The Returning
I have stood in the arrivals hall at Rinas, Tirana's airport, and watched men come through after a deportation flight from Britain. There is no dramatic scene. Nobody is waiting with cameras or questions. A man I will call Driton* came through carrying a small, worn bag — the sort that looks as though it was packed in a hurry. He had spent time in Britain, built up an idea of what life there might become, and now he was walking back into Albania with very little to show for it. The first thing he said to me was simple: “I don’t know what I am going to do now.” Around him, people were getting on with the ordinary business of arriving — collecting bags, checking phones, finding a lift home. For him the journey was only beginning. The flight had brought him back to Albania. It had not answered the question of what he would do next.
That flight is the end of a British story and the beginning of an Albanian one, and almost nobody follows it past the tarmac. The charters come into Rinas carrying mostly men, back in a country they left with a plan that did not work out. Some have a family waiting. Some have a debt waiting. All of them know that everyone at home knows why they are back.
Rinas itself tells the story. When we arrived in 2014 it was a quiet airport whose only direct link to London was a British Airways flight from Gatwick three times a week — Albania’s own budget airline had collapsed the winter before (Business Traveller) — and the halls were mostly men. It handled about two million passengers in 2015. Last year it handled 11.6 million — the fastest-growing airport in Europe since the pandemic (SeeNews) — and the arrivals hall is full of people from everywhere on a city break or a fortnight on the coast. Something else has changed in the queue. Albania, which spent thirty years exporting its workers, has begun importing them: around 7,500 foreign nationals now hold residence permits, most of them in the hotels and restaurants of Vlorë and Sarandë, from the Philippines, India, Turkey, Nigeria and Nepal (OCNAL), and the government has signed labour agreements with the Philippines, Vietnam and Indonesia that talk of tens of thousands more (bne IntelliNews). The men off the deportation flight walk out through an arrivals hall where their country is now hiring strangers for the jobs they left to look for abroad.
What a return measures
The numbers behind those flights are, on their own terms, a success story for Britain. The 2022 surge of Albanians across the Channel — the 12,700 small-boat arrivals we described in July — collapsed within months. The political account credits the Joint Communiqué that Rishi Sunak announced on 13 December 2022. The data tells a more awkward one: around 9,000 Albanians arrived by boat between July and September that year, about 1,000 in October, 166 in November and 28 in December. The fall came before the deal was signed. The Oxford researchers are careful about this — the agreement may well be why the numbers have stayed low, but it cannot be the main reason they fell (Migration Observatory).
What the deal did change was the return leg. Of the 15,100 Albanian small-boat arrivals between 2018 and 2024, around 3,800 — one in four — were removed, against roughly 3 per cent for small-boat arrivals of all nationalities; three-quarters of all small-boat returns Britain carried out in those years were to Albania. In the year to May 2024 the Home Office counted nearly 6,000 Albanians removed, a figure that also includes people deported at the end of a prison sentence. The asylum door closed at the same time: almost half of initial decisions on Albanian claims were positive in 2021–22; by 2024 it was 3 per cent, and for men 1 per cent. Keir Starmer went to Tirana in May 2025, the first British prime minister to do so, stood at the Port of Durrës where British and Albanian officers run a joint task force, and floated ‘return hubs’ for other nationalities. Edi Rama, beside him, said no: the centres Italy built at Shëngjin and Gjadër, an hour up the coast from Durrës, were a one-off. The change of prime minister has not slowed the machine. A trial of voluntary-return payments of £10,000 a person began in March 2026 and continues under Andy Burnham, and Britain now holds returns agreements with nineteen countries. Albania was the template.
Is it safe? For most, yes. What the returning face is poverty, not persecution; the exceptions are the women and children who were trafficked, for whom the answer can be no, which is why their claims have to be heard one by one. A country may decide who stays. That is not in dispute here. What a church decides is how people are treated when they go, and who is standing there when they land. And here is the thing about the statistics: a return, in the statistics, is a departure. It is recorded when a person leaves British soil, and at that moment the data stops. Whether he is in work six months later, whether she is safe from the man who sent her, whether either of them is back on a boat next spring — none of that is a number anyone in Whitehall holds. Nobody counts the landing.
The most careful study Parliament has made of this said so plainly. The Home Affairs Committee, which went to Tirana in March 2023, found that support for people returned to Albania ‘appears patchy and largely provided by charities and NGOs, rather than by government’, and that Albanian families attach stigma to returning women in particular. In Kukës it met people who had migrated irregularly to Germany and Sweden, been caught and sent back, and been handed three-year travel bans; every one of them said they would leave again the day the ban expired (HC 197, 2023). Albania’s own numbers are at least as sobering. A household survey by INSTAT with the World Bank and IOM, as reported in the Albanian press, counted around 108,000 returnees living in the country, 45 per cent of them back since 2020. The state has counted them in surveys since 2013 and serves them, on paper, through ‘Migration Counters’ at its employment offices; Albanian researchers find that most returnees never reach them. A return without a reason to stay is a pause, not an ending.
In The Emptying Land we set out what our review of the research found: lasting recovery takes three to five years and stands on four legs — safety, belonging, healing and a real livelihood. Sustainable reintegration, the phrase the British government now uses, is not a flight and a cash card. It is employment, documents, access to services and, hardest of all, a community that takes you back. The last of those cannot be procured. It can only be given. Migration scholars have made a version of the same point for twenty years: what decides whether a return holds is how prepared it was — whether it was chosen, and what the person brings back — and an enforced return is the least prepared kind there is (Cassarino, 2004).
The receiving end
Spitallë is where the returning becomes visible. It is the district behind the port of Durrës — the same port where British officers now sit in the joint task force — a neighbourhood of self-built homes where families from the north and Roma and Balkan-Egyptian neighbours have made a place that the city’s services have been slow to reach, and that its residents run more capably than outsiders assume: our Residents Advisory Council there decides what the centre does, not the other way round. Our centre on Rruga Aleksander Goga opened in September 2022, the year Albania became a headline in Britain. That was not the reason it opened. But it is why the two stories now meet on the same street.
What reintegration looks like from that street is unglamorous, and it is Albanian-led: fourteen Albanian staff, most of them women, doing work that much of their own generation has left the country to avoid. In our latest reporting year the Recovery programme logged more than a thousand social-work drop-ins across Tirana and Durrës; helped more than thirty families into legal employment, as it has every year since 2023; repaired eleven homes; put sixty-two households on heater loans through the winter; stood with sixteen families through the Durrës Emergency Fund; and ran a weekly careers group for young adults (Impact Report 2025–26). None of that is branded ‘returnee support’. It does not need to be. It also means that until now we have not counted how many of those families had recently come back from abroad. From this year we will, because the honest answer to ‘does it work for returnees?’ needs its own number. The man who comes to the drop-in because his roof leaks is, as often as not, a man whose plan abroad did not work out — and the roof is the first honest conversation about what happened.
The returning come home to both our cities; Recovery, led by Roxhers Lufta, runs from Tirana with drop-ins in Durrës as well. When we sat down with Driton and his wife after that flight, back in the neighbourhood they had left, the whole arithmetic of a migration that had not worked out was on the table. They had sold everything to pay for the journey. They had borrowed from family and from friends. They owed money in the neighbourhood, as families here do, and they had left with a fanfare, as people who were going to make it. They came back in shame, and the people they had borrowed from wanted their money. He had come to Britain the way most of the 2022 cohort did — illegally, in a boat organised by criminals — and Britain was within its rights to send him back; none of what follows depends on pretending otherwise. Then the same people who had organised his transport came to see him, and offered him work: a way to pay off what he owed them. That offer is the moment a man who came back with a debt can become a trafficking case, and it is made in a living room, not on a boat. The Home Affairs Committee heard about debts like his being sold on to gangs; this is what that sentence looks like at a kitchen table.
What Tek Ura could do was small and specific. Get the children back into the routine of school. Find food and supplies for the weeks before there was any income. Sit at that table often enough that the other offer was not the only one on it. The end of the story is in this year’s report, in his own words.
“I thought my life was finished. Tek Ura didn’t judge me. They helped me see I had value. Now I have work, dignity, and a future again.”
— Driton*, Recovery programme, Impact Report 2025–26Three things we have learned that the grant frameworks struggle to write down. The first is that shame arrives before the returnee does. The village knows why he is back; the Committee’s word for the burden on returning women was stigma, and for men it is something closer to defeat, and it keeps them indoors. The drop-in works because nobody has to declare a category to walk in. It is a table, not a desk. The second is that documents are a ministry: a returnee without a registered address cannot enrol a child in school, register for the meagre social payment, or take a legal job, and much of what Revilda, our social worker in Durrës, does is paperwork on behalf of people whom paperwork has always defeated. The third is that a job has to be legal to be reintegration. Thirty-odd families into legal employment in a year is a small number. It is also thirty-odd households paying tax in a country where the informal economy is the easy road and where the honest way, as we wrote in Not For Sale, costs more. A returnee who goes back into cash work has not been reintegrated. He has been parked, and the next boat is still there.
None of this was improvised after the fact. In January 2023, with Albanians the largest nationality in the previous year’s Channel crossings, we told our supporters that the year’s focus would be 18-to-30-year-olds — ‘enabling employment for young people who may otherwise take a dinghy from Calais’. That year thirty-one families went into legal work, the drop-ins were rebuilt around 16-to-30s, the State Employment Office became a partner rather than a counter, and two young women at risk of being trafficked were put through a hairdressing academy in Durrës instead. Three years before Britain funded the receiving end, a Baptist community in Tirana was funding the alternative to departure — not to stop anyone leaving, but so that leaving was not the only door.
‘Britain can fund reintegration. It cannot fund being known.’
— Daniel DupreeThe right to stay
On 8 August 1991 a rusting freighter called the Vlora docked at Bari with as many as twenty thousand Albanians clinging to its decks and rigging. It is the image of Albanian migration that Europe has never shaken: a whole people trying to leave at once. Thirty-five years later, on 20 August 2026, a small flotilla left the Italian coast at Brindisi and sailed the other way — Albanian-Italians of the diaspora, organised with pro-Palestinian activists, crossing to Vlora to join the summer’s protests under a statement that the corruption which drove people out in 1991 was now selling the coast they had left behind. They called the voyage ‘the right to stay’.
We wrote about the Flamingo Revolution’s demand for honest scales in Not For Sale. What it has done to migration is a different and, for this piece, a more important thing. Besiana Guri, who founded the river-protection group Lumi and has marched since the first night, told a Greek reporter that most of the protesters are students and young workers who had spent the last few years working out how to leave, and were now, in her word, finding hope — the headline-writers called it a reason to stay. The same slogan, ‘Albania is not for sale’, was chanted that month by the diaspora in Athens, Berlin, Vienna, Cologne, The Hague, Oslo and Bologna, and in London. A movement about a lagoon became, almost by accident, arguably the first mass argument in a generation for staying in Albania.
Lea Ypi, the LSE philosopher whose memoir Free is the book most British readers now know Albania through, put her finger on the asymmetry years ago: the West celebrated the right to leave a closed country, and then spent three decades perfecting the means of refusing the right to enter. In June she wrote in the Guardian that for once Albania did not need to catch up with Europe; a generation willing to mobilise against oligarchic capture could show the old continent something about self-respect. She is also sceptical, in print, that a leaderless movement without a programme can survive its own summer. Both things can be true. For the plainest explainer of the summer, from a British journalist long resident in Albania, see Alice Taylor’s Foreign influence or flamingos?
One caution about language, because a migration audience will hear it. ‘Helping people stay’ is also the vocabulary of governments that would rather nobody left, and a charity that has applied for British government funding will be heard through that filter. Our interest is different, and narrower: that staying should be a real choice, not the only one left. We do not try to stop people moving. We try to make sure that the person who stays, and the person who comes back, has something to stay for.
Gersi* was fifteen when he told our 2023 report what that looks like from inside a Tirana teenager. His older brother had gone, and most of his brother’s friends — to Germany, mostly; some on the boats to England — all of them into manual work he could not do because of a childhood injury to his arms. He said he could not deny that he had wanted to leave too. Then the team started a ‘positive choices’ group: careers, interviews, CVs, a man who had studied accountancy and came in to talk about the job it led to. “Knowing that there might be a chance of me getting a job that could earn enough for my family and that I don’t have to leave Albania is so exciting,” he said. “I love my home and family. I want to be here.” That is what a real choice sounds like. It was said two summers before the flamingos, in a room British Baptists helped to pay for.
Hold the two migrations together, because policy never does. Britain is trialling payments of up to £10,000 a head to persuade people to go home. Albania’s own young people are, for the first time, arguing with their feet that home is worth the argument. The returns flights and the flotilla land on the same coast. The question for the church is not which side to be on — we hold no banner, and our own neighbours are as divided as the country, some seeing a lagoon and some the first real job offered in a decade — but whether we are standing at the quayside when either of them arrives.
I have watched a country decide this once before. In 2009 I was spending afternoons in the cafés of an industrial town in the Tunisian south, with men who worked seven days a week and still could not clear the loans from their own weddings, who talked about France and Italy the way Albanian teenagers now talk about England, and who had stopped expecting anything from their own country. That October we asked friends to pray that people could vote without fear; the president had been in office for twenty-two years. Through 2010 the tension built the way it does — in rising prices at the market, in conversations it was still not safe to have out loud. On 17 December a fruit-seller set himself alight a couple of hours up the road. Two days later we flew to England — for one of the only Christmases we have spent at home in two decades abroad, for the round of link churches, and for the birth of our third child — with no idea what we were leaving. We watched the rest on a screen. A few months later, after the killing stopped, we went back to a town that had changed, and to the news that young Tunisians were reaching Lampedusa in their thousands — the revolution and the exodus in the same season. Fifteen years on, Tunisia’s democracy has been folded away again. So I hold two things for Albania’s flamingos: that a people can decide to stay, and that deciding is the beginning of the work, not the end of it.
The state catches up
For the first time, Britain is paying for the landing as well as the flight. On 17 August 2026 the British Embassy in Tirana published a call for proposals for the Albania Reintegration Partnership: up to £1.9 million between October 2026 and March 2029 for not-for-profits, civil society organisations, research institutions and consortia, with three outcomes — returnees achieve sustainable reintegration, returnees access effective pathways, and Albanian institutions strengthen their own capability (GOV.UK). It sits beside the Home Office Modern Slavery Fund Albania programme for 2026–29, and beside the existing Home Office reintegration service delivered by the Catholic charity Medaille Trust through a network of Albanian anti-trafficking NGOs. Three things in the government’s text deserve credit: it asks applicants to strengthen existing systems rather than build parallel ones, it strongly encourages bids that involve local Albanian organisations, and it wants benefits that outlast the grant. Anyone who has watched donor money arrive in Tirana, hire a project office, publish a glossy report and leave will recognise how much those three sentences are trying to prevent.
They will also recognise the risks. £1.9 million over thirty months, against several thousand returns a year, is a pilot, not a system. Thirty months is shorter than the time it takes a returnee to stop being ‘the one who came back’ in his own village. And ‘institutional capability’ is the outcome most easily reported and least easily felt — a trained caseworker in a municipality is a good thing, but it is not a neighbour. The honest test is the one the Home Affairs Committee set without meaning to: will the person on the flight leave again the day the ban expires? No results framework captures that, because the answer arrives years after the grant closes. What captures it is presence — the kind of organisation that was on the street before the money and will be there after it. The churches and community organisations that were already in Spitallë, in Kukës, in Shkodër before the money arrived are not competitors for the contract. They are the reason a contract can work.
For transparency: Tek Ura has applied to the Home Office’s Modern Slavery Fund Albania programme. We did not apply to the Reintegration Partnership. We had neither the capacity to build a bid by 21 September nor, with financial pressures of our own this year, the headroom to take on a new programme well. We would rather say so in the text than be found out in a footnote.
A theology of return
The Bible is a book of returns, and it is honest about how badly they go. Naomi comes home to Bethlehem after ten years abroad and will not answer to her own name.
‘I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty.’
RUTH 1:21The town’s women ask, ‘Can this be Naomi?’ — which is exactly what the village asks the man off the flight. What saves her is not a programme. It is a daughter-in-law who refused to go back to her own people, a field with an owner who noticed, and a community that eventually said the child born to them was theirs. When the exiles came back from Babylon they found people who had never left, and the two groups did not trust each other; Ezra and Nehemiah are, among other things, an account of a country arguing over who counts as belonging after a migration — a story Albanian villages could tell in their own words. It is not a comfortable text — Ezra ends by sending foreign wives away — and that is the point: Scripture records how badly the returned and the stayed can treat one another, and then lets Isaiah answer them. Foreigners who bind themselves to the Lord will be brought to the holy mountain, ‘for my house will be called a house of prayer for all nations’ (Isaiah 56:7). And Jesus himself was a returnee: carried into Egypt by a father fleeing a violent state, brought back as a child to a country that had changed, and settled in Galilee because Judea was still too dangerous to go home to (Matthew 2:19–23). The Word made flesh knew what a return with no plan looks like.
The parable British Christians reach for first is the prodigal, and it is right that they should — the father who runs while the son is ‘still a long way off’ (Luke 15:20) is the truest image of welcome we have. But notice who is standing in the field at the end of that story, refusing to come in. The elder brother is the one who stayed. The gospel does not resolve his resentment in the text; it leaves him with the father’s word that everything the father has is his. If British churches want a theology for the returning, they need one for the staying as well, because in Albania the two are neighbours.
In the last week of September, European Baptists spent four days on this coast: the EBF Council met in Durrës under the Baptist World Alliance’s ACTS 2 theme, and its Commission on Migration gathered beforehand, on 22 September walking into the Spitallë centre to hear community members speak, on their own terms, about asylum, trafficking and recovery. I was not there. Matilda Dule led the day because it is her centre; Xhina and Revilda hosted, and our neighbours did the talking. ‘My prayers feel all the more real,’ one British delegate wrote home afterwards. The EBF’s own reporting on Italy makes the point with unusual bite: while Europe talks of stopping boats, Baptist churches on the Adriatic are living a different story. Durrës is on that same sea.
Albania knows this from the other side. In 1999 a country of three million took in some 465,000 Kosovars — 15 per cent of its own population — and two-thirds of them were housed not in camps but in around 29,000 Albanian family homes. The Baptist Union of Albania was founded that May, in the middle of it, and its first resolution was about refugees. A Baptist family whose first public act was to take strangers into its houses has a claim on this conversation that no policy paper does.
And here is the Baptist edge. We are a people who believe conscience cannot be coerced and belonging cannot be conferred by a state — that the church is a gathered community of the willing, not a jurisdiction. That conviction has a migration corollary. A person’s place in the body of Christ does not depend on which side of a border decision they landed. The man removed from Britain is not less our brother for having lost his appeal. The church in Marston Moretaine and the church in Spitallë are, in the only sense that finally matters, the same church. Much of the welcome Albanians already receive in Britain comes from churches — the food bank on a Tuesday, the English class, the lift to the solicitor. This is the next mile of the same road. Welcome that ends at passport control was never welcome; it was hospitality on licence.
The beginning of this story is in your town
An estimated 140,000 Albanians live in Britain — the figure Parliament’s committee used, and one that counts people the census does not — most of them legally, most of them working. The 2021 census counted about 69,000 people born in Albania in England and Wales; the gap between the two numbers is ethnic Albanians born elsewhere, Kosovo above all, the arrivals of 2022, and the people no census reaches — and nobody can say how it divides. The ones who will be on next year’s flights are also already here — in asylum accommodation, in the prison estate of England and Wales where, at the last count Parliament published, they outnumbered every other foreign nationality, in the car wash, on the building site, in the school where their children are bullied for the country’s name. British pastors do not need to go to Albania to meet the returning. They are meeting them now, before they return. Six things follow.
- Learn one sentence. Mirë se vini — welcome. Faleminderit — thank you. A word in someone’s language is the difference between a service and a relationship. Ask where they are from; Kukës and Shkodër are not Tirana, and the answer tells you which family network they arrived through. Churches cannot walk into Home Office hotels; the way in is the hotel’s welfare officer, a local refugee charity or a network such as Welcome Churches — or the men themselves, at the car wash on a Saturday.
- Do not ask why they came. Ask what happens next. He almost certainly knows how his claim is likely to end; you need not be the one to tell him. The pastoral question is: who is waiting for you, what do you owe, and what will you do on the first Monday back? A church that has helped someone think about the landing has done reintegration work in Britain.
- Send people home known. A letter, a WhatsApp number, an introduction to a church or a centre in the city they are returning to. Through At the Bridge and our Council of Supporters, Tek Ura can receive introductions to Tirana and Durrës; the Albanian Baptist Union and other evangelical networks cover more of the country. The bar is one number and one name. A man who lands with one name to call is not the same man as one who lands with none.
- Visit the prison. Most Albanians in British prisons will be deported at the end of sentence with almost no preparation. Chaplaincies are stretched; a congregation near a prison that holds foreign nationals could do more for Albanian reintegration in a year than most grant programmes. Prison Fellowship and the Baptist Union’s chaplaincy networks are the door.
- Fund the receiving end, and say so. Why should a British church pay for people the government has sent back? Because the man on the flight is a brother before he is a case; because a return without a job becomes a second crossing or a trafficker’s debt; and because the alternative is cheap. A Channel crossing costs £3,000–£5,000. The Recovery programme’s entire direct activity budget for 2025, in our audited accounts, was 767,724 lek — about £6,700 — for a year in which 34 families went into legal work, eleven homes were reroofed and sixty-two households were kept warm on heater loans. The winter emergency appeal that carried sixteen families through the floods raised £3,100: under £200 a family. Staff time comes on top. The point stands. British Baptist money already reaches Albania through more than thirty supporting churches. If the government is now spending £1.9 million on reintegration, the church can spend its own money on the part the state cannot buy: the roof, the heater, the drop-in that asks no category, the careers group that turns thirty into fifty. And it can tell the story back — to the deacons’ meeting, to the MP, to the Baptist Times — so that ‘returned to Albania’ stops being where the sentence ends. And if a church wants to fund the one thing we could not do this year — the capacity to bid well for programmes like the Reintegration Partnership — say so. It is the most strategic gift on this page.
- And one for the other end of the bridge. The Baptist Union of Albania’s small congregations already meet people who have come back at every Sunday door, in Tirana and far beyond it, and could use the same introductions. If a British church sends a name, an Albanian church should be the one to receive it.
None of this requires a position on immigration policy. It requires the older Baptist conviction that the person in front of you is the whole point, and that the border does not tell you who they are.
‘Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.’
HEBREWS 13:2Please pray for
- Every man and woman who came through Rinas this year with a small bag and no plan — and for the families who took them back.
- Driton and his family, and the thirty-odd households a year who choose the slow, legal road over the trafficker’s debt.
- Roxhers and the Recovery team in Tirana and Durrës, and Revilda’s paperwork — that doors open that have always been shut.
- Albania’s young people, on the streets this summer and in our careers groups every week, that staying becomes a real choice.
- British churches near a hotel, a prison or a car wash — for one sentence learned and one name sent home.
Faleminderit shumë — and lavdi Zotit.
Daniel Dupree, co-founder & Executive Director, Qendra Tek Ura
Sources · figures as of 27 September 2026
Migration Observatory, Albanian asylum seekers in the UK and EU (Oct 2025) and Deportation and returns of unauthorised migrants from the UK (Mar 2026). ONS, Census 2021: Country of birth (TS004). Jean-Pierre Cassarino, ‘Theorising Return Migration: The Conceptual Approach to Return Migrants Revisited’, International Journal on Multicultural Societies 6(2), 2004. House of Commons Home Affairs Committee, Asylum and migration: Albania, HC 197 (Jun 2023). FCDO / British Embassy Tirana, Call for proposals: Albania Reintegration Partnership (Aug 2026). Home Office, NRM end-of-year summary 2025 (Feb 2026). Monitor.al, INSTAT–World Bank–IOM household migration survey (as reported). IOM, National Strategy on Migration 2019–22. The Conversation on the May 2025 Tirana visit. Middle East Eye (Aug 2026) and Voxeurop/Efsyn (Jul 2026) on the Flamingo Revolution; Lea Ypi in the Guardian (Jun 2026); Alice Taylor, Foreign influence or flamingos?, Res Publica (2026). US Committee for Refugees, World Refugee Survey 2000; Baptist Press (1999). EBF Council 2026. Tek Ura Impact Reports 2023/4 and 2025–26; Qendra Tek Ura, Financial Statements for the year ended 31 December 2025, audited by UHY Elite (26 March 2026), note 11 and narrative annex; lek converted at about 114 to the pound. Tirana International Airport / ACI (Feb 2026) and SeeNews on 2025 passenger figures; Wikipedia, Transport in Albania, for 2015; Business Traveller (Nov 2013) on the London route. OCNAL (Sept 2026), Albanian Times (Apr 2025) and bne IntelliNews (Aug 2026) on foreign workers and labour agreements. Names marked * are changed.
