumes of plastic burning on the fire, enduring thirst and cold as hot days give way to chilly nights. The men ventured off for more firewood. A woman breastfed. A bored child waddled off into the forest. Some people tended to cuts, insect bites and other wounds they and their loved ones picked up. One man wrapped a bandage around his head. Psychological injuries are less visible. Some in the group of about 40 people kept to themselves, barely speaking or engaging with others. With the campfire spitting sparks into the night, one of the men lost in thought around it played a song from his phone. The voice of Charles Aznavour, crooning in French, rose above the crackle of the flames. The lyrics of his hit 'Emmenez-moi' ("Take me away") seemed surreally appropriate, given the audience. 'Take me to the ends of the Earth, take me to the land of wonders, it seems to me that misery would be less painful in the sun," Aznavour sang. Told of the song's refrain, one of the men exclaimed: 'It's about us!' Qassim, a Palestinian, is only 26 but the accumulated grime of four days in the woods, his chin-stubble, and the worry in his eyes for Anouar, his wife, made him look years older. He said he's been too anxious to eat since police detained Anouar during a storm the previous day. The group had sought shelter in an abandoned house. Police told them to leave. Tempers flared. Officers used tear gas. Anouar got taken away. Some in the group said things got heated because they were generally frustrated that police had thwarted their previous attempts to take to sea, puncturing their inflatable boats with knives. Qassim said Anouar was hit in the hand by a gas canister. The front of his hoodie was stained with what he said was her blood. He desperately wanted her to be released from custody before the next crossing attempt, so they could leave as a family with their daughters — Jori, 6, and Kadi, 4. While he waited for news, Qassim gave what he said was only the short version of a life that seemed much longer because of the agonies that have filled it. When he was a teenager, Israeli bombing of his family's house in Gaza killed his parents and he awoke from a coma one month later in a hospital in Egypt, he said. His facial hair has grown with white flecks ever since; from shock, he figures. He moved to Yemen, where he and Anouar met and married, but then left the conflict there for Europe, with her and their daughters. The journey was brutal, including months of internment in Turkey, with 400 people sharing just one toilet and surviving on one piece of bread per day, he said. 'This is my life,' he said. 'My life is very hard.' Anouar was released after roughly 24 hours. The group welcomed her back to the camp with applause. The next morning, they were gone. The wait was over. Their boat slipped through French police patrols. After reaching the U.K., one of those aboard wrote that they'd nearly died. 'It was really bad,' the message read. 'Really hard.'


The Hill
a day ago
- The Hill
Perilous journey: A gay Tanzanian man's quest for freedom across the English Channel
ECAULT FOREST, France (AP) — Isaac stared down at his sandals and wondered out loud how suitable they'd be for the ordeal ahead: A perilous crossing of the English Channel, where scores of desperate people before him have drowned trying to reach the U.K. The 35-year-old from Tanzania never expected, or wanted, to be here, surviving hand-to-mouth in a makeshift woodland camp in northern France, with dozens of other migrants. They, too, fled conflict, oppression, poverty and other miseries for the hope, however uncertain, that life someplace else — somewhere, anywhere — must surely be better. 'I wouldn't be sitting here if I had a choice,' Isaac said. 'I didn't know what to expect. I didn't even bring a jacket or sweater.' All Isaac wants is to live freely as himself, a gay man. That aspiration is denied in Tanzania, where homosexuality is taboo and criminalized. A ferocious beating by a group of men that left his shoulder with permanent pain convinced him that his East African homeland, where he'd worked to put himself through school, would never accept him. So he left. Three years later, Isaac now finds himself sitting on dirt and pine needles, hungrily chewing a boiled-egg baguette sandwich provided by men that he paid for a place on a flimsy inflatable boat. When it will leave, whether French police will stop it from setting off from a nearby beach, whether Isaac and other men, women and children waiting with him will reach the U.K. or die trying — all these are unknowns. But Isaac is all out of options. His petition for asylum in Germany, where he fled to from Tanzania, was rejected, snatching away what had been his first experience of LGBTQ+ freedom. Facing deportation, Isaac packed as best he could and hit the road again, hoping that refugee officers in the U.K. might be more understanding. His wish: 'A better place where I can really feel accepted.' The fact that Isaac and other migrating people along France's northern coast don't, almost as a rule, want to be identified by their full names or, in many cases, be photographed is, in itself, a story. Their trust, like their health, their shoes, their belongings and whatever money they have, is whittled away by often atrocious migration journeys and brutality along the way. Speaking different languages, followers of different religions and each pushed onto the road by their own unique reasons and hopes, the Afghans, Iraqis, Iranians, Kurds, Somalis, Eritreans, Palestinians, Kenyans and others who form a sort of United Nations of hardship in camps along the coast do share one thing in common: They're proof that the roulette wheel of human existence is anything but fair. Had they been born, say, in an English town or an American city, in a Japanese hospital or on a Brazilian farm, it's a fair bet that they wouldn't be here, sleeping rough around a campfire, fretting about their children with coughs and dirty diapers, and a sea crossing ahead that tends to prey on the most vulnerable, with kids sometimes suffocated and trampled to death in the squeeze of bodies aboard crammed boats. And yet, here they are — essentially nowhere — breathing the sickly fumes of plastic burning on the fire, enduring thirst and cold as hot days give way to chilly nights. The men ventured off for more firewood. A woman breastfed. A bored child waddled off into the forest. Some people tended to cuts, insect bites and other wounds they and their loved ones picked up. One man wrapped a bandage around his head. Psychological injuries are less visible. Some in the group of about 40 people kept to themselves, barely speaking or engaging with others. With the campfire spitting sparks into the night, one of the men lost in thought around it played a song from his phone. The voice of Charles Aznavour, crooning in French, rose above the crackle of the flames. The lyrics of his hit 'Emmenez-moi' ('Take me away') seemed surreally appropriate, given the audience. 'Take me to the ends of the Earth, take me to the land of wonders, it seems to me that misery would be less painful in the sun,' Aznavour sang. Told of the song's refrain, one of the men exclaimed: 'It's about us!' Qassim, a Palestinian, is only 26 but the accumulated grime of four days in the woods, his chin-stubble, and the worry in his eyes for Anouar, his wife, made him look years older. He said he's been too anxious to eat since police detained Anouar during a storm the previous day. The group had sought shelter in an abandoned house. Police told them to leave. Tempers flared. Officers used tear gas. Anouar got taken away. Some in the group said things got heated because they were generally frustrated that police had thwarted their previous attempts to take to sea, puncturing their inflatable boats with knives. Qassim said Anouar was hit in the hand by a gas canister. The front of his hoodie was stained with what he said was her blood. He desperately wanted her to be released from custody before the next crossing attempt, so they could leave as a family with their daughters — Jori, 6, and Kadi, 4. While he waited for news, Qassim gave what he said was only the short version of a life that seemed much longer because of the agonies that have filled it. When he was a teenager, Israeli bombing of his family's house in Gaza killed his parents and he awoke from a coma one month later in a hospital in Egypt, he said. His facial hair has grown with white flecks ever since; from shock, he figures. He moved to Yemen, where he and Anouar met and married, but then left the conflict there for Europe, with her and their daughters. The journey was brutal, including months of internment in Turkey, with 400 people sharing just one toilet and surviving on one piece of bread per day, he said. 'This is my life,' he said. 'My life is very hard.' Anouar was released after roughly 24 hours. The group welcomed her back to the camp with applause. The next morning, they were gone. The wait was over. Their boat slipped through French police patrols. After reaching the U.K., one of those aboard wrote that they'd nearly died. 'It was really bad,' the message read. 'Really hard.' ___ Associated Press journalist Nicolas Garriga contributed to this report.