Roccella Jonica - part two

On the evening of May 16, photographing a last night landing, I greeted the Porto delle Grazie with the promise to return as soon as possible.
So, after just over three weeks, here I am back in Roccella.
Expectations were high, a large number of arrivals were expected: the summer season doesn’t only bring tourists to the coasts of Southern Italy.

I decide not to go near the Port unless a landing takes place, partly for superstition, partly to allow myself the luxury of thinking about something else, but the first call comes soon.

A Coast Guard boat with 61 migrants on board is expected to arrive on Wednesday 8 June at 2.30 pm.

I arrive at the port well in advance, but I'm not the only one, other people are already there. In particular, I notice a man in a shirt surrounded by cameras and smartphones: he’s doing a live social, he is an "Honorable". I try not to pay too much attention to him but his voice is really loud. The words I hear coming from his mouth are "naval blockade", "the Italy we want" and so on.
I prefer not to mention names, although I think it’s not difficult to understand which political faction he belongs to.
The atmosphere is tense. Compared to last month there are more policemen, who promptly stop me to ask me who I am. I proudly show my permit signed by the Commander and they advise me not to enter for any reason the tent where the refugees are.

"Sure" I think "right".

But not even the time to think "I'm smarter than you" that looking around I notice that the whole area has been fenced off with a gate at the entrance and I don't understand how in three weeks of my absence they accelerated the work by creating this inaccessible free zone.

Actually, I already know the reason, I just didn't think about the consequences: the day after the last night landing I had witnessed, a seventy-year-old Afghan woman died inside the refugee camp. An investigation was then opened, and the authorities decided to increase controls on everything that happens inside the camp.

Obviously there are positives and negatives to increasing safety measures, but while I think about it the boat arrives and that’s my priority, my hippie thoughts can wait.

This time, however, nothing in particular happens, when they arrive at the port the rescue operations are more or less all the same and the photographs are always repeated, so I try to chat with the police to understand how things are evolving. They tell me that for about two weeks the migrants have stayed at the Port camp just long enough to be visited, mainly for investigations regarding Covid-19 and scabies, and then give them a piece of paper with which they are forced to leave Italy.
in what way no one knows.

Of course, those arriving with minor children are moved to some hospitality centers, but all the others have to leave the country on their own.

Some, the lucky ones, can reach relatives in Europe, at least they have someone who can give them directions, while for the others it’s all an unknown.

And the money needed for transport isn’t even the main problem: the real difficulty is the language, many of them don’t know a word in English, let alone in Italian.
They have no idea where to go. Some ask where the train station is, others disappear into thin air and certainly many from Italy will not leave, almost certainly ending up in the hands of those who will exploit them in underpaid and contractless jobs, picking oranges in the fields or selling roses in the big cities.

This thing doesn't work.

For the moment, following their trip to Italy would be too complicated (which is the excuse with which I hide my perplexity about it and perhaps even a little fear). Instead, I manage to be present when the documents are handed over to the few remaining at the Port from the previous landing.
What catches my attention most is a middle-aged man completely covered in what I believe to be scabies. Sometimes the conditions of those who arrive are really frightening and he is no different. I wonder how it is possible to abandon a human being in this state.
I hear him arguing with the translator while the papers are handed to him.
I photograph his arm. I decide not to go further, I better go.

About twenty minutes later, I meet that man on the waterfront. He stops me in tears asking me things, but he doesn't speak English and I don't understand a word of what he says. He shows me a card with a phone number. I can't get close to him, scabies is extremely contagious and who knows what other diseases he might have, I don't feel like risking it. I do not know what to do. I try to give him directions to reach the town and the train station.
I have no idea what happened to him.

I often think back to this episode: it’s one of those situations where you hope you never have to find yourself in life, I think maybe I could have done more, I don't know.

For the next ten days nothing happens, just a perennial state of alert.

A last big landing arrives on Saturday afternoon, 137 people, mainly families, lots of children.
Perhaps because it's Saturday and probably because no politician is present, everything happens quite relaxed. I can talk to many of them and get their stories told. The little ones, after a week at sea aboard a small boat, never stop playing and running.
The situation may seem peaceful. The reality is that, between bureaucracy and many other problems, their journey will certainly not end soon.

The only thing I can say before greeting them with more and more doubts is "good luck".

Thanks to Beatrice Botticini for helping me write this article.