There is a sense in which what happened off Lampedusa last week leaves one lost for words. It’s not just about the scale and manner (to burn, or to drown) of loss of life in its prime. One news channel reported that many of those who died had new shoes on. That was their way of literally wearing their hopes of a better life. To see so much of what must be one of the finest human sentiments go down in a burning boat is hard to handle.
The recently-elected Mayor of Lampedusa, Giusi Nicolini, happens to be an acquaintance of mine. I was not surprised to see her so visibly moved, openly weeping, in fact, during a television interview the other day.
Nicolini is a legambientina who has spent the best part of her life campaigning to save the island’s vulnerable wildlife, and in particular, its nesting turtles. With respect to migration, she has disowned her predecessor’s cavalier wheeling-dealing and replaced it with a language of compassion.
The point is that Nicolini’s biography is consonant with her reaction to Thursday’s events. I emphasise this because I think the right to grieve and mourn is not a natural given. On the contrary, and especially in cases such as this one that are so embedded in political circumstance, one has to earn it.
Assuming we can be bothered at all, that leaves us with two tasks. First, to identify at least a few people who have done so. Second, to establish a set of criteria on the basis of which we can earn that right.
Nicolini is a likely candidate. In her words, the special location of Lampedusa assigns it the responsibility to save lives and welcome migrants (“l’isola che salva la vita, che accoglie”). She has said of previous tragedies that every African life lost at sea ought to be seen as the exact equivalent of a victim of the Concordia accident.
A second safe bet is Pope Francis. One of his very first appointments was with the island of Lampedusa, where he spoke in no uncertain terms about what he called the “globalisation of indifference”. He has since consistently abstained from all semblance of diplomacy on this one, going so far as to urge Catholic nuns and priests to welcome migrants in their monasteries.
Pope Francis’s reaction on Thursday was that what happened was ‘a disgrace’ (“mi viene la parola vergogna”). Which is telling, since a disgrace is not just something that is undesirable; it is thus because it derives from some human failing somewhere along the line. A death from cancer is not a disgrace, a death from a negligently-undiagnosed tumour is.
The Pope could have chosen to limit himself to praying to God to have mercy on the souls of the drowned. But he didn’t. Instead he put things in a different ballpark altogether, that of political responsibility.
Which brings me to the second task, that of selecting criteria. At first glance they seem universal, that is to say we all have a right to mourn. After all, it was nobody’s fault that a small fire lit by the drifting migrants as a kind of beacon ended up an inferno. But that’s too easy.
The real criterion has nothing to do with the dead. Rather, it’s how we treat the survivors that matters. It’s no use to ‘express solidarity’ (yawn) with the former and persevere in making life unbearable for the latter.
Take detention. One of Nicolini’s sustained complaints has been that it is unacceptable for migrants on Lampedusa to be treated like the dogs in Crialese’s Respiro, that is, locked up in a shed and left to get on each other’s nerves. It’s that kind of concern for the living that gives her the right to weep for the dead.
Things look considerably gloomier in the island of sun, sea, hospitality, and draconian detention policy. By some coincidence, the UNHCR published a position paper on the last of those virtues a couple of weeks ago. I’m not aware any of our grieving selves took any notice. Certainly the Prime Minister didn’t mention anything when he was interviewed about the happenings off Lampedusa.
I don’t know why Joseph Muscat persists in using the term ‘illegal immigrants’ even at the most sensitive of times
Incidentally, I don’t know why he persists in using the term ‘illegal immigrants’ even at the most sensitive of times. A question of cosmetics, one might say. But there are solid reasons why we no longer call people with a mental disability ‘idiots’, black people ‘negroes’, and homosexual men ‘poofs’. All these words are considered derogatory, and rightly so. If anything, they rob the groups concerned of the respect they deserve.
Likewise, the word ‘illegal’ effectively criminalises what is essentially an administrative status. I’m sure Muscat could articulate something like ‘asylum seekers’, or at least ‘irregular migrants’ if he so chose. But no, illegals they are and will always be, on the surface of the sea or below it.
Back to the UNHCR paper. I quote: “There is no empirical evidence that the prospect of being detained deters irregular migration or discourages persons from seeking asylum... (t)he negative and at times severe physical and psychological consequences of detention are well documented, yet appear to have had limited impact on national policy-making on the detention of asylum-seekers.”
Two things, in other words. First, that detention is a form of wanton and pointless cruelty. Second, that our policy-makers are aware it is so, but won’t budge. No surprises there, given their broader hard line on migration.
Perhaps it’s a good thing no Maltese flags were flown at half-mast and no tears were shed on Thursday. The falsity and incongruence of it all would have been quite unbearable. We’re still nowhere near the right to mourn. I suppose that makes us blokey, firm, and respected – indeed feared. The national interest for our humanity.
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