He marches past a fenced complex where newly arrived refugees are sitting. He could sit down with the women and listen.
One woman says: "My neighborhood in Damascus was bombed, and people were murdered."
Another says: "First I fled to Lebanon. There were Hezbollah fighters who tried to break into my house."
One woman says: "My father is in prison. I don't know if he's still alive."
Another says: "They said on TV that my husband is a terrorist. His nickname is 'The Bird.' He was arrested."
Another says: "They told my husband to go to the police station and bring along sweets. He never returned."
Kleinschmidt says: "Our weakness is that we see the individual trees and not the forest." He doesn't stop to listen to the many stories.
There are probably 116,000 explanations for the rage of the 116,000 refugees in Zaatari, but Kleinschmidt believes he has been able to isolate three important explanations.
First: These people come from a country where the elite are their enemies. Now they have fought for their freedom and don't want the next set of elites to tell them how many lentils they are allowed to eat. Second: Many refugees believe that the international community owes them something, because it isn't stopping the killing in Syria. Third: The mafia.
Kleinschmidt is only gradually able to identify the criminals that are working against him on the other side of the barbed wire, but he thinks he knows what they want. They want to keep the camp in an unstable state, and for free trade to remain forbidden so that smuggling continues to be worthwhile. They also want to prevent the aid organizations from installing a power grid, so that they can continue to sell illegally tapped electricity. And they want police to fear entering the camp, so that the mafia can go about its business without interruption.
There are men in Zaatari who take advantage of chaos to acquire power -- some of them mean well and some are evil. One of them, perhaps the most powerful, is called Abu Hussein.
He is sitting in a trailer on a sofa with a floral pattern, serving strong Turkish coffee. His wife places nine ashtrays on the table. There are two Nokia mobile phones on the carpet, one red and one pink. Hussein's children are sitting in an adjacent trailer, where an air-conditioner keeps the temperature at around 18 degrees Celsius (64 degrees Fahrenheit), watching "Hero Turtles" on TV. "If I wanted to, I could have the entire camp burning in five minutes," says Hussein.
The 48-year-old keeps his beard neatly trimmed, and his hair is either blow-dried into shape or possesses some sort of natural tension that keeps it elevated from his head. He says that before becoming the most powerful man in Zaatari, he lived in the Syrian city of Daraa, where he worked in a school, teaching a subject called "Air-Conditioning and Heating." When the people revolted against Syrian President Bashar Assad, Hussein joined the rebel fighters and became commander of a special unit of the Free Syrian Army, the "Falcons of the Tribe of the Prophet Mohammed." The Falcons specialized in mines, says Hussein. "I killed people."
Then he got scared and fled. When he reached Zaatari on Aug. 5 of last year, he was the 60th refugee to arrive at the camp, when a cold desert wind was blowing, he says. Hussein asked the aid workers for blankets for the women and children. When one of them refused, Hussein said that he had killed 73 people and that number would reach 74 if the worker didn't comply with his request. The aid worker gave him the blankets. From then on, he says, he was "the Akeed," or ruler.
As ruler, Hussein is accustomed to controlling the conversation. It's difficult to ask him a question and get a straightforward answer. Or perhaps he is too clever to respond directly to the questions.
What do people give him for being the boss?
"The only ruler is Allah."
But doesn't he, Abu Hussein, have a say here?
"I control 21 streets. My men patrol day and night. I have 10 barbers who will give free shaves to anyone who wants one."
What do the people give him in return?
"Just their love."
How can a refugee like him afford three trailers and an air-conditioner?
"Politics is like an ocean. Not everyone can swim in it."
What is his assessment of the work by the aid organizations?
Hussein takes a few drags from his cigarette and then inhales deeply, as if he were about to go diving. Then he slams his fist on the carpet, so hard that the coffee pot shakes. He begins to shout. "I went to the World Food Programme and said that I wanted a piece of cheese. They told me that someone in Geneva had to make that decision. I wonder who is sitting in Geneva deciding whether I can eat a piece of cheese?"
He continues to shout for half an hour, talking about corruption and Jews and cheese. He complains about the fact that some of the male aid workers have ponytails. Finally, he shouts that Mister Kilian is the only halfway decent one of the lot.
In Zaatari, there is a man inside every tent who claims to be the boss. Maybe Hussein is lying. Perhaps he was never a Falcon. But he has understood one thing: The person who makes people believe that he is the best ruler will emerge as their leader.
Viewing the Camp Like a City
Kleinschmidt paid a visit to Hussein one day to find out whether he was dealing with just another braggart. Five men wearing red Palestinian scarves on their heads sat with them. One of them said: "I've seen you walking through the camp at night. I've thought about having you kidnapped."
Kleinschmidt, who was there with a colleague, smiled and thanked Hussein for the invitation. The colleague was a young Irishman who had only been working in the camp for a few days and eyed the beverages in Hussein's trailer as if they were hand grenades. There is a diarrhea epidemic in Zaatari. Kleinschmidt chugged two cups of coffee from the same cup as Hussein and ate two pastries stuffed with spinach. Hussein said: "We have the feeling that the aid workers are heartless."
Hussein lives in a trailer that cost $3,000. The air-conditioner runs with electricity he is tapping from the Italian hospital. The water for his tea is from canisters provided by UNICEF. He hasn't worked, paid or thanked anyone for any of it.
Kleinschmidt concealed what he was really thinking. Before the meeting, he had said that what mattered wasn't the content of the discussion, but the fact that it took place at all. He drank tea and listened. After two hours, Hussein said: "You are a clever man, Mister Kilian. We should work together."
Kleinschmidt says that this camp can only become a place where refugees can regain their dignity if he manages to get all the anarchists out there to respect him.
He works 18 hours a day so that the aid workers respect him. He doesn't give orders, but instead tries to convince them of his idea, which is to view Zaatari as a city and not as a camp. He divided the city into 12 administrative districts and sent a member of his staff to each district to meet with the street bosses every day. He visited the military police commanders at home, ate lamb with them and convinced them to begin deploying night patrols. He had a ditch dug to prevent the smugglers from getting into the camp, and when that didn't work, he had excavators build a two-meter earth wall.
He met with politicians and explained to them that he needed more money, which he got. He gave interviews, waved his steel hook and argued that journalists should be brought to Zaatari. Most of the workers with the other organizations now give him reports on their activities. His colleagues have started spending nights in the camp with him. More and more of them are leaving their offices and following Kleinschmidt to the other side of the barbed wire.
He takes walks at night so that the refugees will respect him, and so that people will see that he is one of them. He had streetlights installed in the section of the camp where the refugees arrive, to make sure they can see where they're going. He has hot tea served to the new arrivals. He announced that the refugees would soon be given vouchers to buy their own groceries in supermarkets. He believes that in three months no one will have to live in a tent anymore. And, when he recently met with a group in the most dangerous of the 12 administrative districts, a few men said that they would like to plant olive trees.
Playing the Strong Man
One could see Kilian Kleinschmidt as a Rambo-like figure and disagree with his management consultant approach to the refugee camp. But before he came to Zaatari, no one there would have thought to plant an olive tree.
In the evenings, when the other aid workers are already asleep, Kleinschmidt says that he misses his wife so much that it hurts. He hopes to return home soon, to his children and his grandson. He says that he has applied for an office job in Strasbourg, but fears he'll eventually be sent to another crisis zone.
This is the moment when it becomes clear that Kleinschmidt is the smartest dazzler in this camp. Instead of ruling, he serves. But he does a great deal to ensure that no one notices. When he feels unobserved, he puts his hands on childrens' heads and listens to the concerns of their mothers. In the end, he points out that the hook he carries around is merely a tent hook. He would never hit a person with it, he says, and only carries it to counter his own nervousness. He really only keeps it with him in the company of journalists, who like to photograph him with it, he adds.
Kleinschmidt understands that donors want a strong man, so he plays along. He also understands that the aid workers need a leader, so he gives them one. He understands that the refugees only accept him if he behaves like a mayor in their presence.
What he doesn't admit to anyone in the camp is that when he calls his wife in the evening, he sometimes tells her how burned-out and shaken he feels. He tells her that he doesn't know if he can last another week. He says: "I hate refugee camps, because they deprive people of their dignity." When asked why he became an aid worker, Kleinschmidt responds: "If we know that we are doing good, we find it easier to love ourselves."
On a holiday in June, when he was in Amman, he received a text message from a colleague in Zaatari. He receives text messages every day, but they're normally about how many stone-throwing incidents there were or what the refugees have stolen. But this message consisted of only three letters: NTR. Nothing to report.