Alessandro Penso

With the project “Life on the Edge: Migrants in Italy”, you also followed the Italian situation. Can you tell us about this experience? Was there a particular episode that deeply affected you?

The project was born in the aftermath of the Rosarno revolt of 2010, a significant event that shook the foundations of Italian society. After two seasonal workers of African origin were shot, protests erupted among migrants, followed by a violent reaction from the local population and police intervention. Meanwhile, politicians condemned the episodes as a consequence of excessive hospitality by the Italian government.

The intention was to tell how migrants live in our country, the bureaucratic difficulties that lead them to exist in an institutional limbo, and the consequences of the adopted policies. The journey has been long and painful, as I found a country completely unable to manage the situation.

The government has never implemented a true integration plan, and the number of people living in illegal and severely precarious conditions has skyrocketed. Political decisions have favored an alarmist approach, leading to the creation of Extraordinary Reception Centers, where migrants can be stuck for years awaiting the examination of their applications. These centers make up the vast majority of reception facilities and do not provide support services like language courses or opportunities for integration. Once decisions are made regarding their applications, the applicants exit the system, and things become even more difficult.

Many, regardless of whether their application is accepted or not, end up living in illegal occupations and informal settlements, some of which have become ghettos where the situation is dire. To survive, they are often forced to accept poorly paid jobs, such as in the agricultural sector, where they earn barely 3 euros an hour. Recent statistics contradict the idea of an “invasion,” but for many Italians who are not yet accustomed to living alongside migrants, this idea is growing, fueled by a politics increasingly based on race and now by a government coalition involving the far right, which has rejected European support and cut the few existing support programs for migrants and refugees.

In your projects, you have always closely followed the journeys of migrants. What are the main difficulties you have encountered during these travels? Was there a particular episode that deeply affected you?

The difficulties I encountered changed over the years. When I started, it was very tough: I had to enter situations at the limit. Most migrants were distrustful and scared of being photographed, fearing they might be reported. Other aspects involved crime, which operated by providing housing, undeclared work, and routes, often making documentation impossible. However, I can’t say that the state was any better: I received threats, temporary detentions, and assaults in several European countries.

After 2015, the situation changed with the arrival of a million people in Europe. This altered the management of migratory flows, attracted media attention, and led to the emergence of humanitarian organizations shaken by the tragedies. When I returned to Greece and saw the same beaches, where I had previously been prevented from working, filled with volunteers, it gave me hope. Here, the work had become easier, and telling the tragedies at sea and at the borders became accessible thanks to the attention of civil society. Unfortunately, shortly thereafter, the construction of walls began, and migrants were used as a weapon of blackmail against Europe, which erased the progress made, and gradually we are returning to the past situation, where instead of addressing the problem, we try to hide it.

I have many episodes to recount that have deeply affected me, but I would probably like to narrate the one that made me feel the most powerless.

I was in Lesbos in 2015. At that time, up to 800 people were arriving each day. I had just decided to rest after a hard day’s work; it was night, and it was raining. At one point, I heard screams coming from a distance. I saw a deflated rubber boat arriving with a group of people. I ran in that direction to see if someone needed help. Suddenly, a man, accompanied by his wife and daughter, dropped to his knees, pointing at the sea and beating his head with his hand. I couldn’t understand what he was saying; he was in shock, so I took my car and drove them to an emergency tent run by volunteers.

There, I looked for a cultural mediator, who gave me the news: the man had lost his 5-year-old son at sea, swept away by a wave that hit the rubber boat.

I tried to call the coast guard and repeatedly attempted to convince them to go out into the water, but every attempt was in vain. I met the family again at the port of Lesbos; they were being transferred to Athens. The thought that that child never existed for us still fills me with a profound sense of powerlessness as a human being.

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