Category Archives: Intercultural Understanding

Life as it is Lived: On Encountering Refugees


We tend to see refugees as the unfortunate refuse of the (mostly) African countries that they come from, because, well, so many also assume that most countries in Africa are wretched—that normal life cannot exist anywhere on the continent, so teeming humanity pile into boats in search of a better way to live.

Fact: most do not want to leave their countries—they simply have no choice.  This is the difference between an immigrant and a refugee: choice.  I have had this discussion so many times with my students and I have asked them: what could make you leave the only home you have known at a moment’s notice?  Most cannot begin to conceive  the kind of situations that  be so dire that they would need (not want) to flee with only the clothes on their back. I ask them to think it through, step by step.  The emotional and physical obstacles to simply leave one’s country is beyond my own comprehension, let alone, the enormity of making a new home in a culture so different in so many fundamental ways, that one must reorient every single aspect of their lives.   Resettlement is an often brutal process, often taking years before a refugee can feel a semblance of balance and normalcy.

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Recently, with my students in a Sicily we encountered refugees daily, on the streets, and in a refugee center where they lived a life that seemed tenuous, at best.    In the center, I  asked my students to look beyond what the situation seemed to be:

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young  men and one young women were extremely friendly, well-dressed, joked easily and attempted (and succeeded!) in making some wonderful bonds with my students.   They seemed genuinely pleased to have visitors their own age, to be able to relax and tell things about themselves to people who were interested—and who cared

We ate lunch with them. Afterwards, we all played various games and sang popular songs and posed for group and individual photos.  Not until  later, when two of the refugees led us on a short tour of their temporary home, did some of my students begin to feel uncomfortable.  A few expressed it to me, but , as one claimed, he “could not put his finger on it.”  Because some things must be felt and processed in the privacy of one’s own thoughts, I nodded knowingly and advised them to write in their journals and attempt to think things through.   I encouraged them to think about the reality of their lives’—not just what was presented to us, or what we wanted to see—to console ourselves that all is well—after all, they had food in their stomachs and a place to lay their heads at night.

 

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So what was it?

Upon our return back to the small , suburban Liberal Arts college , I met with three of the students who shared their uneasiness with me.   This pleased me because  not all will see or feel this immediately.

My students identified so many of the factors contributing to the  difficulties the refugees would experience.  They included the fact that they are non-Europeans now living and tryng to fit in a European culture.   That they are far, far, far from their homes of origin and therefore separated from any influence of their own culture, the culture that has formed them as the people they are today.   That  they seemed conscious of being the grateful all the time—in fact, the benevolence bestowed upon them fairly demands that they be in a constant state of thanking someone (or many) —which can be exhausting.  That the refugee did not necessarily choose the country in which s/he would land. And in the case of Italy, few want to stay.  They lack a great level of agency in the center, a place they are grateful to be in , but can in no way be called “home”.  In some ways they are infantisized: they are told when and what they will eat, etc. They can become anxious, hopeless, depressed, nostalgic.  And they may cycle through these emotions many different times.  Because , really, who can forget their home?

Often, the treacherous journey is just the beginning. What can be seen as the real struggle begins when their feet touch solid ground.   And soon, that ground does not feel so solid.   What will their lives’ become?

Much has been made of the news media’s coverage of the sea voyages of  refugees.   The rickety , unseaworthy boats,  the drawn and mournful faces of the survivors.  And some will, haughtily, declare the statistics: that less than 10 percent of these refugees arrive by boat, so why does the media insist on portraying these refugees?

 

Because , from a humanitarian point of view, this population matters. And they matter a lot.  And no sooner has the refugee survived perhaps the most perilous journey of his or her life,  reality sets in. This is a hard and brutal road.  Many I have spoken to wish they had never left home.

My students met the only girl currently living at the center—the rest are young African men. She is young. Her parents are dead. She has no relatives in Italy.  She is a beautiful girl with a warm and welcoming smile.  Yes, she welcomed us. She was eager to make a connection, especially with my female students.image

And my students listened to her and , I am proud to say, really, really heard her. And what was amazing to me is that they each sought commonalities , not differences. And they bonded over things that girls everywhere bond over.  What impressed me was their was no objectifying of her—she was just Blessing, a teenage Nigerian girl who simply wanted to make friends.  What she shared of her life occurred after she felt comfortable and she shared details of her own free will.

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One day , sitting at an outdoor cafe despite the chilly weather, I and my students encountered a Sengalese street vendor. Very tall and handsome,  the many approached our table and smiled immediately at one of my students and said: “You are from America—you are black, like me, but not as dark!” We all laughed and marveled at his perception.  This man had dignity. He was well-spoken. He engaged us on any number of topics, including all of the languages he can speak.  He was not pressuring us to buy anything, which surprised me.  Maybe he knew one of us would buy something anyway.  I had my eye on a trio of bracelets.  He caught my eye. “Ahhhh, he said.  You like these, don’t you?” He smiled widely.  He placed them on the table and I bought them.

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He said he needed to move on , but shook all of our hands, and then touched his palm to his heart. Nodded and said that he hoped he would see us again before we left.   Before he walked away, he told us that he lived in Catania. That he did not always look the way we were viewing him that day—with all of his various wears hanging about his body for sale.  ” You should see me when I am at home and not working!  I live in the city, I am different, not always working.  I have a life!”

Indeed.  And it gave my students, who will be trying to figure all of this out for a long time, something to think about.   A refugee who is making his way in his new life. Who no longer thinks of himself as a refugee ,  (nor should we), but instead,  just a man, like any other working and living his life.

An individual who deserves to be happy.

 

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Of Lemons and Somali Women in a Sicilian Refugee Center


What one first notices is  the absence of things , or perhaps Things , with a capital T.  Walking up the winding , marble steps of the refugee center, this one , primarily for women refugees from Somalia, one is struck by the absence of sound. The absence of  voices. The absence of television.  The absence of the sound of children.  Women take up  so little space, do not cause the “sprawl” here in the center, where they live, as they would in their own homes.  One wonders. realistically, how anyone in anyway could construe this place as “home”.  And of course the idea is not to get too comfortable, but this seems extreme. At worst, unwelcoming.

The Somali women show mild interest in me and the two men that I am with: one a cultural mediator well versed in the realities of refugee camps and centers and the other , a  photographer from Der Spiegel.  But really, only mild interest.   I suspect, (and I think that I am right) that they are exhausted from perhaps being treated as “specimens” or ” artifacts.”   Their lunch is cooking in a kitchen that I cannot see, but the smells emanating from the room with the closed door are tantalizing:  roasted chicken and vegetables.   I look around the room which is as bare as bare can be, save for a few leather couches, alternately in navy blue and brown.  The large windows let in the strong winter sun, casting strange shadows across faces and walls until it dances behind the clouds that are in the sky.

The photographer, a tall and lanky man sets up his equipment. He  laughs when he is being friendly, and  when he seems nervous, which means that he  laughs a lot.  Laugh, laugh, laugh.   The  seasoned cultural mediator identifies one young woman who would like to talk with us.  At least I think she wants to talk with us.  Actually, on this day, I am no here for my own work; I just tagged along.   I feel incredibly conflicted in such situations—I clearly see the gender bias happening here,  knowing that these women and girls have already endured so much red tape, legal  processing and  have had to tell their stories many times before.  As well, they have probably had their photos taken  against their wishes.   I do not think that this particular young woman feels as though she can say no, though others that she was with  turned down the “opportunity” to speak with us.

No information is shared between the three of us and this young girl.  None is offered so she has no idea what this is all about. She speaks Arabic and Somali, so all I can offer her is a kind smile.  She does not know even the minimum: our names.  She runs to put on “makeup” but returns, instead, with a black cloth which hides her face, save for her eyes, which dance and sparkle.

Young Somali woman with director in background

Young Somali woman with center  director in background

She sits on the navy brown leather couch while the mediator asks her questions in Arabic and to which she answer in a soft voice, alternately switching between Arabic and Somali.

“Why did  you come here?” is the first question.

Often, when refugees are asked this question, they tend to give  a similar and sterile response. At least at  first. So many of the stories sound the same.  Until you get to know them. Or until you share something of yourself, so that what you are engaging in is not interrogation, but conversation, a setting in which people can trust, and open themselves up; where they feel a modicum of safety.

She worries her fingers under the leopard print hijab that drapes elegantly in her lap.  For the most part, she looks at the camera,  but occasionally, she turns her eyes to me. I smile each time.  I feel as though I should intervene somehow, but I do not know what to do.  I feel that the interaction lacks sensitivity,  that this girl had no decision in the matter. The short Italian woman manager tried to persuade a few  others, , but Bahjet is the only one who has stepped forward.

I could not help but think, as I always do when engaging in ethnography: “What’s in it for them?”

Then I see the lemons.

 They are like an offering. Virtually the only color in the room, save for a few cut out hearts and small pictures on the wall, above the table where the dish of lemons sit, seemingly untouched.

lemons and wall.

A large dish with Sicilian lemons, yellow and mottled with some green.  One is sliced open. There is a pear, nestled among them and two oranges.  And underneath this large dish, a brown table scarf with white scalloped embroidery underneath.  Besides Bahjet, these lemons are the  most beautiful thing in that room.  Lemons. They are so bright.  Something distinct and in this context, distinctly Sicilian.   The lemons are like a strange ray of hope.  I know, I am grasping at straws here.  I looked for some warmth in this center.

The women come in and out of closed doors.  They wear brightly colored and contrasting skirts and blouses. All of their heads are covered.  One older woman dressed in a sea foam green hijab and a bright orange skirt warns me away with a look; she stares from me to my IPAD as if  daring me to take a photo.  I do not move a muscle.  I smile at her. The smile is not returned.  The cultural mediator, astute, tells me “They all have different personalities”.  In fact, I liked the fact that she did not smile at me.  She has agency and she showed it.

I wonder what they do with all of the lemons.

The photographer finishes is photo shoot, laments that she spoke so softly that the translator who he sends the tape to might not have anything to work with.  He asks if I would like my picture take with her.  I look at her and she instantly puts her arms around me.  She takes off the black fabric that had been wrapped around her face.   I ask her how old she is.

Ventuno” she answers shyly.  I am surprised by her Italian!  Just twenty-one.  I feel grateful that all of her time is in front of her, that this place , devoid of color and joyful sounds, will not be her last stop. At least I pray that it isn’t.

She gives me a big hug when I stand to  leave,  then disappears down a marble hallway and into a room where she closes the door.  The most prominent sound I heard nearly the entire time I was there,  was the sound of doors opening and closing; it was nearly continuous.

She is very shy,” I say to the assertive woman who is in charge there.  “Yes, until they get to know you, then they won’t stop talking,” she laughs, gesticulating with her hands.

I want to go back there soon.   Learn more about her.  Not the same old story, but the real story.  Her story.  How and why she came ALONE. Not why she came.  I think we all know that story now.

And I want to count the lemons.

Sicilian lemons

I want to see how many may  still be on that porcelain dish when I return.  Or if they will have been replaced with a more seasonal fruit as time inevitably  marches on.  And I wonder if Bahjet will still be there, or if things go as they should, she will have moved out. That will mean that her life will have begun. For the second time.

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Even in Death, Inequality


One of the predominant themes of this blog has been the inequality between immigrants and refugees in Italy, and while my emotional, physical and intellectual interest is specifically in Sicily, there is an inequality in all of Italy, as reported not only in press, but as witnessed by the citizenry (and  often admitted by them) as well as human rights’ groups the world over.   This is troubling for many reasons, but, from a sociological point of view,  interesting as well.

I, too, am an outsider, when observing and writing about what I see.   It is often difficult to cope in Sicilian society if one has not been born and raised there.  Imagine, if that is true for me,  imagine what a refugee , specifically an African refugee might experience in the country.  My friend, mentor and co-researcher, Ramzi Harrabi, President of the Council of Immigrants, in Siracusa Sicily gives a stark and eloquent account of some of the realities of the refugee(s) in the camps.  How many times is the account that he gives here repeated all over Italy?  I have been witness to much of what has been described here.  What Ramzi does here, what I do, and what we do together, in our work, is not only bear witness, but advocate, as well.    Ramzi, here, bears witness that , even in death , there is often, at best,  no justice or, at least,  equality for the refugee.

 

Even in Death, Inequality

The last time that I visited the Umberto Primo refugee camp was last month where I had an in depth chat with the manager. Now, he doesn’t see me as someone who is there to check up on the situation but finally understands that I have no hidden agenda against the camp and that the only motivation of my continuous visits is always the same, which is, to inform Syrian refugees how not to be be victims of the local micro-trafficking system.

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The Trafficked

Once the manager understood that the American woman who came with me last December was not from the UN and was only interviewing the refugees for academic purposes, under my direction, he was more at ease with the situation. I told him to google “Sempre Sicilia” to see that my friend Michelle is not a threat, but  is  a scholar who , among other aspects of her research, maintains this blog about immigration and refugees in Sicily .

I spent more then half an hour explaining to him that my personal position is so different from certain activists who blindly attack the policy of the camp and the way it is handled .

I underlined that my priorities were to be sure that the men in the camp were being respected culturally and ethically, moreover, that they were being well fed and having their respective religious diets followed. A small example of this being that the majority of Africans are not used to a daily consumption of “ Pasta” yet they are fed it twice a day.

Yesterday, I received a phone call from a journalist asking me to comment on the terrible death of a Gambian man only 29 years old . He died in a mobile hospital managed by Emergency NGO that operate inside the camp. I replied to the journalist , that first of all he should remember that three refugees also died last summer during their voyage , and that two of them were buried in Siracusa and the other one in Malta. The local council of Siracusa became involved in the case and organised an interfaith funeral which took place in the most symbolic square of the city , the Duomo. She was a Syrian woman called Izdihar , she was 21 years old with diabetes, the trafficker threw her suitcase containing her rmedicine in the sea .

Unfortunately, in my opinion the Gambian man who just lost his life will not receive like treatment. This is due to the fact that Siracusa is no longer candidate for the European capital of culture 2019.

Last summer the city was still in the midst of promoting itself as an intercultural city with concerns for refugees and diversity. For instance, refugees coming to Siracusa were like a gift from destiny. Why , you might ask. The answer is because  they were in the position  to be used by local politicians as points for their candidature in Europe. They failed , Siracusa is no longer candidate and no one from any institution is acting on behalf of the Gambian dreamer of freedom who was crossing the mediterranean in search of a better life.

This poor man’s death serves to remind us that charity is never enough , that the smiley faces and caresses of the camp workers alone will not help these people.

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Inequality

Next day the newspaper wrote that I had said , “ I am a refugee myself” ( which is not true) and that only a refugee like me would be able to understand the needs of refugees.

However, what I was trying to point out is that this man had come to Sicily four days before he died , in which case why hadn’t anybody taken care his needs or given him medical assistance. Nobody had deciphered this dangerous situation. Why hadn’t the doctor used a mediator to interact with his patient who did not speak any Italian or possibly English? I came to know that the Gambian refugee had been assisted only by his compatriots who had lifted him on their shoulders from the rooms in the camp to the Emergency medical Bus which is 200 metres from the rooms. where was the nurse of the camp?? Where were the operators of the camp??? Why is it that a camp with more then 50 Gambians doesn’t have a Gambian translator ?.

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There is a simple answer to this question, a Gambian translator would never vote in Sicily, so no politician can assign him a job where public money lines the foundations of the business of the camps.

Everywhere I go I continue to hear locals complaining about the arrivals and how much the country is spending to keep refugees in camps. The general public is convinced that immigrants are a burden on the Italian welfare system which does not provide for Italian citizens. I always answer that these poor people are here because Italy signed the Geneva agreement in 1951 granting asylum and protection to all persecuted people in this globe and that thanks to the arrival of these refugees many Italian politicians and those who vote for them have jobs.

 

 

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Arcadia University Students Go to Sicily and Learn About, Among Other Things, “The Invisible Line.”


I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me.

Ralph Ellison

Footprints

Walking the line

How it Began

Being passionate about what you do can be a double-edged sword: you want everyone to understand what you have come to know. You want to “convert” people at the most extreme. At the very least you want to open their eyes. Somewhere in the middle, I suppose, you want to get them to “think.” You know what you know and you love what you love and you want others to do the same.

When I brought 22 students to Sicily last month as the travel week in the class that I teach “This Sea is Not My Home: Immigration, Migration and Social Justice in the Sicilian Context,” I don’t know think I was fully prepared for their reaction to what we had been learning.   The class is a “Preview” class—-six weeks in the classroom before travel, one week abroad, and two weeks back in class, culminating in a “Global Expo”—-a true showcase of 16 countries, with roughly 24 students in each class.   My university, Arcadia University in the suburbs of Philadelphia is Global in a myriad of ways. In this program, these classes go to such diverse locations such as China, Cuba, Romania and many others, giving students a “preview” of life lived elsewhere, while focused on a particular subject or aspect  germane to the country  they will visit. The approach is reflective, experiential, intense and “global” in both theory and practice.

My class of students was different than any other I had encountered. I can boast that in and of themselves they were an incredibly diverse group from various countries such as Peru, Columbia, China, Russia, Ukraine, Iran , Kenya, Benin,and other places   They were so much quieter than other classes I’d taught. I felt their eyes on me. I felt that they truly wanted to understand. And while they were incredibly excited about our week-long travel in Sicily, they were diligent in their learning and preparation, to say the least.   They would sometimes challenge me on points, which I saw as not only a good sign, but a sign that they were trying desperately to figure things out.

Teaching something you are passionate about is often difficult. I understand things in my head and I feel things in my heart that are often difficult to translate into understandable concepts. I take a careful approach, where I attempt to build on knowledge in a logical sequence. I provide a framework and then encourage my students to build upon that framework with their own knowledge. This means that they must dig deep and examine their own place in the world, first, and then examine the life of an immigrant or refugee in a place that does not want them.

I am hyper-aware of the fact that so much of what I teach them they will have to experience themselves.   We talk, we learn and then we talk some more. They talk to me and they talk to each other. They take a good hard look at their lives’ and their freedoms and compare their lives’ to the immigrants and refugees. We look at policies, we look at all the political aspects of immigration both in our own country and in the European Union. At a certain point in the class, we hit a fever pitch; they could no longer contain their excitement. They wanted to see and experience.

And they did.

 In Country: Sicily

In country, out and about on brilliantly sunny days, delicious gelato, wonderful activities scheduled for us from our center in Sicily, heartbreakingly beautiful Baroque structures and free time to discover, the students’ eyes were wide and gaping.   One of the core practices in the course is journal keeping.   I call the journal their “laboratory” and everything goes in it—class notes, reflections, reactions to readings, etc—-everything.   This journal will be the main requirement of the class—and should show me, comprehensively what they have learned.  In Sicily, I would often find my students writing in their journals. At cafes, out in the sun, on the bus from one location to another.   It meant they were thinking. Some had never kept a journal before, but expressed to me how it helped to unload the things they were carrying around in their heads.

Fast-forward to the  Arcadia University’s Global Expo this past Friday , the pinnacle of all of the Preview classes.  My students had put themselves into groups and each group focused on some aspect of the travel, the culture or the predominant theme of the class to exhibit. We had food, churches, Sicilian symbols, language and the invisible line. Yes, the invisible line.

While all of my students did a stellar job, and I really must stress this because they blew me away, one group did something a bit different.

The Gaping Eye

The Gaping Eye

Thinking Sociologically/In Their Own Words

In class we had discussed two facts: that the sea, a route many unfortunate refugees take to arrive in Sicily has a passion for erasure (refugees often die en route without anyone ever knowing their names) and that often, in society, they are totally invisible to those around them. They are the unseen—ignored and not integrated into society at all. Ximena first coined the term “The Invisible Line” to explain what they were all witnessing.

My students, Ximena, Lily, Raha, Christina and Megan decided to focus on this invisible line—sort of like the parallel play very young children engage in: they play side by side but not together. This group of students looked closer at the phenomenon at play in Sicilian society—literally, LOOKED. What they saw and what they presented in their exhibit was deeply touching to me, not least of which knowing this is how things are , intellectually, is difficult enough, but witnessing this with your own eyes is another. As the old adage says, “Truth is a hard apple to throw and a hard apple to catch.” And once you know something, you cannot unknow it. In various places my students observed the presence of both refugees and immigrants among the Sicilian locals, but never once did they observe any interactions.   I warned them of this fact, one of those things you tell students beforehand but unsure of whether or not they are internalizing it enough to find or even look for evidence enough themselves. This group did.   And not surprisingly. Sina is a refugee from Iran, Christina is an immigrant from Ukraine and Ximena is from Columbia. They were looking with a sort of double vision. Lily and Megan, both born in the United States did not approach the phenomenon in the same way, but when they all came together to discuss, they agreed—-they witnessed the phenomenon with their own eyes!

The Divided Line

The Divided Line

Here is Ximena Parades-Perez take on the phenomenon:

As we visited this incredibly beautiful location, we were in awe of its magnificence and rich history, which is loaded with diversity and a massive blend of cultures coming together in one small place. This blend of cultures has been a non-stop flux of people, traditions and beliefs, and we were able to see this first hand by the very contrasting differences between the locals and the newcomers. As we walked through the old streets of Siracusa and Ortigia, we could see that the people living there were split by their heritage, and their origin. The locals and immigrants/refugees that inhabit the island share the same location, they see the same things everyday, do the same activities everyday, but never blend together with the locals, they are never equal, and they are never together. If we looked past the beautiful buildings and friendly faces, we could see that the immigrants/refugees were separate from the locals, there was an invisible line dividing them, and it didn’t matter how many things they shared, they would never cross that line and be together. They are the same, but will never the same. 

 

Christina Zaveriukha put it this way:
The “invisible line” for me means that there are levels (with the lines that divide them) of people who live in Sicily and unless you open your eyes ans find them, you can’t see them.  A lot of people who come to Sicily, as tourists don’t want to see the “dark side” of it. They come to spend their money, enjoy the view and go back home to their daily routine. They don’t want to notice homeless people, refugees and pain – big but invisible for many part of Sicily.  

 

Sicilian Men in the Sun

Sicilian Men in the Sun

 

Raha had this to say:

I think it’s [the invisible line] isa powerful idea, and as I reflected in my journal, I was always baffled by the distinction of how we experience things versus someone who goes to Italy as a refugee,( I know this because I have the experience of going to a place as a refugee so I know that it feels very different ). For this reason, there is a line of division between tourists, locals, and refugees. There is a line, and maybe people cannot see it, or maybe they choose not to see it!

 

Refugees

Refugees

 

Lily Smith had this to say:

At the heart of the Mediterranean, Sicily was the perfect place to gain a deeper understanding of migration as countless civilizations have passed through leaving behind a rich collection of culture. Although Sicily was built on migration, it was clear to see how the newcomer immigrants and refugees were disconnected from society. They were invisible to those around them. The separation represents an unwillingness to cross cultural and social boundaries, a phenomenon identified by us as “The Invisible Line.” The locals and refugees live together, but they are not together. They do the same, but they are not the same. They are divided by the unseen but unmistakable boundary, “The Invisible Line.”

 

Variation on a theme

A predominant theme on this blog has been the nameless, faceless people who are fleeing their homelands for any number of reasons into a society that has yet to realize that its demographic is not just changing, but it has , in fact been changed.  My preoccupation has always been with the disenfranchised.  I believe, and tried to impart this to my students, that neglect, of any kind, is never benign.

“No Identity Boat”, Student Exhibit, Sicily Preview

My students, all of them caring, brilliant and sensitive understand this. They get it. They have witnessed it, processed it (are still processing it) and want to tell others about it.   So while we enjoyed all the beauty Sicily had to offer we were aware, almost painfully so, of those not able to both literally and figuratively bask in that warm sun.   In the beginning is awareness.     The rest is up to them. But to be a part of that awareness, in fact, that awakening, because that is what I truly see as one of the results of teaching about social justice and social injustices, is truly a beautiful thing. A true honor I have never nor will I ever take for granted.  I am encouraging this group to continue their work on the “invisible line”.   Perhaps another visit is in order.

Stay tuned. We’re not finished yet!  🙂

 

 

 

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Progetto di Claudia Cipriano di unità: Altremaree Music Festival, Floridia, Sicilia


Altremaree, a music festival in Floridia, Sicily was the idea of Floridian Councilor for Culture, Claudia Cipriano, who had a vision of  unity: east meets west in a celebration of music and culture.  When celebrations of this sort take place, people begin to see the similarities in eachother and not the differences.  Music is a universal language, one that you need not be educated in; music only asks that you respond to it and enjoy it.

Assessore, Claudia Cipriano, Floridia

The Tunisian Artistic Director, Ramzi Harrabi,who received honorable for
Intercultural Dialogue Mediterranea,  worked with Claudia’s vision in order to blend the Italian culture with Tunisian culture.  This was done in surprising and often ingenious ways.  For instance,  a “casbah” was constructed within a mini-eastern district, placed in the heart of Floridia, including Berber tents and other aspects of Tunisian culture.

In Floridia

Tunisian immigration is very prominent in Sicily, thus necessitating the constant interaction between Sicilians and Tunisians that span all aspects of both business and social situations.  This festival has brought together business people, artists, designers, and others in a week-long cultural exchange.  Events were inventive and fun, including cooking classes, poetry readings, dance classes and some events specifically targeted to children.

Musica e Popoli

Claudia Cipriano sees the importance of reaching the younger generation in order to foster an environment of acceptance and understanding of different cultures and seeking to dismantle the old preconceived notions of immigrants in generations that have come before.   This event involved children from the Youth Council,whose participation is seen as a positive step towards the awareness and acceptance of a more open society that goes way beyond the confines of Floridia itself, and out into the world.

Tunisian Flag

While heavy rain fell on Sunday , nothing could dampen the  great strides the festival will have undoubtedly made towards  cultural awareness and interfaith understanding. Smart women like Claudia Cipriano know that effects of such a festival  can influence so many people in so many places, for the good of all.

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