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14/01/2011

Quand l'enfant de l'ennemi finit par gagner l'après-guerre

Elle était fille de l'ennemi et cela ne pouvait pas se savoir. Soixante-sept ans après sa naissance, Gerlinda Swillen est devenue, en Belgique, la première enfant de la guerre à obtenir la nationalité allemande. Elle peut enfin sortir de l'ombre et s'afficher comme une femme avec une identité complète. "Ceci clôture ma quête de père. Mon histoire personnelle est réparée." Grâce à cette double nationalité, Gerlinda Swillen espère ouvrir la voie de la reconnaissance des enfants de la guerre. Ils seraient pas moins de 20000 dans notre pays.


Pour les enfants de la guerre, le deuxième conflit mondial ne s'est pas achevé en 1945. "Beaucoup d'entre nous ont du alors commencer à mener leur propre guerre", explique Gerlinda Swillen. "La lutte pour la reconnaissance de notre identité biologique." Les enfants nés d'une mère belge et d'un père soldat allemand étaient les enfants de l'ennemi. Des enfants dont personne ne devait savoir comment ils avaient été conçus, même pas eux-mêmes. "J'ai longtemps vécu avec une demi-identité".Jusqu'à aujourd'hui. Sur son bureau trône l'Einbùrgerungsurkunde, le document officiel qui matérialise la fin de son combat. Elle a désormais la double nationalité belgo-allemande.

Elle est la première dans ce cas mais entend bien ne pas rester la seule. Depuis qu'elle est sortie du placard en 2007 en tant que fille d'un soldat de la Wehrmacht, elle a parlé à presque une centaine d'autres enfants de la guerre. Jusque là, ils représentaient une face cachée de notre histoire. Aujourd'hui, elle milite pour la création d'un réseau européen qui se battrait pour leurs droits. "La double nationalité, c'est une étape importante pour l'obtention d'un statut protégé pour les enfants de la guerre. La nationalité est tellement importante. Certains bébés de la guerre étaient même apatrides. C'est affreux. Etre protégé par la loi, c'est souvent lié à la nationalité. Sans nationalité, c'est à peine si l'on a des droits."

Elle-même a essayé depuis son plus jeune âge de retrouver sa véritable identité mais elle se heurtait chaque fois à un mur. "Ma mère me rabrouait chaque fois que je posais des questions sur mon père, mais je savais bien qu'il y avait quelque chose qui clochait. Les adultes commençaient à chuchoter lorsque j'arrivais ou se mettaient subitement à parler dans une autre langue. Et ma mère se comportait bizarrement. Jusqu'à l'âge de quatre ans, j'habitais chez mes grands-parents. Mais quand ma mère s'est mariée avec un veuf qui avait un jeune fils, tout a subitement changé."

Sa mère tricotait les mêmes vêtements pour elle et pour son demi-frère. "Rien ne pouvait la rendre plus heureuse que lorsque quelqu'un remarquait que nous avions presque l'air d'être des jumeaux. Elle voulait surtout gommer mes origines, oublier le passé. C'était un tabou absolu. Il lui arrivait bien de dire, quand elle était fâchée, que si elle s'était mariée, c'était pour moi. Je me suis rendu compte plus tard que beaucoup de mères célibataires d'enfants de la guerre avaient fait de même, pour protéger leur enfant de l'exclusion. Mais, après avoir franchi ce pas, le nom du vrai père devenait encore plus tabou."

De temps en temps, le prénom Karl revenait dans les conversations mais il a fallu longtemps pour qu'elle réalise qu'elle était la fille d'un soldat allemand. Le nom de famille ne sortait pas. Jusqu'à ce jour de 2007 où elle a provoqué sa mère qui était en train de parler de la guerre. "J'ai dit : arrête de radoter, tu ne te souviens même pas du nom de mon père. Bien sûr que si, a-t-elle répondu. Dis-le, alors, ai-je répondu, alors que tout le monde nous regardait en silence. Karl Weigert, a-t-elle lâché". C'était la dernière pièce du puzzle, celle que Gerlinda attendait depuis 64 ans. Depuis ce jour-là, elle ne tient plus aucun compte des tabous. Elle a raconté l'histoire de ses origines à tous ses amis, lancé un appel aux autres enfants de la guerre et s'est plongée dans cette page d'histoire qui fait apparemment encore tellement peur à certains. Et elle est partie à la recherche de son père en Allemagne. Le jour de son 66e anniversaire, le téléphone a sonné. C'était le Deutsch Dienststelle, qui gère les dossiers des 17 millions de soldats de la Wehrmacht. "Nous pensons avoir retrouvé votre père", ont-ils dit. "Mais il y a un problème. L'âge ne correspond pas. "Ma mère avait dit qu'il avait trois ans de plus qu'elle mais il en avait seize de plus", explique Gerlinda Swillen. "Tout le reste collait. Il avait été affecté à Gand, sa mère s'appelait Barbetta - mon nom vient en partie d'elle - et son père travaillait aux chemins defer. Ils ont fait un travail incroyable. Maintenant, j'insiste auprès de tous les autres enfants de la guerre : chaque détail compte et peut aider à reconstituer le puzzle"

Son père était décédé en 1958 mais le frère et !a soeur de celui-ci vivaient encore et ils étaient prêts à la rencontrer. En 2009, elle a reçu une photo de son père. "C'est tout moi, non ?", dit-elle en la montrant. "Ce nez, ce front C'était bizarre aussi d'entendre certaines histoires. Je n'ai pas été élevé par eux, j'ai grandi dans un tout autre milieu et pourtant, on n'a aucune prise sur certains caractères héréditaires. Mon père avait des côtés sexistes et moi j'ai plutôt des idées féministes. Je me serais certainement souvent disputé avec lui, ai-je dit à son frère, mais celui-ci a aussitôt démenti. Quand mon père était vraiment fâché, il ne disait rien : il tournait le dos et s'en allait J'étais sciée qu'il me dise cela, parce que je fais exactement la même chose."

Son père avait claqué la porte de la maison familiale à 17 ans ; à un moment donné, Gerlinda a, elle aussi, radicalement coupé les ponts avec sa mère et son beau-père. "C'était un épicurien, très dynamique, très sociable, et moi aussi. Subitement, vous comprenez plein de choses, votre identité se reconstitue. Je me sentais incroyablement libérée. Cela vous donne une énorme force aussi. J'ai enfin l'explication de plein de choses."
Comme celle de sa mauvaise relation avec sa mère. "J'ai compris subitement qu'elle avait dû vivre pendant des années avec le portrait craché de son amant. Mon fils ressemble aussi énormément à mon père. J'ai compris cela maintenant. Ma mère le savait depuis le début mais ne m'en avait jamais parlé. Maintenant elle en parle souvent. Mais elle n'arrive pas encore à exprimer que moi aussi, je lui ressemble de manière flagrante."

Jusqu'à il y a peu, sa mère ne voulait rien savoir de la famille allemande de Gerlinda mais la curiosité a fini par l'emporter petit à petit. "Elle estimait qu'il l'avait laissé tomber. Mais mon père avait été plutôt honnête. Il l'avait demandée en mariage à mon grand-père. Mon grand-père avait refusé. Parce qu'il était anti-allemand mais aussi parce qu'il percevait le danger. Personne ne le savait, mais il avait du sang juif. Et les Allemands exigeaient que les femmes de leurs soldats aient une ascendance pure. Ils auraient certainement fait une enquête et, s'il l'avaient découvert, nous aurions alors tous risqué de nous retrouver dans un camp de concentration."

Après la guerre, la loi du silence régnait mais maintenant, cela a changé. Gerlinda déteste l'expression "collaboration horizontale" : "En temps de guerre, les relations sexuelles sont une manière d'avoir une bouffée de liberté pour les hommes et les femmes. Si j'en crois les conversations que j'ai eues avec d'autres enfants de la guerre, la plupart de ces relations n'ont rien eu à voir avec la collaboration." Gerlinda elle-même ne s'est pas tourmentée à propos du passé de son père. "Longtemps, je n'ai rien su. Mais j'ai été soulagée d'apprendre que mon père avait toujours fait en sorte de ne pas devoir se battre. D'après mon frère, il détestait les armes, il s'occupait du matériel roulant. Cela m'a soulagé d'apprendre qu'il n'avait pas eu à tuer des gens."

Aujourd'hui, elle estime que son histoire personnelle n'est qu'un détail de l'Histoire du monde. "Cette double nationalité a surtout de l'importance pour pouvoir protéger les enfants de la guerre dans le futur. Je sais que les gens tirent rarement les leçons de l'Histoire mais ces situations se reproduisent encore aujourd'hui. Des enfants conçus par des soldats américains ne reçoivent pas le droit départir à la recherche de leur père. Mais les enfants de la guerre doivent avoir droit à leur identité biologique. Avec ce statut, nous voulons leur donner une protection juridique contre les insultes et l'exclusion. Afin que tout ceci ne se reproduise plus." 

Source : De Morgen | Courrier International n° 1050 | 16-21.12.2010

 

- Enfants 'de la Wehrmacht' en Belgique
L'occupation allemande au cours du dernier conflit mondial a conduit inévitablement à des relations entre les militaires de l'armée ennemie et la population belge féminine. De ces relations sont nés, selon les estimations les plus prudentes, 20.000 enfants, sans parler des enfants avortés. La recherche sur ces enfants, que Gerlinda Swillen a entamée en septembre 2007, concerne des rapports éphémères ou de plus longue durée, désirés par l'homme et la femme. Comment en sont-ils arrivés là ? Qui étaient les mères, mais aussi les pères concernés ? Comment se déroulaient la grossesse et la naissance ? Quel fut le sort des enfants ? Pour traiter de ces questions, Gerlinda Swillen analyse des archives et des documents d'époque. Mais elle a aussi besoin de témoignages de mères, d'enfants, de médecins, d'infirmières, de membres des familles, de voisins, de connaissances. 
Après des années de silence en Belgique, l'âge des témoins devient aussi problématique. Les entendre devient donc très urgent. Le CEGES appuie cet appel au témoignage.

- Trente "enfants de la Wehrmacht" sont enfin prêts à témoigner
Le CEGES va lever l'un des derniers tabous de la Seconde Guerre mondiale. Sa recherche est menée par Gerlinda Swillen, qui fut aussi la fille d'un soldat allemand.
La Libre Belgique | 15.10.2008

 

24/09/2010

En recherche d'adoption, des couples allemands sans enfants vont à l'étranger.

Ralf and Tanja Bockstedte adopted Maria from Colombia one of the most popular countries for German adoptive parents.jpgNowadays in Germany, people who are hoping to adopt a child are more likely than before to search abroad.
Sometimes their reasons are altruistic, but other times it just comes down to one thing: supply and demand.
 

Ralf Bockstedte, a successful lawyer from Essen who represents soccer clubs and players, said he and his wife Tanja decided 15 years ago to have children, but were "shattered" when they discovered they could not do it biologically. They first decided to adopt a child four years ago, but never did they consider an adoption within Germany.

"To adopt within Germany in our age is quite difficult," he said. "The child would probably have been something from 10 years on. And we rather wanted a baby."

German law allows a maximum age gap of 40 years between adoptive parents and the child. While both Ralf and Tanja are 39, being at the upper end of the age bracket would likely make things more difficult - a longer waiting time, or no baby at all.

They also could have tried for an open adoption in Germany, where the biological parent or parents maintain some contact with the child throughout its life, but Ralf said that did not have the same appeal as adopting an infant.

"Obviously it's great if there is a family doing that, but it wasn't our way," he said.

 

Developing world


So the Bockstedtes went for an adoption from Colombia, and four years later came home with their new daughter Maria - the eighth child of a housekeeper and the fourth to be put up for adoption.

Colombia is one of the most common countries for German couples to adopt from. The country has developed a relatively strong system of protection for orphaned and abandoned children, and it is one of the strictest adherents to the 1993 Hague Convention, which regulates international adoption.

Adoptions from Colombia take longer than those from closer countries like Russia, which is also popular among Germans. But they also tend to be more transparent and structured, according to Susana Katz, founder and director of AdA, the adoption agency that the Bockstedtes worked with.

"Inter-country adoptions are working now because the countries of origin of the children are poor," Katz said. "In Germany, there are no children for adoption, almost. The children aren't hungry; they are financed by the state. In other countries, for example Colombia, the state needs inter-country adoptions to give the children basic rights, like eating."

 


Supply and demand

 

While Colombia has more parentless children than it can take care of, increasing its supply, Germany has not only a low birth rate, but also a stronger social welfare system. Children of parents who cannot take care of them are placed in foster homes, supported by state money, or with other relatives, Katz said.

This has contributed to the steadily declining rate of adoptions in Germany over the past decade. In 2009, just under 4,000 adoptions took place - about half of them from step-parents.

But for those couples who choose to bypass Germany's adoption system and turn abroad, cost can also be a prohibitive factor. Translation, consultation, legal review, travel, etc. amount to between 15,000 and 20,000 euros for a foreign adoption from Germany.

Despite its limited supply of children for adoption, the German domestic adoption system is almost entirely financed by the state - parents only pay a few small fees for background checks and medical examinations.

 

 
Application process
   
 
In order to qualify for an adoption, domestic or international, couples or individuals must undergo a series of inspections and consultations with state representatives to confirm their fitness to be parents.

David Fermer, a 36-year-old author living in Cologne, and his wife Phillis, a 42-year-old filmmaker, are relatively early on in the application process. They said they were also told that adoption from within Germany can take much longer and be much more difficult than going abroad. And after Phillis visited an orphanage in Mali for work, they decided to adopt a child from Africa.

"The nice thing about the adoption process which I find is that it makes you reflect about who you are, where you are, where you come from," said David. "And it also starts a dialogue as a couple."

He said at a meeting with the state social worker, he and his wife had to write a report on their family of origin, detailing how their history has influenced them. He said coming from a troubled childhood himself, he found inspiration from his wife's story.

"I was so moved because I could see what a happy family she came from," he said. "That's what you want to do for your children, make sure they're as happy as possible."


Source : DW-World.de | 22.09.2010

08:09 Écrit par collectif a & a dans Adoption internationale | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : allemagne | |  del.icio.us

23/08/2010

Des familles allemandes déchirées par les adoptions forcées pendant la guerre froide recherchent encore des réponses - et leurs parents perdus.

Katrin Behr was separated from her mother as a child. Photograph: Christian Jungeblodt for the Guardian The legacy of forced adoptions
German families torn apart by forced adoptions during the cold war are still looking for answers – and their lost relatives

 

It took exactly four minutes to steal Andreas Laake's baby son – that was the length of the court hearing that swept away his paternity rights. Some 26 years later Laake can still recall every detail of the trial: his aching wrists cuffed behind his back; the musty smell of the courtroom; the steely voice of the young female judge. Then there were the vague words of the social worker who said that after his attempted escape from the German Democratic Republic: "we do not believe Mr Laake has the ability to bring up his son for the purpose of socialism".

 

Laake was not even allowed to defend himself. All he said in court were four words: "I do not agree." Several weeks later his son Marco was adopted by people who were considered, in ideological terms, much more reliable parents. "Since then, I've spent half a lifetime searching for him," says Laake.

 

It took a matter of minutes for Katrin Behr to be separated from her family too. It was a cold winter morning in 1972 when three men in long, dark coats knocked on the door to arrest her mother. Behr was four-and-a-half years old at the time, and can still remember the panic in her mother's voice as she urged her daughter to get dressed quickly. But Katrin Behr was left behind. The last words she heard were, "Be brave. I'll be back tonight," before her mother was spirited off to a socialist boot camp. It would be 19 years until they saw each other again. After short stopovers in various foster homes, Behr was adopted by a strict woman, a secretary of the Socialist party. She tried to adapt as best she could. "I did what I was told," Behr says. "As a little girl I really thought that that was the best way to avoid trouble."

 

Stealing children was one way the German Democratic Republic muzzled its people – Behr and Laake belong to an estimated 1,000 families torn apart by the socialist authorities. Forced adoptions were a tool that the regime "could impose on virtually anyone who was considered suspicious", Behr says; all it took to be judged a bad parent was to infringe on vague "socialist guidelines". In Behr's case, her mother, a single parent, was arrested after she had lost her job and decided to stay at home to care for her children – a major transgression in the eyes of a state that believed in compulsory labour.

 

In her new family, Behr always felt "like a second-class daughter", she says, "a Cinderella who had to clean the house and care for my younger adoptive brother while my adoptive mother was at work". She was told repeatedly that she had been put up for adoption because her natural mother did not love her. "I desperately tried to cling to a positive image of her," Behr says, "but any abandoned child would start to doubt that love after 19 years." She was granted limited access to her adoption file following reunification, and learned that her mother had never had a chance to get her daughter back. She also found out that her mother had spent several years in prison. Still, it took Behr a whole year to get in touch with her. "I hesitated," she says, "because I was afraid that the negative comments about her would be proved right."

 

When Behr finally met her natural mother, she says she was obsessed with the idea that everyone in her extended family would get along: she therefore arranged for her natural and adoptive mother to meet. This was a disaster. Behr had to separate the women when they literally went for each other's throat: "You stole my child, you communist bitch!" Behr's natural mother shouted. Today Behr is only in touch very occasionally with both women.

 

Three years ago, Behr set up a support group for the victims of forced adoptions, and since then the 43-year-old has been contacted by hundreds of people still searching for their children, parents or siblings. The 20th anniversary of reunification this October has prompted a flood of interest: a number of films on the topic have come out in Germany, and have been greeted with huge surprise by the public – they have also prompted victims to talk about their cases publicly for the first time. Like Laake, most of them feel betrayed twice over. The GDR destroyed their families, and the reunified German state did nothing to redress the injustice.

 

Walking through the dismal Leipzig suburbs feels like being transported back 20 years: there are potholes, weeds growing through the tarmac, dozens of uniform grey apartment blocks. Laake, a slim, frail man of 50, lives in a ground-floor flat in one of these blocks. Over the years, he has tried everything to find his son. He has posted notices on the internet. He has sent letters to politicians. He has recruited lawyers and private investigators. And he has continually been reminded that, while times and political systems change, his situation has not.

 

He is eager to tell his story, he says, despite the intimidation he has experienced. Laake and his family have been attacked by a man in the street; his car has been damaged twice; someone broke into his cellar; the only photo of his son as a baby has disappeared. But Laake says he is not afraid. "I am certainly not going to be paranoid. Not after all these years."

 

Laake's career as an "enemy of the socialist state" was never political. It started as a harmless teenage rebellion. He refused to join the youth organisation of the Socialist party, and at school in the 1970s he often wore a faux stetson and a black denim suit he'd made himself. This provocatively "western" outfit made him a target for his teachers' criticism. "But my mother always supported me," says Laake. "Our family agreed on the importance of personal freedom. As long as I can remember I wanted to get out of East Germany."

 

Early marriages were common in the GDR and so, at 19, Laake proposed to his childhood friend, Ilona, who came to share his dream of life on the other side of the iron curtain. Three years into their marriage, when she was expecting a baby, they decided to flee. Their idea was to cross the Baltic sea overnight in an inflatable rubber boat. It was hazardous: the beach became a prohibited zone after dusk, closely monitored by military police. "But when you are on the run, you stop thinking," says Laake. "You are in a sort of survival mode. It's all about: get on the water. Cower down in the dinghy so you're not shot. Then paddle for your life." They did not even make it to the water. "You can't describe the pressure you feel when there are five Kalashnikovs pointing at you."
Andreas Laake Andreas Laake is still searching for his son, who was adopted as a baby. Photograph: Eva-Helen Thoele

 

As an ex-prisoner and attempted refugee, Laake is officially acknowledged as a victim of political injustice, and he has even been granted a small monthly pension by the German government. But as a betrayed father, there are no documents proving his case. The GDR authorities effectively covered their tracks. Laake never received any official papers about his trial and because of data privacy laws his son's adoption file is closed to him for 50 years. The only person who has limited access to the file – other than the case officers – is Marco himself. And there's no way of knowing if he's ever even been told that he's adopted.

 

With no access to the details of his case, Laake has had to commit everything he can to memory. The words of the security agent who beat him during questioning. The document he signed to spare his pregnant wife imprisonment, confessing that he alone was responsible for the escape. The Hannibal-Lecter-style cage they built inside a cell, where, for several weeks – as a special punishment – he was kept in solitary confinement. He was in prison for six-and-a-half years altogether.

 

Marco was born and put up for adoption while Laake was under arrest; his wife had buckled under the massive pressure to give their child up. "She was only 21 years old, she was afraid, they threatened to make her life hell, they mentally broke her." Laake knows that she had no real chance to prevent the forced adoption, but the couple nevertheless fell out over the loss, and are now divorced. "In the end I simply couldn't forgive her," he says.

 

While telling his story Laake shows me a number of photographs of Marco: in a rowing boat, aged eight, and as a teenager at a party. They were given to him just a few months ago, as a result of his persistent campaign, by a social worker who is apparently in contact with Marco's adoptive family. She also read out a short letter, supposedly from Marco, now 26, who said that he has a good life and does not wish to get to know his natural father. Laake was not allowed to see the letter himself, for reasons of data protection. "His language sounded clumsy and strangely impersonal," he says. "As if someone had desperately tried to put himself into Marco's position and then made the whole thing up."

 

Laake knows that "there is no law that could turn around my situation". When the reunification treaty was signed in 1990 the new German state had not distinguished between legal and illegal adoptions, so every case today is dealt with according to the old West German law, which prohibits natural parents from finding out about children they voluntarily gave up. The builders of the new German state 20 years ago either forgot to classify "adoptions against the will of the parents" as a violation of human rights or, as the historian and GDR expert Uwe Hillmer suggests, they simply were not interested. "Even members of the Kohl government admitted internally: forget about the past," says Hillmer. Many of the Socialist administration's files were destroyed during the last days of the GDR, and a former officer of the Stasi, the East German security service, once told Hillmer: "You haven't got the slightest idea about the real extent of injustice, and you will never find out what really happened."

 

That Stasi officer might well be right, but reading through Behr's victim support website gives some sense of the scale of what went on. Behr has collected more than 300 cases of alleged forced adoption so far, and she is trying to help more than 200 people to find family members. There are 93 unsettled cases regarding the deaths of newborn babies: Behr has documented the stories of mothers who were still lying in the delivery room when they were told that their babies had died – but swear they heard their child crying. They were not allowed to see their baby's corpse. One mother visited the grave of her twin daughters for more than 25 years before seeing two young women tell the story of their adoption on TV. They were her daughters. It's unclear why this cruel practice took place; most of the people involved in the forced adoptions have refused to talk. Hillmer says there are suspicions that Socialist party officials who could not have children "ordered" newborns from cooperative gynaecologists, although this has only been proved in one case so far.

 

Behr's objective is to make the victims' voices heard. She gives lectures across Germany about forced adoption. "Many victims find themselves in the humiliating position that no one even believes them, and the strangeness of their cases doesn't make it any easier," she says. Most of them suffer from depression, and some question their own memories, as Behr has herself. The separation from her natural mother destroyed her self-esteem and she suspects she will never fully recover.

 

Laake refuses to accept that the data protection law is the only reason he is prevented from contacting Marco; he suspects that Marco's adoptive parents don't want their son to know the circumstances of his adoption. "If they told him," he says, "it could destroy their family." He keeps turning questions over in his mind: what if Marco's clumsy letter was written by someone else? What if old Stasi networks are still operating in Leipzig? What if Marco's adoptive parents are former party officials trying to hide their past?

Behr is helping Laake with his investigation, and worries about his safety. Until recently, she didn't believe the rumours about Stasi networks being operational, but "looking at Laake's case with all its dodgy incidents made me change my mind", she says. After Laake was attacked in the street, police advised him to search for a new flat for his own safety.

 

There is another reason that Behr is concerned about Laake. She says that many victims of forced adoption build up high hopes that things will change for the better once they find their natural family. "They focus on a happy ending that is never going to happen." Behr has helped more than 100 people to find their lost family members so far, but most cases end like her own: there is an initial sense of relief, followed by disappointment that the parent or child in question has become a complete stranger.

 

Laake knows that there may be no happy ending for him, that the problem of East Germany's lost children "is probably not solvable". Nevertheless he will carry on searching for Marco. He has started to call the adoption office twice a week, and he is also planning a sit-down strike outside the office, "with a sign around my neck: give me back my son!" He says he doesn't expect anything from contact with Marco. "I could even understand if he didn't wish to meet me." But he wants to hear that for himself. Laake is tired of all the threats and delays. "All I want is certainty. That's the minimum a father can expect."


Source : guardian.co.uk, Sunday 22 August 2010.

11:55 Écrit par collectif a & a dans Origine - Identité | Lien permanent | Commentaires (1) | Tags : allemagne, adoptions forcées | |  del.icio.us

08/07/2008

Les voies de l'adoption internationale en Allemagne, Italie et Norvège

TDHAdoptionQuelPrix.jpg1. En Allemagne, interdiction officielle de l’adoption privée et réalité discordante


En Allemagne, l’adoption privée est officiellement interdite. A côté des organismes privés agréés, les candidats adoptants peuvent cependant tout aussi légalement s’adresser aux organismes d’adoption des services de l’aide sociale à l’enfance et à la jeunesse des « Länder » (autorités départementales), ainsi qu’aux organismes d’adoption des services locaux de l’aide sociale à l’enfance et à la jeunesse s’ils sont agréés par le « Land » pour un ou plusieurs pays ou pour un cas particulier. Ces deux derniers types d’organismes sont donc publics. Si les organismes locaux semblent bien agréés pour l’adoption internationale, ils ne sont cependant pas mentionnés sur la liste des OAA communiquée par l’Allemagne à la Conférence de La Haye. Quant aux organismes d’adoption des « Länder », nous n’avons pas trouvé mention de leur agrément, et ils figurent sur la liste communiquée à la Conférence de La Haye non au titre d’OAA mais à celui d’Autorités centrales fédérées.

Quant à leur mode d’action et contrairement aux organismes privés, les organismes publics ne semblent posséder ni partenaires ni moyens d’action dans les pays d’origine. De plus, certains candidats adoptants entament la procédure auprès de ces organismes publics après avoir déjà sélectionné un enfant dans un pays étranger, au mépris donc des principes contenus dans l’article 29 de la CLH. Malgré la prétention officielle allemande d’interdire l’adoption privée, les adoptions opérées à l’intervention d’un organisme public d’adoption semblent en fait comparables aux adoptions considérées comme privées dans les autres pays.

 

Il convient donc de comparer, en Allemagne et en France, les limites des adoptions par l’intermédiaire des organismes publics, lesquelles semblent en fait « maquiller », à l’usage des pays d’origine notamment, le refus des autorités d’interdire, dans les faits, l’adoption privée.

 

Par ailleurs, des candidats adoptants résidant en Allemagne réussissent en pratique à faire entrer dans le pays des enfants adoptés sans aucun recours à un organisme ni privé ni public. Les autorités allemandes reconnaissent qu’elles disposent de peu de moyens de contrôle de ces adoptions considérées comme privées, lesquelles bénéficient souvent ensuite d’une reconnaissance légale. Des appels à un renforcement de la législation se sont donc fait entendre de la part de certaines autorités et organisations.


2. Italie et Norvège: interdiction de l’adoption privée sauf exceptions justifiées et vraiment limitées


L’Italie se distingue ici comme ayant, depuis sa ratification de la CLH, interdit les adoptions privées, y compris avec les pays non parties à la convention. Le recours à un OAA est devenu obligatoire. Cependant, à titre exceptionnel, les candidats adoptants peuvent effectuer leur démarche sans le recours à un OAA mais en passant par une ONG spécialisée dans l’accompagnement des relations familiales transnationales, le Service Social International (SSI). Une convention a été signée entre l’Autorité centrale et le SSI pour le traitement des cas particuliers d’adoption à réaliser dans des pays où n’opère aucun OAA. Cette procédure est accessible aux couples dont l’un des conjoints est originaire du pays demandé ou à des familles italiennes qui y ont vécu longtemps et qui ont un « lien significatif » avec sa culture. En 2004 , les adoptions privées représentaient 1% du total des adoptions internationales.


En Norvège, les deux possibilités d’adoption coexistent. Mais l’adoption privée est très restreinte (environ 1%). Les candidats ne peuvent y avoir recours qu’à certaines conditions similaires à celles posées en Italie pour l’adoption via le SSI.


Source : "Adoption: à quel prix? Etude comparative sur six pays européens."
Rédigé par: Isabelle Lammerant, experte d’adoption internationale en droit comparé, et Marlène Hofstetter responsable du secteur Adoption internationale.
Fondation Terre des hommes – aide à l’enfance, Lausanne, Suisse - 2007.


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