When the small body of Syrian toddler Alan Kurdi was pictured lying face down on a Greek beach in 2015, the world was shocked. Dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, shoes still on his feet, he was the heart-rending portrait of a migration crisis that Europe had chosen to ignore. The UK’s Daily Mail proclaimed that his photo would change history.

But it did not. Millions of refugees and migrants like Alan and his family continue to flee their countries by whatever means they can. The scale of this movement of people has overwhelmed international agencies — yet instead of designing measures to better protect those fleeing war or persecution, governments have responded with strengthened barriers and harsh rhetoric.

As an attempt at deterrence, this has failed spectacularly. According to the UN, although fewer people reached Europe by crossing the Mediterranean this year, the number who died trying has actually gone up.

Refugees and migrants are all too aware of the hazards of their journeys but the risks are far outweighed by the dangers of staying at home. And with no legal channels of escape available to them, they are forced to rely on the services of people smugglers.

A new book, Migrant, Refugee, Smuggler, Saviour, argues that the world needs to understand how networks of traffickers function if it is to get to grips with this migration crisis. Co-authors Peter Tinti, a journalist, and Tuesday Reitano, an academic who specialises in the study of organised crime networks, use a mixture of reportage, first-hand accounts from migrants and extensive research to uncover a series of complex transnational industries that exist to help migrants bypass barriers — whether geographic, man-made or political — for a profit.

The way businesses operate within this structure varies according to local conditions. Some are loose, informal groupings; others are highly organised criminal networks. They are linked by “hubs” along migration routes, some of which overlay ancient trade routes.

As in any market, smuggling operations range from small-scale family shops to sophisticated firms. They all share, however, a flexible business model that is sensitive to sudden shifts in demand. And, thanks to a spike in armed conflict in Africa and the Middle East in the past five years, that demand has been growing exponentially.

According to Tinto and Reitano, between 2013 and 2016 the number of migrants and asylum seekers trying to enter Europe increased by 1,500 per cent. Using first-hand accounts, they estimate that during a peak period in summer 2015 smugglers plying the waters between Turkey and Greece generated $5m in revenue each day. Multiply that by the many other networks around the world and it is easy to see how people smuggling has grown into a multibillion-dollar industry.

Because they operate in the shadows, it is easy to see people smugglers as criminals preying on the world’s most vulnerable for money. But the reality, like the wider industry, is more complex. Smugglers range from people who genuinely want to help those in need, including themselves, refugees or migrants — to hardened transnational criminals, violent people traffickers who trap the poorest in slave labour or prostitution.

Ironically, the bigger the obstacles that are designed to deter migrants, the more likely criminals are to spot an opportunity. The writers note that European policies have in effect “criminalised” migration. “With its reinforced borders and ever-shifting policies that no migrant can hope to navigate alone, European policy has provided the perfect environment for these types of networks to flourish.”

The only way to completely stop smuggling is to remove demand for its services. But Tinti and Reitano argue persuasively that, to mitigate its worst effects, the industry must be treated as more than a criminal network. This calls for multi-faceted policies that acknowledge its complexity.

In an era of growing populism and nationalists calling for curbs even on legal migration, such a shift seems further away than ever.