Category Archives: Guest Blogger

Does the “Invisible Line” Separating Italians and Immigrants and Refugees Equal Racism in Sicily? An Alternate View by Susi Kimbell

In a recent post, I wrote about my students witnessing what they perceived as the “Divided Line” in Sicily, which is essentially, the parallel (but not interactive) stance that Sicilians and immigrants/refugees maintain with one another.  In a discussion with my good friend and  respected colleague Susi Kimbell, she expressed remorse that our students did not have enough time to work through why the subjective reality they were experiencing had other dimensions that she experiences and witnesses every day in Sicily.  Her thoughts were so compelling , I asked her to gather her thoughts for this blog.  What Susi,  a circumspect and exemplar educator reveals is a different side of that divide, and does so with an intelligence and a compassion that is often missing from the discussion of immigrants and refugees in Italy.   I am so grateful for her enlightening  perspective.


Divided by ‘The Invisible Line’ – this is how American students described the situation in Siracusa as they observed the locals and migrants on a visit in March 2014. They noted the locals didn’t even acknowledge the presence of the foreigners, let alone interact with them. They saw an ‘invisible line’ of suspicion, of discrimination, perhaps even hostility.

Sadly, there is such a line.

 But while it’s easy to accuse the Sicilians of racism, I feel it’s a line of misunderstanding  – the old Sicilian men sunning themselves on the bench can’t talk to the migrants who, to them, are chatting in an incomprehensible language. They can’t understand so they can’t find out anything that would make the migrants ‘human’, someone they could relate to. The inability to communicate brings a deep atavistic fear of the foreigner.

Language gap

A failure to communicate

Why are they here? We are all unemployed in the south, so why would they want to come here? They’re going to take our jobs.

They complain about the crucifix in our classrooms. Is there a secret Islamic master-plan to take over Sicily/Italy/Europe? To fill the continent with Muslims until the Christians are the minority? 

When I look at Sicily today, I see how all the foreign invaders who arrived on the island’s shores have left their mark on the culture but also in the faces of the Sicilians – blue Norman and dark Mediterranean eyes, blonde and red hair from the North, brown and black hair from Greece, Spain or N. Africa. But all their languages, their traditions and religious beliefs fused over time to become a single, characteristically Sicilian culture. They lost their ‘foreignness’ to become part of a larger unifying and unified mosaic.

But how long did it take? The Sicilians are historically a suspicious people; the sea has always brought invaders and trouble, and until they can ‘place’ you in their mosaic, they are likely to be wary of you.  How long will it take for them to place the hundreds of migrants who come to Sicily’s shores today in that mosaic, if indeed they want to?

Walking in one of the main squares in town today, I noticed groups of Roma, Asians, Africans sitting on the benches but the locals had gone. There were hardly any people I could identify as Italian.

Migrants in Sicily

There is no threat, there is no apparent tension, but the fact remains that on certain streets at certain times of day, the locals are the minority. You walk along roads or past parks or bars and are the only European there. So is it when you have that awkward feeling of being the odd one out when you are actually in your home-town that the defensive mechanisms kick in? Is this when you feel the basest forms of protectionism of your national identity and heritage and does this provoke a sense of outrage that you no longer feel at ease in your own town?

And what about the cost to the Italian State? 300.000 euros a day. Nine million euros a month. We pay our taxes and get nothing back – the migrants get housed, clothed, they get pocket money and they still go begging at every traffic light in town.

Every day, it’s “Emergenza immigrazione” – Can we blame the locals for feeling concerned when every day of calm sea brings around one-thousand immigrants to the shores of south-east Sicily? Twenty thousand in the first four months of 2014? How can a little town like Pozzallo, ‘l’altra Lampedusa’,  of 18,000 inhabitants cope with hundreds of arrivals every day? And how can the news of 300 immigrants ‘on the run’ through Sicily after breaking out of a camp, looking for relatives or trying to make it to the north of Europe, not make the locals uneasy?

Various episodes illustrate growing tension. This week (May ‘14) a school trip was cancelled because the parents didn’t want their children travelling in the same buses that are used to transport the immigrants for fear of possible contagion. Today, a local mayor launched the alarm about cases of tuberculosis, scabies and HIV that have been identified amongst the arrivals, and the infectious diseases ward of the local hospital is full. I don’t know if the stories and the estimated arrivals expected over the summer (800,000!) are true. But I don’t think anyone can deny the scale of the phenomenon. And it is clear that the locals feel entitled to be worried.

But we are proud of our Italian navy for scouring the seas in search of leaking boats. We are proud of the men who help the desperate migrants make it ashore. We Italians have big hearts. We are compassionate and generous…

No-one here wants to see people drowning in front of them, to see the bodies washed up on the beautiful beaches. Many people I know personally have taken minors, who made it here without a family, under their wings and into their hearts. I see dedication and genuine concern. I read today about a cafè at Pozzallo where local students help the immigrants learn a little Italian and find out something about the place they have landed in.

So just how contradictory are the Sicilians?



Contradictions are everywhere

I feel their contradiction is the contradiction of Europe – we as Europeans promote human rights, we are open and tolerant and accepting of diversity, but often it seems that these are just fine, empty words. Are compassion, tolerance and acceptance luxuries Europe can’t afford during an economic crisis?  European leaders face a dilemma as they try to balance political pressures to restrict migrants with assistance for those desperate enough to risk such a dangerous journey. Where is our solidarity, either for the individual or for our fellow-EU members? Where are the other European countries when the migrants need a destination, a work permit or document? No-one suggests sharing the cost of the rescue operations or offers to take some of the tens of thousands who reach Italian shores. In the north of Europe, they are worrying about other forms of immigration from within the EU. They wash their hands of the problem. Sicily seems a long way away.

Martin Luther King Quote

Here, however, the scale of the problem is enormous. All Italy can do is try to stop people dying during the crossing and give them food and clothes when they arrive. The infrastructures can’t cope so housing is over-crowded and basic. The call for personalized menus for each and every nationality that arrives is frankly quite unrealistic. Some sick people will slip through the net of health controls and of course there are a few terrible cases of lack of respect and loss of dignity. There probably is a ‘business’ behind the Mare Nostrum rescue-operation. But I can’t help feeling that we should give the local authorities, associations and volunteers their due and recognize the exceptional work they do in impossibly difficult circumstances. It’s too easy to point the finger at everything that isn’t done perfectly. And while the ‘Mare Nostrum’ operation  may be far from perfect, at least we have not had to witness tragedies like the Lampedusa sinking in October 2013 where some 360 people lost their lives. And are there any straightforward solutions to the problem?


So, yes, there is an invisible line of incommunicability and incomprehension dividing locals from the migrants. But it’s not an insurmountable line, and perhaps, before we accuse them of racism, we should remember that the Sicilians have over time absorbed and come to terms with all the waves of foreigners who landed here. They have learnt from them and added layer after ‘foreign’ layer to their culture, till it has become their own, and one they are deeply proud of. I’d like to think they will do the same again.

Susi Kimbell

Susi Kimbell


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Being a Foreigner in Sicily: Guest Blogger Valerie Mai Hughes


I am so pleased to host Veronica Mai Hughes, who writes the wildly successful blog The Dangerously Truthful Diary of a Sicilian Housewife.  Valerie, a UK native, lives with her Sicilian born husband and their two sons in a small fishing village in Sicily. She and I have both talked about the difficulties inherent in the “outsider” acclimating themselves to Sicilian society.  When I asked her to be a guest blogger, she agreed, and chose this topic.  While she and I may differ on a  few points, she offers here a very personal and very vivid account of her own experiences. Food for thought!  I ask the reader though, if Veronica, an educated , married and economically stable woman experiences difficulties in Sicilian society, just imagine the plight of the refugee.

Being a Foreigner in Sicily

By Veronica Mai Hughes


Ten years ago in London, just before I moved to Sicily, an Italian colleague told me
“You can’t go to Sicily. Outsiders can’t cope there.”

 I sometimes, perhaps often, wish I had listened to him and called the whole thing off, made my husband move to London, and continued thinking Sicily was wonderful by only visiting the place on holidays.

 Instead I came to live here, and discovered that being an outsider in Sicily means just that – being an outsider. Having a Sicilian husband does not always give you a free pass. I have attended many a social function where I was treated like an Imam at a Bar  Mitzvah.

 Perhaps because Sicilians have been invaded so many times, they have a profound mistrust of anyone or anything from outside the island. Over centuries, they have failed to fend off foreign invaders over and over again. Instead they made their foreign enemies’ lives as troublesome as possible by shunning them, lying to them and tricking them at every turn.


Fitting in

It’s difficult to fit in sometimes.

When I am having one of my bad days, I sometimes feel that this Sicilian way of treating foreigners has become such an integral part of their culture that they do not know how to stop.

 This suspicion of anyone from outside their island, their town, even their own family, is so profound that cousin marriage is still very common. So common, in fact, that when you are admitted to hospital in Sicily, the folder for holding your medical notes has a special box for the doctor to tick if your parents are blood relations of each other. That way, the doctors are alerted to look out for genetic disorders. Despite the vastly diverse origins of their gene pool, this inbreeding means that a whopping six percent of modern Sicilians have Mediterranean Anaemia, a devastating genetic disease. My husband’s parents are cousins and his family carries this disease. Before we in-laws could marry into the family, we had to have a test to make sure we were free of the deadly gene.

 If you are an outsider in Sicily, you will always be one. I am still routinely charged double for fruit and vegetables, given the bad bits of meat, and even overcharged in the supermarket. I have to be vigilant every time I buy something, adding up the prices and checking my change. I have to be subtle about it too. I had one woman ranting about “foreigners who come from who-knows-where” outside my son’s school once when I had been too obvious in the way I checked the change she gave me.

Ummm, okay.


I have found it supremely difficult to make friends with Sicilian women. This baffles me, as I have made friends with hundreds of people of all nationalities with ease – and kept those friends for life. Do the women of Sicily feel threatened because I have a masters degree in Classics whereas most of them have a University of Life diploma in ironing tablecloths and a doctorate in stain removal? Do they think I will use my Protestant background to subvert their children’s Catholic indoctrination? Do they feel it is a waste of time making me like them, because I have no social network here and will therefore never be useful to them? All of the above.


One Sicilian friend of my husband’s, who is about ten years older than me and one of the few people who has been genuinely friendly to me, told me she was shunned by her entire village when she did her degree. They disapproved of a woman having an education.
“I was more evolved than the rest of them and they felt threatened,” she said. “It made me an outsider. Once you’re an outsider, you can’t get back in.”


Out for good?


I remind myself of this every time I feel that invisible line separating me from everyone else. Sicilians don’t just shun foreigners like me. They do it to each other too. Whilst this is not a positive thing, it does offer me a little consolation on those awfully lonely days when I feel like crying.

 Sicilian society works on the basis of doing favours and making others indebted to you. Then you call in favours when you need them. I have made many “friends” who happened to need something translated into English. I spent hours doing free translations then, when I asked for a small favour in return, they just said no. When it comes to outsiders in Sicily, they can break the rules. We don’t matter.



The foreigners who live in Sicily form their own support networks. There is a ghetto of Bangladeshis in central Palermo.
“They don’t want anything to do with us,” one Sicilian man moaned to me. “Why do they come here if they don’t want to mix? The Vucciria market has died because the foreigners who live in that area only buy their food from each other’s shops.”
“How many of those foreigners have you chatted to? Or invited to take a coffee with you in a bar, or come to your house?” I asked him.
He looked at me strangely.
“What would I want to do that for?”


It is just a cup of coffee!

At last, after ten years, I have made two close Sicilian friends. Their children go to my son’s school, so I see them fairly often when we collect our kids. One of them was rejected by former friends who decided she was not rich and thin enough to be a part of their clique any more: she knows how outsiders feel. The other caught tuberculosis and was treated, literally, like a leper by all the other parents at her son’s preschool.

 Perhaps this has given them special insight into how outsiders feel. Perhaps they are just nicer than the average Sicilian. Whatever the reason, I am so grateful for their friendship. Without them, I would have given up by now, and fled this beautiful, irrational, maddening little island.


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Guest blogger: Monique Clark on the Italian-American “Gravy” vs. the American “Sauce”!

At my invitation on one of my former posts (August 12) for guest bloggers who want to share an aspect of immigrant culture, Monique Clark rose to the occasion and sent me this wonderful piece about the peculiar and sometimes confusing term that Italian-Americans stubbornly and perhaps a bit defiantly refer to as “gravy” –the red stuff they put on their pasta.  This is an interesting  aspect of  immigrant culture —-related to food, that will never go away.  It is sometimes said that those who travel far from home to live in a new country will often keep their culture alive by the food that they eat—and when all ties to their food are gone, so is, for all intents and purposes , their ties to their culture. I don’t think Italian-Americans will ever have that problem.

 By Monique Clark 

“What that means, to me, …. the smell of my mother’s ‘gravy’ (Italian-Americans NEVER call it “sauce”) bubbling on the stove just like every single home in our neighborhood.”

It was Maryann Maloney who first introduced me to “gravy.”  I was 19 and worked part-time at Corestates Bank, and we sat next to each other in the MAC Operations Department. Maryanne was a robust woman with curly thick blond hair, a hearty laugh and her no nonsense attitude defied her saintly patience.  We loved to cook, and eat, and bonded over talks of our common loves.  A bond that surpassed the fact that I was a young African-American and she, an Italian three decades my senior.

“I simmer my gravy for hours,” she said one day during one of our talks.

My brows furrowed deeply.  Gravy, over pasta?

“Gravy!” she said, noticing my perplexity.

Gravy is some variation of brown.  Goes over roast beef, chicken, rice. Not pasta.

“I don’t put gravy over pasta,” I finally say.

“You do!”

“No, I use spaghetti sauce.”

She slammed the pen on her desk.  Startled, I jumped.

“No, no, no,” she said.  “It’s called gravy!  But that stuff there – no, no.”  She wagged her finger at me and spoke to me in an unwavering firm voice.  “I’m going to bring you some real Italian gravy, and you’ll never eat that stuff again.”

I was game and looked anxiously forward to this “gravy.”  It had never occurred to me that someone somewhere was simmering gravy for hours on the stove instead of popping open a jar of Prego or Ragu or Classico.  Nor had I known that store bought spaghetti saucewas a second rate (and depending on who you talk to, an unacceptable) substitute for real gravy.  

Two days later, as promised, Maryanne handed me a medium sized Mason jar, sealed tightly and still warm to the touch.  I excitedly unsealed the jar, and inhaled the smell of tomatoes, garlic and basil.  All fresh, she assured me, with no sugar – another taboo.  I let my index finger run slowly around the brim of the jar, coating the tip of my finger, before I put it to my mouth.

Hmmm.  Different.  Good.  

“What are you doing?” she said.  “Don’t stick your finger in there!”

“It’s mine.  I’m tasting it.”

She lowered her voice, rubbed my shoulder and handed me a bag.

“Take it home.  Share.”


I met Nan fifteen years later.  She is so connected to her Italian heritage that it’s hard to believe that it runs through her mother’s bloodline only. My gravy recipe is one that was passed down to her.  I, though, add finely chopped carrots. They satisfy the sweetness that my palate craves.

I make a pot of gravy once a month on a Sunday.  That day affords me more time; the gravy must simmer for hours.  “I’m going to bring you some real Italian gravy,” I recall each time I stir in the curly parsley, fresh garlic, onions, sweet basil and carrots. Sometimes I add some type of Italian sausage, sometimes beef, sometimes nothing.

I attach the lid and before long the aroma bombards the air. It’s pleasurable.  My mind rests at a beautiful countryside almost nine hours outside the United States where acres of sunflowers bloom brightly in July and confirm that yellow is indeed the “happy” color.  At a communal table at San Marco, where fifteen, sometimes more of us – diverse in age, culture and gender – greet each other every morning with a hearty “buongiorno.”  At a place where there is no shortage of wine or watermelon or Carla’s fresh tomatoes.

A place of no shortage of ordinary people with welcoming arms.

My mind skips through the quaint towns of Bevagna, Spello, Assisi, Spoleto.  Through spiraled and hilly cobblestone streets, as wide as alleyways with stoned-wall apartment-like homes lined on each side and littered with red and green and purple and yellow blossoms of sorts. Cloth ropes unabashedly lined with panties and tee shirts and other items of importance, lead me back to my Aunt Lily’s backyard in Smithfield, North Carolina where three cloth lines serve her faithfully.  Her whites never dull.  They need fresh air, she always says.  I rest at the thoughts of midday at the village square where natives and visitors alike gather for fare and wine and good company, and I remember the people who smiled and posed for me as I captured a snapshot of their lives, in their space, so that I could recall those brief moments forever.

Grazie, grazie.


The bubbling of the pot always brings me back, and I hurry to check on its contents. I lift the lid slowly to avoid any splattering and inhale.  Then I stir just a little. You don’t want to bother it too much, Nan admonished.  At that moment, I find delight in the thought that someone somewhere — here and abroad — has a pot of gravy simmering along with mine. And, I feel connected.

I will pass my gravy recipe (yes, I have claimed it) down to my granddaughter.  She is to promise never to prepare it under time constraints.  She will recognize the importance of allowing it to simmer, and I will implore her to sit in the midst of the aroma – if only for five minutes – and breath it all in:  the tomatoes, the basil, the onions, the garlic, the bubbling.  In honoring Italian custom, she’s to NEVER call it “sauce, ” and she’s to promise to pass down the recipe, and the stories – both mine and hers, of what the smell of her Mi Mi’s gravy, bubbling on the stove, means to her.


Monique Clark is a writer who lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

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