Syrian and Afghan Migrants in Fatih Share Hopes and Fears as Turkey Tightens Border Policies

On a humid afternoon in the narrow streets of Fatih, near the Blue Mosque, Ahmed Al-Rashid sits outside a small electronics repair shop, watching pedestrians navigate the crowded bazaar. The 47-year-old Syrian arrived in Istanbul seven years ago with his two sons. He speaks carefully about his life now—a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty that reflects the complex reality facing the estimated 2.3 million migrants in Turkey, with nearly 800,000 living in Istanbul.

"The work is hard and the pay is not enough," Al-Rashid explains, referring to the roughly 450 Turkish lira daily wage he earns, often without formal contracts. "But my boys go to school. They have a future. This is what matters."

His sentiment echoes through conversations across Istanbul's migrant quarters. In Aksaray, where Afghan and Pakistani communities cluster around the old railway station, small shop owners and day labourers express similar themes: gratitude for relative safety, frustration with exploitation, and persistent worry about Turkey's shifting immigration stance.

Mariam Zada, who runs a modest tailoring business employing five people in a converted apartment on Orhaniye Street, speaks candidly about the economic pressure migrants face. "Rent here is 15,000 lira monthly. School fees, food, utilities—it is impossible without two jobs," says the 52-year-old Afghan widow, whose daughter attends Istanbul's Boğaziçi University. "But we continue because Afghanistan has no schools like this. No safety."

Recent policy shifts have intensified anxieties. New employment regulations requiring work permits have forced many into informal sectors, while community leaders report increased police checks in migrant-heavy neighbourhoods. The Beyoğlu Migrant Rights Centre documented 340 cases last year involving wage theft and unsafe working conditions.

Yet community resilience remains striking. The Vatan Bilim Association in Zeytinburnu, serving primarily Syrian and Afghan families, reports over 2,000 members attending monthly language classes and job training programmes. "We are not asking for charity," explains Farah Mansour, the organisation's Turkish-speaking coordinator. "We want dignity, proper employment, and a path toward stability."

As Turkey navigates complex geopolitical pressures—with millions of displaced persons in neighbouring regions—migrants like Al-Rashid and Zada embody the human dimension of policy debates. Their voices reveal that integration is not a one-way street requiring migrants to assimilate, but a shared responsibility requiring institutional support, economic opportunity, and mutual respect.

For now, they continue working, hoping, and rebuilding lives in Istanbul's labyrinthine streets—contributing to a city that has historically thrived on cultural plurality, even as that heritage faces contemporary challenges.

This article was compiled by AI from the sources linked above and screened before publishing. See our editorial standards.