Just last month, 29-year-old Syrian artist Givara Haji ended his 10-year journey in Turkey. In search of a city with a more affordable cost of living, his new destination was not Syria, where former president Bashar al-Assad had recently been overthrown, but an art camp in Georgia.
Despite being aware of the uncertain stability in Georgia, everything took a turn on 13 December 2024, when the artist, who did not have a travel permit or passport and was planning to surrender to the military and apply for asylum, was prevented from crossing and subsequently deported back to Syria.
Speaking to The New Arab about his experience, Givara explained that although temporary protection status had been granted to four million asylum seekers who migrated to Turkey after the Syrian civil war, people living under temporary protection in Turkey cannot return if they enter another country or Syria.
As Givara was caught at the border, he was sent back to Syria for this reason.
Recalling the events leading up to his deportation, Givara shared, “I entered the Turkish-Georgian forests without attracting the attention of the Turkish army and crossed the border on foot. But the mountain road through the forest was very bumpy, thorny, and difficult. It was raining all the time. While walking up the mountain, I fell down the hill into the river, and my clothes and everything I owned got wet.”
Givara added, “After that, I was freezing cold and could not continue. I expected the path to be short, but I had no equipment. I got lost in the woods, looking for something to lead me to safety, and a pigeon saved me. I followed it wherever it went and ended up on the Turkish side. Then the Turkish police came and caught me.”
‘I paint what is inside me’
On an exclusive tour with Givara on 5 December 2024 in Istanbul, just before his deportation, The New Arab unpacked the life he had built in Turkey after leaving Syria in 2014 with his family, at a dedicated space for displaced artists during the Rebloom Festival.
Givara, whose paintings depict war and flames despite living in Istanbul, explained the motivations behind his art, saying, “You are journalists; you write what you see, but I paint what is inside me.”
The artist added that he began creating his designs on his own, without any formal art education, as his schooling had ended at the age of 15 due to the uprisings and the subsequent civil war in his country.
Speaking about his arrival in Turkey, he admitted that he felt guilty about the situation in Syria and wanted to return to document it with a camera. However, when he realised that the conditions were unsuitable for both fighting and living, he returned to Turkey and focused on rebuilding his life in Gaziantep.
Givara, who also plays the guitar and specialises in illustrative paintings, shared: “I always worked to get better, and my dream was to work with big companies. Then I started doing things like stop motion, animation, set design, etc. It was liberating to produce and earn your own money from here. When I found that space of freedom, I started painting, but Gaziantep was not the right place for that.”
Collective spaces and solidarity
As is well known, living in a big city can be economically challenging, but despite this, Givara says that while he was living in Istanbul, the social life was rich.
For Givara, Komşu Cafe in Kadıköy, based on collectivism, was a unique stop for an immigrant artist, and he says that this collective space has added great richness and meaning to his life, for which he is grateful due to the solidarity it provides.
“Art spaces or collective spaces, where you seek refuge when you want to find help and real friendship, are very important for a migrant artist,” he shared.
In saying this, Givara reflects on the challenges of being an immigrant artist. Laughing, he said, “I don’t recommend it to anyone,” and listed the jobs he held during his 10-year journey in Turkey: “I worked as a tailor, graphic designer, bookseller, ticket seller, organic mushroom grower, cafe, and hotel worker, and at a car sales gallery.”
He added, “I quit working as a graphic designer in Istanbul and stopped making money. I just wanted to focus on my art. I was living on the street and drawing the street. I was watching people and drawing them. What was inside me merged with what was on the street.
“Sometimes I found some very small grants, and I lived on them. I rented a room and started working on my projects here. I worked, I drew, I designed, and I sold. That’s how it was until the pandemic. I worked on an organic farm in a small village during the pandemic,” he adds.
“The first four years were very difficult. You don’t know the laws. You don’t have a work permit, and you don’t know the language. Other difficulties started in Istanbul because Istanbul is a very strange city; people come for a while and then they leave, they don’t really stay. When this cycle is so fast, things become difficult. But on the other hand, in this city, you stumble faster and get up more easily.”
On the topic of Syrians under temporary protection, Givara once again commented that they must stay in only one city with a work permit.
Living under these circumstances, Givara said, “I was selling mainly to foreigners, and I had to meet foreigners who could travel, but I couldn’t. I could collaborate and do projects with many artists, but I couldn’t do that because I couldn’t be with them. If you don’t have the right to travel, you are very limited. So, I was too affected to do my art.”
New beginnings
Just before his deportation, Givara shared that he had been planning to attempt to enter Georgia for a second time.
At the time, Givara said, “I am going to Georgia because it is the only place I can go now. If I had a document that would allow me to work on art and live normally in Turkey, I would stay because it feels like home, but there are no conditions here for me to make art.”
With Givara saying this, he recalled the treatment he received at the border to The New Arab, saying, “When I arrived at the southern Syria border crossing, everything changed. The treatment was bad, and they wouldn’t let us go to the toilet. They locked the doors. The officials there were mistreating people and forcing them to sign voluntary return documents.
“It seemed that the female officials were afraid of Syrians, hated them, and mistreated them. Voluntary returnees are treated well, but those who are forcibly deported are mistreated.”
That said, despite the mistreatment, Givara explained that everything worked out for him in the end after returning to Syria: “I searched for my relatives in the city and found them. When I returned to my country, the feeling of longing was indescribable.
“For the first time, I saw in the eyes of Syrians the fear that had disappeared, their hope for coexistence and tolerance, and their desire to rebuild their country. It was wonderful.”
Givara added, “Now, I believe that I went through this experience to see with my own eyes everything my people are going through and to understand what we need to work for. I am grateful.
“Yes, I feel very tired and emotional, but now my dream has changed. I will try to provide children here with places where they can receive an education, and I hope that our Turkish brothers will visit the beauty of our country once we have rebuilt it.”
Speaking about his future, Givara’s dream is to specialise in motion cinema design, which he says he has experimented with before but wants to develop further within his scope and budget.
Where and how this would happen, Givara does not know, saying, “We don’t have the luxury of knowing what tomorrow will bring; it hasn’t happened yet.”
Fatma Yörür is a freelance journalist based in Istanbul, Turkey. She studied journalism and began her career with an internship at BBC Turkish. Currently, Fatma contributes to platforms such as VOA Turkish, VOA News, and Fayn Studio.
Follow her on X (@fatmayrr) and Bluesky (@fatmayorur)
