‘Citizen patrols’ and self-styled protective forces are fuelling social fears and the far right.
Sporting black shirts emblazoned with an iron cross, a dozen or so men marched through the centre of Reykjavík, courting attention on a Friday night. In Poland and the Netherlands, vigilantes thronged along the German border, ready to turn back any asylum seekers they came across. In Belfast, they roamed after sunset, demanding to see the identity documents of migrants and people of colour.
Each of the groups, who are part of a renewed wave of anti-migrant vigilantes that have sprung up in recent months across Europe, have sought to cast themselves as a sort of protective force. But those who have studied vigilantes warn that their actions often exacerbate security concerns, sow fear and fuel the far right.
“Most of this is symbolic. They don’t stop migration. They don’t create more safety in the streets,” said Tore Bjørgo, a professor at the University of Oslo and former director of the university’s Centre for Research on Extremism. “It’s a show for media and often for political purposes because, quite often, the extreme-right and far-right organisations use this as a way to get publicity and recruit new members.”
Europe has long seen waves of anti-migrant vigilantes, often springing up as the discourse around migration hardens. This summer has been no exception: Spain had days of turbulence in the south-eastern province of Murcia after dozens of baton-wielding individuals took to the streets to “hunt” people with foreign origins, while Belfast, in Northern Ireland, has grappled with a campaign of intimidation targeting people of colour. In Poland, self-declared “citizen patrols”, at times numbering in the hundreds, gathered along the border with Germany earlier this summer, insisting their presence was needed to prevent asylum seekers from moving between the two countries.
The Netherlands had a similar movement, with a dozen or so people heading to the German border near the villages of Ter Apel and Sellingen in June. Sporting high-visibility vests and lamps, they reportedly spent one night flagging down vehicles, asking people to show identification.
Rights campaigners and governments have described the actions as being grounded in fear and supercharged by misinformation. In the lead-up to the unrest in Spain, racist messaging on social media rocketed by 1,500%, according to the central government, while the Helsinki Foundation for Human Rights in Warsaw linked the actions in Poland to “a radicalising political narrative that portrays migration as a threat, fuelling social fears and distrust of state institutions.”
While the vigilantes may be acting out of fear, they often also provoke it among those they purport to protect. “There’s very little evidence that they make people feel that their streets are more secure – quite the opposite,” said Bjørgo, who noted that while they rarely used physical violence, their militant style displayed a capacity for violence that was quite frightening, particularly to minorities. “Quite a few of the participants are well-known criminals and violent people, so they are generally causing more fear than they are creating a sense of safety.”
For some, vigilantism offers a means of rebranding themselves. Research carried out on one group in Norway in 2016 found that many members had a criminal history, ranging from domestic violence to drug dealing and burglary. “This is a way to improve their standing in the community,” said Bjørgo. “It’s a show of masculinity and protecting women.”