Pay cards for refugees: 'Hopefully this time it will be all right'

A young mother named Inga stands in a supermarket queue, waiting patiently for her turn at the checkout. For others, this might seem like a routine moment, but for Inga, it feels like an adventure with uncertain outcomes. The situation carries with it a sense of anxiety, a challenge she faces daily. She wants to buy grapes for her child, yet the act itself has become fraught with worry. Inga lives in a small eastern German town with her child in a container camp for refugees. Her fears extend beyond the immediate moment, she worries about her safety, the possibility of being harassed by locals, and the potential impact on her asylum application if local staff speak negatively about her. But the real stress comes from the payment method she must use: a prepaid card. The card, which Inga relies on for essential purchases, is a source of constant uncertainty. It often fails to work, forcing her to leave stores empty-handed after multiple attempts. “I don’t know beforehand whether it will work,” she says. This unpredictability adds to her frustration, especially when she needs to pay for necessities like groceries or even basic items such as a stroller from classified ads. The card’s limitations have made her life more difficult, particularly since it can only withdraw up to 50 euros per month and does not support direct transfers. These restrictions make everyday tasks like paying for childcare or buying medicine more complicated. Inga's experience reflects a growing trend across Germany, where many cities and districts have adopted prepaid cards to distribute social benefits to asylum seekers. Introduced in recent weeks, these cards are now used nationwide. While officials argue the system prevents refugees from sending money abroad, critics say it creates additional hurdles. The initiative, known as "Nein zur Bezahlkarte," highlights concerns over the administrative burden on local authorities and the high costs associated with maintaining these systems. For individuals like Inga, however, the consequences are far more personal. Bargeld, or cash, remains crucial for Inga. She uses it to purchase items that the card cannot cover, such as clothing from discount stores or medications from pharmacies. Some businesses, including certain supermarkets and bakeries, do not accept the card at all. Even when they do, there are often fees involved. Inga finds herself navigating a complex financial landscape, where the card is both a necessity and a limitation. Her reliance on the card is further strained by its inability to facilitate online transactions or direct bank transfers. Simple tasks like purchasing a mobile phone plan or booking travel require funds to be transferred, which the card does not support. These limitations force her to rely on alternative methods, often involving manual processing by local offices, an inefficient process that adds to the bureaucratic strain. As Inga prepares to enter the store once again, hoping this time the card will function properly, she knows the stakes are high. A failed transaction could mean another day of disappointment, another setback in a life already filled with challenges. Her story is one of resilience, but also of struggle, highlighting the broader implications of how public policy shapes the daily realities of displaced individuals.