Left to the Frontline: How Social Workers Bear the Burden of Dutch Migration Policy

Across Europe, undocumented people are increasingly framed as a problem of control, with the discussion often turning into talk about borders and returns. Political discourse often suggests that if reception is reduced, access is restricted, or financial support is withdrawn, undocumented people will simply leave. However, the reality described by social workers in Dutch night shelters tells a different story. When the state withdraws, people do not simply disappear. They become more vulnerable, more invisible, and more dependent on the few organisations that are still willing and able to help them.

This is the central concern of my thesis, which examines how social workers in Dutch night shelters experience and navigate constraints when supporting undocumented people after the termination of the Landelijke Vreemdelingenvoorziening (LVV), which means the National Immigration Facility. The LVV was a national pilot programme in which the Dutch government, five large municipalities, and non-governmental organisations (NGOs) cooperated to provide temporary shelter and guidance to undocumented people. Its purpose was not only to offer the basic human necessities of bed, bath, and bread, but also to work towards a sustainable future: legalisation, return, or onward migration. However, from 2025 onwards, national funding and cooperation were discontinued by the new Minister of Migration, Faber of the populist party PVV. This left municipalities and local organisations to deal with the consequences. Just as it was about to roll out nationally to all municipalities, it stopped, meaning that all the financial burden fell on municipalities, who then had to rebuild everything at a local level, despite having just finished building upwards. 

Picture: CC by 2.0

Also, cities that did not participate in LVV should not be forgotten. Smaller cities are very dependent on municipal budgets. For instance, Vluchtenlingenwerk (Dutch Council for Refugees) recently had to close its doors in Maastricht due to a funding cut. This organisation plays a key role in navigating the complex legal cases of undocumented people, as each case is unique and complex. This means that the work of social workers is now often very dependent on municipalities. 

For my research, I conducted twelve semi-structured interviews with social workers, legal support workers, and coordinators working in night shelters across different municipal contexts.

During my research, I realised that the voice of social workers is underrepresented. Public debates often focus on the undocumented people themselves and the political question of whether they should be allowed to stay. Far less attention is paid to the workers who deal with the practical consequences of restrictive policies every day. These workers do not write the migration law. They do not decide national asylum policy. Yet, in practice, they often have to decide who gets a bed, who receives legal support, who is prioritised, and who is left out in the cold.

 “If we do not do it, nobody does it.”

Social workers are not merely implementing policy. They absorb the consequences of a national policy that increasingly portrays undocumented people as a group for whom the state is not responsible. When support is cut, the burden does not simply disappear. Instead, it is passed on to municipalities, NGOs, and frontline workers.

Exclusion leads to extra workload

The work of social workers in night shelters extends far beyond emergency accommodation. They support people who have been legally and socially excluded from many ordinary routes of participation, meaning that even basic forms of daily life often require mediation, explanation and practical intervention. Undocumented people are often not allowed anything that would form an identity besides a name, which is why documentation is very important. As one interviewee explained, “People are not allowed to go to school or volunteer; they are not allowed to do many things.”Another interviewee put it more broadly: 

“If you are undocumented, many of the things you are allowed to do disappear.”

This exclusion creates extra work. For example, if someone cannot attend a regular language school, social workers have to find volunteers. If someone cannot work, alternative daytime activities must be arranged. If someone needs healthcare, they may have to convince medical providers that undocumented people are still entitled to medically necessary care. One interviewee explained that this right is often not well known, neither by undocumented people themselves nor by medical providers. As a result, social workers spend additional time explaining that undocumented people are entitled to medically necessary care and helping to make this right accessible in practice.

In this sense, scarcity is not just about a lack of money or staff. It is produced by the legal exclusion of nationals and strict migration policies. Undocumented status takes precedence over everything else. One social worker explained that, in regular homelessness services, problems are often categorised as material, medical, or legal. However, in the case of undocumented people, “you are first undocumented, then homeless. First, you are undocumented, then you have cancer.” Consequently, all problems arise simultaneously: addiction, trauma, psychiatric needs, medical treatment, legal uncertainty, and homelessness.

The result is a form of work that is both practical and deeply moral. Social workers help people to find food and shelter, obtain legal documents, and arrange medical appointments, as well as encourage them to participate in small ways. However, they also strive to restore a sense of identity and belonging. One interviewee said that “joining in” is the most important thing. Those entering the shelter have often lost everything except their name; they are no longer colleagues, students, or able to describe themselves through work, hobbies, housing, or social roles. Rebuilding identity becomes part of the work. But they also try to restore a sense of identity and belonging. 

The LVV did more than just provide money

The termination of the LVV is often discussed in financial terms. However, for social workers, the loss was much broader than just funding. The LVV also established cooperation structures, information channels, and working relationships with governmental institutions responsible for asylum and return. These structures enabled social workers to access files, clarify legal situations, and protect clients while a process was ongoing.

After the LVV ended, these routes disappeared. An interviewee said that “Cooperation with the governmental migration institutions disappeared all at once.” Another interviewee explained that, before termination, files could be received within two weeks; now, however, it can take eight to ten weeks.

This matters because time is not essential in this field; it is determining basic human needs. A delayed file can result in a delayed legal procedure. A delayed procedure can mean months of uncertainty. A missing cooperation structure can result in someone being detained during a process that has been carefully developed over time. One interviewee described how, while they were working from a legal perspective, someone was arrested during an ID check. 

 "If that person is later released, we have to start all over again".

It illustrates how detention can occur not because someone has committed a crime, but because they lack valid documents. One social worker described how a person stopped for an ID check might first be held in a police cell before being transferred to a detention centre. “There are no people with a criminal record there,” the interviewee explained. It is for people without a residence permit. In some cases, people were detained for up to sixteen months before being released because deportation could not be carried out.

This is one of the clearest examples of the gap between policy and practice. National policy assumes that undocumented people should leave. However, social workers encounter people who often cannot leave, do not know how to leave safely, lack the necessary documentation, have medical needs, fear for their safety in their country of origin, or are caught up in a legal maze. 

The Migration Pact: Stricter European migration governance 

The Dutch developments are not isolated. They are part of a wider European shift towards stricter migration governance. The EU Pact on Migration and Asylum came into force on 11 June 2024 and will start to be applied on 12 June 2026, following a two-year transition period. The European Commission presents the Pact as an attempt to create stronger external borders, more efficient procedures, and a balance between solidarity and responsibility among member states.

For social workers, however, such reforms are not abstract. They influence the environment in which undocumented people live, and organisations operate. One interviewee explicitly referred to the Migration Pact, saying that, once implemented, “it will probably all become heavier and more difficult”. There is concern that new rules could directly affect whether undocumented people can submit a new asylum application, how long they can remain in shelter, and whether they can access procedures meaningfully.

This does not mean that the consequences of the Pact are already clear. But it does show that frontline workers experience shifts in European and national policy as pressure. Their work becomes more uncertain, legally more complex, and more emotionally charged. They must prepare for the consequences of decisions made far above them while continuing to support people with immediate needs.

Cutting support does not lead to people leaving

A recurring finding from the interviews is that reducing support does not necessarily result in people returning. It often leads to homelessness, invisibility, and exploitation. One interviewee explained that, when homeless, people first look for food and shelter. Only then can they think about their future. 

"People become more vulnerable and dependent, and therefore more susceptible to exploitation."

This issue has also been recognised in municipal discussions. For example, political discussions about the end of the LVV warned that without shelter, people may become homeless and fall out of sight of the authorities. It raises concerns about the consequences for health, public order, safety, and financial costs. 

Therefore, shelter is not only a humanitarian issue. It is also a governance issue. Preventive support can reduce the risk of exploitation, street homelessness, reliance on emergency healthcare, and the use of unsafe survival strategies. Research states that every euro invested in preventive social shelter can save society around 3 euros in avoided costs. 

The central contradiction is therefore clear: national policy may withdraw support in the hope of encouraging people to return home, but local authorities then have to deal with the consequences when this does not happen. Responsibility is not removed. It is simply relocated to those who have even less resources to navigate.

Prioritisation as a moral burden

Perhaps the hardest part of this work is deciding what to prioritise. When there are not enough beds, staff, or legal options, someone has to decide who to help first. The interviews show that this decision is rarely straightforward. Some shelters use criteria such as local connection, medical urgency, ongoing legal proceedings, willingness to cooperate with the return process, or vulnerability. In some cities, independent municipal committees assess whether someone can enter a shelter and for how long. However, even when criteria exist, the emotional burden remains.

"Sometimes I ask myself: Is someone sick? Where would they fit best? But often, we have no choice."

Many interviewees described how waiting lists for asylum have grown. In one location, people now wait four to five months for a place in a shelter, whereas previously the wait was around five weeks. During that time, social workers try to guide people on the waiting list, which puts additional pressure on staff who are already overloaded.

In some municipalities, uncertainty is built into the system. One organisation described funding being extended every six months. Staff have to decide whether to put people on a waiting list when they do not know if the shelter will still be open in a few months' time. They may only be able to offer someone two months of shelter because that is all they can guarantee.

This is not just administrative pressure. It is also moral pressure. Social workers are aware of the consequences of not providing help. They are aware that sleeping outside can exacerbate trauma, addiction, exploitation, and disappearance from the public eye. However, they also know that they cannot help everyone.

More than coping: networks, creativity and resistance

According to street-level bureaucracy theory, frontline workers often cope with impossible workloads by simplifying tasks, rationing services, or doing less. My research partly confirms that scarcity forces prioritisation. However, it also reveals an important fact: social workers in this field often go beyond the minimum required. They do more than is formally required, precisely because there is no alternative.

Rather than responding to pressure by doing only the bare minimum, many social workers described a much more active and inventive form of frontline work. Their role often extends beyond direct support: they advocate for clients, lobby local politicians, raise funds, build cooperation networks and create practical solutions where formal policy falls short. In practice, this means writing letters to politicians, correcting misinformation, relying on volunteers, working closely with NGOs and finding informal routes when official pathways are blocked. What emerges is not a picture of withdrawal, but of improvised protection: a patchwork of local efforts that keeps support alive in an increasingly restrictive system.

"Our work includes a patchwork of organisations connected through cooperation." 

Social workers are not passive victims of policy. They navigate, improvise, and resist. However, their resilience should not be used as an excuse by the state to withdraw further. The fact that social workers prevent worse outcomes does not mean that the system is functioning well. It means they are absorbing damage that should never have been placed on them in the first place.

A group we should not overlook

People working in night shelters occupy a difficult position. To national policymakers, undocumented people may appear as a single category: returnable, removable, and unlawful. However, to social workers, they are individuals with names, histories, fears, and talents. Many interviewees described highly educated clients who speak several languages and want to work, but are not permitted to do so. 

Without social workers, many undocumented people would find themselves in far more dangerous situations. They would be forced to sleep outside, become dependent on informal networks, disappear from view, or become more vulnerable to exploitation. Social workers act as a fragile buffer between restrictive policies and human suffering.

This is why the issue deserves more public attention. The question is not only whether undocumented people should stay or leave. It is also important to consider what kind of society is created when the state withdraws responsibility from a vulnerable group and leaves the consequences to underfunded local workers.

The termination of the LVV, the increasingly restrictive Dutch political climate, and the upcoming implementation of the EU Migration Pact all point in the same direction: increased pressure on people who already have few rights and increased responsibility for those on the front line. However, as the interviews demonstrate, withdrawing funding does not make undocumented people disappear. It makes them invisible. Once people become invisible, the risks do not disappear either. They become harder to see, harder to manage, and harder to help.

Social workers carry the weight of this contradiction every day. They do not have enough beds, time, certainty, or political support. Yet they continue to create small paths of dignity where policy has blocked the main roads.

Their work should not be overlooked. It demonstrates the reality of restrictive migration policies beyond the confines of press conferences, away from the halls of parliament and the pages of legal texts. It is present in the shelter office, at the intake table, on the waiting list, and in the challenging decision of who receives assistance first.