More refugees will be coming. They are coming.
I wish I knew the names of even a few of them. I wish I knew some characteristics. Their names. The names of their parents. I wish I did not have to lump them all into that unfortunate term “refugees”, but there you have it. With the continuing unrest in North Africa and the increasingly unstable and violent situation in Syria (with possible impending US air strikes) the desperation of so many in the contact zone rises exponentially.
Why do they leave? How do they get where they are going? What do they bring? Who do they leave behind? Will they ever be able to return? What what the price they had to pay to leave?
But most importantly, will they survive the journey?
Witness this: Just a few days ago in Siracusa , Sicily two boats with carrying over 300 people between them were rescued. Amongst all of those nameless, faceless people, on one of those small boats, on that most dangerous of voyages a new life came into the world. A four-day-old baby girl, born at sea, was found , miraculously doing very well—with part of her umbilical cord still attached.
For those who oppose immigration, make rash judgements about the lives’ of people who are just like us but who have found themselves in untenable situations, or who verbally bash and politically oppose their existence. think for a moment what kind of situation would make a heavily pregnant woman, step into a dinghy to sail night and day , exposed to the heat of the sun by day, and the dark unknown at night? These trips come with many promises, but, predictably with no guarantees. Desire , hope, fear and desperation are prime motivators. Those who oppose them their right to a life in relative safety lack what seems to be a rare commodity these days: compassion or at least the ability to put yourself in someone else’s shoes.
I have always found the belief in something, in theory at least, to be easy. We can be anti this or pro that, but until something touches us personally, until we become the victim, the bullied, the afflicted, the denied, the scorned, the hated and despised we don’t really know, do we?
So here is a personal appeal to those of you who think that Italy has too many immigrants, too many refugees, to those of you who have marched against them, denied them jobs, refused them service, beat them in the streets, or smiled benevolently to them within the confines of your social service agency but then pretended you didn’t know them when you passed them on the street: STOP. Just STOP. Dig deep and find your compassion. It could be you or me someday. And with the way the world is going, it probably will be.
Just imagine that baby girl being born at sea. How fearful her mother must have been. The potential for disaster. Then imagine: What kind of life will she have? Now ask yourself: how desperate do you have to be?