For months, U.S. President Donald Trump led a headline-grabbing crackdown on migration. Under his administration, agencies like the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) and Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) transformed deportations into public demonstrations of control, chained migrants paraded on video, names released in full view.

The intention – deterrence by spectacle, the Trump playbook expanded further. Some legal residents, including academics, were swept into the surge. His administration pledged to deport 11 million people, more than twice the number removed under President Joe Biden, and far surpassing Barack Obama’s two-term tally of 5.3 million deportations.

While Trump’s actions stirred global outrage, Europe has been scripting its own version of the story – quieter, less theatrical, but no less assertive. The European Union, once seen as the global bastion of refugee protection, is now reconfiguring its migration doctrine in ways that echo the tough stance seen in the U.S.

Across party lines, European leaders, from centrists to conservatives, are converging on a shared view: it’s time to draw a firmer line. Denmark’s “zero refugee” policy has gained traction as a model to emulate. In Brussels, EU officials are designing rules to redirect asylum seekers to third countries and have struck agreements to deploy border agents beyond EU territory, including in Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Between January and September 2024 alone, EU states issued over 327,000 expulsion orders. Nearly 28,000 individuals were deported in just the third quarter. These actions reflect the early implementation of the EU’s new Pact on Migration and Asylum, approved in December 2023 and operational since June 2024. The pact accelerates removals, expands detention infrastructure, and strengthens cooperation with non-EU countries for smoother deportation logistics.

Candidate countries in the Balkans, still aspiring for EU membership, now find themselves on the frontlines of enforcement, without any role in crafting the pact. For them, meeting the EU’s accession criteria increasingly means acting as its external border patrol.

At the December EU–Western Balkans Summit, the message was unanimous: migration control is a “shared challenge and priority,” and cooperation is non-negotiable. These moves are part of the EU’s larger strategy, externalizing border control while minimizing direct accountability for rights violations.

One of the core mechanisms now in play is the development of “return hubs” in areas just outside EU borders. Backed by European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen, these centres – located in the Balkans, Turkey, and North Africa – are designed to detain and process migrants the EU does not want. Enforcement is aided by Frontex, the EU’s border agency, and the International Organization for Migration (IOM).

Croatia offers a telling case study. As an EU member bordering non-member states Bosnia and Serbia, Croatia has become a key enforcer in the bloc’s migration architecture. Reports of pushbacks, sometimes deadly, often violent, have been well-documented. Still, Croatia, along with Romania and Bulgaria, was rewarded by being brought into the Schengen Zone, eliminating internal border controls.

The EU’s reinforced readmission agreements allow member states to repatriate migrants either to their origin countries or to transit nations – effectively outsourcing the burden of housing and managing asylum seekers. The Balkans, in practice, have become the EU’s buffer zone.

Croatia hasn’t released public data on its border control activities since 2020. Yet in January, Interior Minister Davor Bozinovic reported that authorities prevented 71,000 “illegal entries” in 2024 alone. Bosnia, supported by EU funds, facilitated nearly 900 forced returns last year, while 96 individuals left under IOM’s “voluntary return” program, one that some scholars argue masks coercive tactics.

At present, Croatia operates four key detention and return hubs—Ježevo near Zagreb, Tovarnik by the Serbian border, and two others at Dugi Dol and Trilj near Bosnia. Inside, NGOs and journalists have flagged overcrowding, indefinite detention, and vulnerable populations (children and single women) held in male-dominated spaces.

Inside Croatia’s detention and return centres, multiple NGOs and independent journalists have reported concerning conditions—overcrowding, indefinite confinement, and inadequate facilities. Though official transparency remains limited, testimonies describe a consistent pattern: migrants are held briefly, only to be quietly transported and left across the border in Serbia or Bosnia. 

Border enforcement has intensified in recent months. Since the beginning of the year, Croatian police have ramped up patrols along the eastern frontier. A new trilateral agreement now enables officers from Slovenia and Italy to join these efforts, signaling a shared European commitment to securing the bloc’s outer edge. Simultaneously, surveillance capacity has been boosted with advanced monitoring equipment and upgraded vehicles.

At a ministerial gathering in Brussels earlier this month, Croatian Interior Minister Davor Bozinovic declared that deportations are no longer a “taboo” subject within the EU. The European Commission is actively exploring legislative changes to streamline and accelerate removals across member states.

Yet these efforts unfold against a sobering backdrop.

Croatia’s non-EU borders are marked by unacknowledged graves, silent reminders of those who died while trying to reach safety. As the new migration pact gains traction, it is expected to intensify both enforcement and human costs, not just at the Croatian frontier, but across non-EU partners like Bosnia and Herzegovina, Serbia, Albania, and North Macedonia.

The pact brings significant funding. Millions of euros are being directed toward border fortification technologies and operational frameworks aimed at managing migration flows more “efficiently.” Frontex, the EU’s border agency, has been central to this expansion. Long under scrutiny for alleged complicity in pushbacks and rights violations, the agency is now being granted more authority and resources. Its budget for deportation-related activities alone stands at €18 million ($19.5 million) annually.

In Other Countries…Germany, France, Austria…

Across Europe, countries are adapting their own policies to align with the tougher regional stance. In Germany, activist groups are pushing back against the deportation of Palestinians. In Italy, the government is seeking to operationalize offshore processing centres in Albania. Austria has temporarily frozen family reunifications for asylum applicants. France, meanwhile, has introduced stricter immigration laws and begun increasing deportations, prompting diplomatic tensions with Algeria over the volume of returnees.

Once considered extreme, the migration policies championed by Italy’s nationalist parties are now finding surprising traction in mainstream European politics.

“Those who told us our approach was racist and xenophobic are slowly starting to say, ‘Well, maybe they’re a bit right,’” said Nicola Procaccini of Brothers of Italy, a party once on the political fringes, now at the centre of power. With Giorgia Meloni as Prime Minister and Procaccini heading a significant bloc in the European Parliament, their stance is no longer outlier rhetoric, it’s setting the tone.

Even critics admit the tide has shifted. “There is now this really broad consensus among almost all political camps,” noted Martin Hofmann from the International Center for Migration Policy Development. “We will be tougher, we will be stricter.”

This evolution didn’t come from nowhere. It has been building steadily since the political backlash that followed Europe’s acceptance of over a million asylum seekers – primarily Syrians, Iraqis, and Afghans – a decade ago. While migrant arrivals slowed after the pandemic, Frontex data shows a further 20 percent drop in early 2025. Yet deportations continue to climb, reflecting a recalibrated policy posture: reducing inflow alone isn’t enough, outflow must be managed too.

Still, pressure points remain. Routes like the one from Libya to Greece are seeing renewed traffic. European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen, in a recent letter, urged leaders to prioritize border enforcement, describing the situation as a test of Europe’s commitment to internal stability.

Hofmann noted that rising anti-immigrant sentiment often reflects broader socio-economic anxieties – over jobs, living costs, and national identity. This means policies that show visible “success” in controlling migration are likely to remain popular, regardless of actual migrant volumes.

Among those policies is the offshoring of asylum processing—once controversial, now increasingly normalized. The UK’s Rwanda proposal drew criticism in the past, including from the Council of Europe, which called it part of a concerning “trend toward externalization.” But today, it has become a blueprint.

Giorgia Meloni’s plan to process asylum seekers in Albania – currently blocked by Italian courts—has been praised by von der Leyen as “out-of-the-box thinking.” The EU is now exploring broader application of this approach, alongside efforts to expedite deportations for rejected applicants.

The political symbolism is hard to miss. When Danish Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen (a Social Democrat) stood alongside Italy’s staunchly conservative Meloni to call for stricter migration rules, it confirmed how wide the consensus has grown. Denmark, despite receiving relatively few asylum applications, has implemented one of Europe’s most restrictive policies. Leaders like Germany’s Friedrich Merz have openly called it a “role model.”

In a joint letter, Meloni and Frederiksen argued that the European Convention on Human Rights, long seen as Europe’s moral compass, has become too restrictive, limiting national governments’ ability to determine who should be allowed to stay. The letter was co-signed by leaders from Austria, Belgium, the Czech Republic, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, and Poland, underlining the wide political spectrum now endorsing change.

Migration deals with Tunisia and Libya (intended to slow the flow of people into Europe) are seen as operationally effective, even if controversial. Reports like the one from 2023, where Tunisian authorities allegedly abandoned African migrants in the desert, raised serious human rights concerns. Still, many European policymakers view such partnerships as necessary trade-offs in a world where border control is increasingly synonymous with political stability.

In Germany, new internal checks have sparked criticism from neighbouring states, who see it as a breach of the bloc’s commitment to free movement. Poland has suspended asylum rights altogether at its border with Belarus, claiming that Russian and Belarusian actors are using migration as a geopolitical weapon.

That broader shift in tone has implications for migrants already in Europe. In Poland’s recent presidential race, the winning candidate campaigned on a simple, powerful message: “Poland first, Poles first.” Even in towns like Sopot, known for welcoming Ukrainian war refugees, there’s growing unease. Mayor Magdalena Czarzynska-Jachim supports secure borders but cautions against conflating migration with criminality. “Legal migrants are our neighbours,” she said. “They are not bandits.”

Why Europe May Be Right!

But to understand why Europe is hardening its borders and tightening deportation rules, one must also confront the unease that has been simmering across its cities and suburbs, not just among politicians, but ordinary citizens.

For years, migration was framed primarily as a humanitarian question: who needs help, and how much help can Europe give? But increasingly, it is also being viewed through the prism of social stability, public safety, and cultural cohesion. And here is where the debate becomes more complex, less about numbers, and more about values.

Across parts of Western Europe, from suburban Paris to inner-city Birmingham, there has been growing discontent over the appropriation of public spaces for religious activities. Parks, pavements, and community spaces have, in some cases, turned into de facto places of worship, without permits, oversight, or consideration for local regulations. To some, these acts are symbolic of faith and identity. But to others, they signal a disregard for shared civic norms, or even a creeping replacement of secular public life.

In many of these communities, residents say they feel silenced or dismissed when they raise concerns, often labelled intolerant for pointing out what they see as real disruptions or the erosion of local customs. And into that silence, resentment has grown.

There are also darker, more difficult truths that European societies have been forced to reckon with.

In recent years, several high-profile criminal cases, particularly in the UK and Germany, have involved networks of child sexual exploitation, with some perpetrators reportedly justifying their actions through twisted religious or cultural interpretations. These cases shocked national consciences not just because of the horrific crimes, but because authorities were accused of hesitating to act, fearing they might be labelled racist or culturally insensitive.

While it’s critical to avoid broad-stroke vilification, such incidents have led to a growing belief (rightly or wrongly) that some migrant groups are not just failing to integrate, but actively undermining core democratic principles around gender rights, child protection, and freedom of belief.

This isn’t just a fear peddled by the far right, it is in fact a genuine anxiety being felt by people who see their neighbourhoods changing rapidly, who worry about parallel legal systems forming under the guise of religious autonomy, and who feel unheard in the name of political correctness.

It is this reality – where public safety, cultural friction, and a desire for order converge – that has begun to justify the pivot in Europe’s migration policies. For many governments, tighter borders are no longer about nationalism, but about reasserting control, protecting hard-won liberal values, and maintaining social harmony in the face of complex demographic shifts.

If the recent EU migration pact seems harsh on the surface, it is because Europe is finally confronting what many of its leaders have long avoided: that open borders, unchecked asylum systems, and cultural relativism have collided with the continent’s desire to preserve internal stability, social services, and secular rule of law.

In that context, offshoring asylum processing or creating return hubs outside the EU is not merely bureaucratic efficiency, it is a recognition of geopolitical reality. Europe, with its ageing population and limited political appetite for large-scale integration, cannot absorb everyone fleeing war, poverty, or persecution. And in an age where even those with rejected asylum claims often vanish into the informal economy, removal mechanisms had to evolve.

Then there’s the cost. Migration does not exist in a vacuum, it’s intertwined with housing shortages, job insecurity, overloaded welfare systems, and national identity.

In countries like Germany, France, and the Netherlands, voters have made it clear that they’re not against immigration, but they are against chaos. If governments fail to differentiate between those fleeing genuine persecution and those gaming the system, public trust crumbles and with it, support for any form of humanitarianism.

Because, at its core, this is not a battle between compassion and cruelty. It’s a battle between idealism and sustainability. Between a vision of Europe as a sanctuary, and the hard truth that a sanctuary without structure will collapse under its own contradictions.

If Europe wants to remain open, it must also be firm. If it wants to remain free, it must also be secure. And if it hopes to preserve its social fabric — one that prizes rights, tolerance, and dignity, it cannot allow those very principles to be eroded in the name of unchecked entry.

The Last Bit,

It’s easy to moralise from afar, to reduce every deportation to cruelty and every migrant to victimhood. But inside Europe’s halls of power and more importantly, on the streets, in the schools, at the job centres and public housing queues reality demands more nuance. There are limits to generosity, and thresholds beyond which tolerance begins to fracture.

This is not to say that Europe should abandon its role as a protector of the vulnerable. But protection must be earned, not assumed. Systems must separate those fleeing war from those fleeing accountability, those seeking safety from those seeking loopholes. And they must do so without apology.

The uncomfortable truth is that not everyone who comes wants to belong. Not everyone respects the laws of the land they enter. And not all cultures are equally compatible with liberal democracies. These are conversations Europe can no longer afford to avoid.

Borders, after all, are not just geographical. They are moral boundaries, too. And when they are tested, democracies must decide where to draw the line — not because they are cruel, but because without lines, they cease to be democracies at all.

It’s not about closing doors. It’s about knowing when to say: Not like this. Not anymore.