At your own risk

The Italian government was waiting for a clash between Lampedusans and migrants, and it had it on September 20th. When the strong smell of burnt plastic and silicon invaded the the village it was too late. Fire had been set up to the main structure in Imbriacola Valley, and like a wave the migrants hosted in the centre for first aid and assistance – CPSA in Italian – flew out. Jubilant young men chanting “freedom, freedom” were running in the streets and squares of Lampedusa, celebrating the end of their captivity. The outcome did not surprise very much activists and members of international organisations working in Lampedusa, as the reception centre was managed like a prison rather than a reception centre. For months, the request of freedom, and respect of human rights, invoked by different parties, were ignored by politicians. The end was quite foreseeable: fire, structures damaged, human lives put at risk and chaos every where. What it was not exactly expected was the violence, urban riots, and migrant hunting images forever stuck in my head. An hour later, the police was kettling a group of migrants next to the pump station near the old harbour. Here we are, like in fairy tales, the crucial point is reached, and the Propp’s card “haunted castle” is on the table. I am rattling the main steps and impressions for my special odious, because I was there and despite what the media have said, I will know more than all of them. I was there in the middle of the square. I have have always been there, and along with those few who were near me, it was clear this was not a safe place. Night falls and the police unsuccessfully tried to convince the group of Tunisians to move to the football camp, where they cold have eaten and be placed on the transfer list, but they are determined to stay there. They have stopped believing the promises of transfer as they have heard them repeated day after day, sometimes for months. The police – concerned in achieving its purpose and alarmed by a hypothetical attack of locals – and does not even realise how many debris, sticks and metal bits are scattered everywhere, like a natural component of the surrounding environment. The guys listen, Laila , a law student, shook her head, as if she had already realised that the suspicion of police it is something serious. As in a theatrical performance, set is already mounted, everything it is ready, just waiting for the actors – gladiators – and the public. The night passed for the Tunisians without food, water or blankets, and at dawn the work begin. The young migrants recover paint brush and linen. In a few hours make three different banners in which they apologise to Lampedusa, demand freedom and invoke the help of the European Union. This is not enough, at least to appease the anger of the mayor of Lampedusa who – heedless of the position he held – makes declarations of war to scare away migrants. The sun rises in the sky and the mercury of the thermometer follows it. The crowd increases as the tension between Lampedusans – kept away from policemen in riot uniform – and Tunisians, who are located between the gas pump, the square and the front porch of the restaurant. It is a matter of seconds. Suddenly a gas cylinder appears in the hands of a migrant, then another … Noureddin. looks at me with his 23-year old eyes “they – the Tunisians – gave locals and police the motivation to attack them. Italians will think that we are violent …” The stone-throwing starts from the offices of the ferry company Siremar, next to the diving centre, and it chaos very where. The police launch into the group of migrants. Those Tunisians standing up, manage to escape, and in turn respond to the stone-throwing. Those who are doing worse are the immigrants sitting on the sidewalk of the gas pump or in the porch of the restaurant. All rail against them, the Tunisians can not help themselves, but get their hands praying to stop the thugs. Who was in the “rear guard” – under the shelter of the gas station – jumps the fence and escapes towards the old mooring. The stones continue to fly from both parties, while more people joined the group of locals carrying axis. Because everyone – including employees of Lampedusa Accoglienza, the society managing the reception centre – should at least get out of there having struck a blow. Douha runs her hands folded on her nose and held her mouth, as if trying to block her breath and return to the natural rhythm. Noureddin is watching me “and you, what did you do there?” … “I was filming, filming in the rain of stones crossing the sky on the square.” He lights a cigarette, “can I watch the footage?” “Sure, mate.”