Memories of Ventimiglia
Last summer, refugees and activists built a camp on the Italian-French border that stood against the inhumanity of borders.
From the parking lot of a pink-walled Italian resort, the hazy outline of French coastal town Menton can be seen across the bay. The resort sits on the rocky shore of Italy’s Ponte San Ludovico, some two hundred meters from the border with France, which for much of the summer was home to a unique refugee camp cohabited by both migrants and European activists.
France quietly closed its border on June 8 to the stream of North African and Middle Eastern migrants traveling through Italy. A few days later, more than one hundred displaced and restless migrants gathered in Ventimiglia and, warding off an eviction attempt by Italian police, successfully established a makeshift encampment on the rocks.
Their resistance caught the attention of young Italian and French activists, who joined them in a show of solidarity. The community that blossomed as a result took the form of a permanent camp and politically charged stronghold of anti-borders sentiment that broke from the typical hierarchy of state-sponsored camps. Within a framework of self-management and collective decision-making, camp residents built a diverse community where all were welcome.
We visited the presidio — Italian for “camp” — in late August. News had just broken of the now-notorious abandoned truck holding seventy-one dead refugees that was found near the border of Austria and Hungary.
Parisian authorities had spent the summer dismantling squats occupied by homeless refugees and migrants all over town. French public debate had been dominated by reactionary declarations on the “migrant crisis” — from the former president Nicolas Sarkozy’s joke comparing the refugees to a water leak, to a leader of the far-right National Front‘s statement that the real violence in the immigration debate was the one inflicted on the French people.
A different atmosphere, however, reigned at the coastal French-Italian frontier. The sun glinted off the nearby Mediterranean, where vacationers swam and sunbathed on the beaches of the French Riviera. Passing through French customs, visitors arriving on Italian territory came upon banners announcing “No Borders, No Nations, we are not going back” next to piled-up tents and mattresses.
Sweltering midday heat slowed the pace of activity at No Borders camp. The muted sounds of voices conversing in various languages and music playing were regularly interrupted by the taunting clamor of trains passing in either direction above. People busied themselves smoking cigarettes, chatting, taking advantage of the Internet access, and gathering around maps and information sheets tacked to walls. Most were waiting for the best time to cross the border and continue their journey.
We were greeted by Anna, an older woman known as the “Italian mom” of the community. “Are you hungry?” she asked, leading us into the communal kitchen. “We are preparing lunch now, but if you don’t want to wait, take a fruit or whatever you find!” Well-stocked with donations from nearby markets and sympathetic local families, the kitchen boasted a spigot with running water, a stovetop, an assortment of pots and pans, and even a fully operational pizza oven.
Newcomers to the camp could stop at the check-in center, housed in an old tourist information kiosk, to pick up bedding, clothing, and a SIM card should they need it. A washing machine offered the luxury of doing laundry after what had been, for some, months of travel. Resourceful campers had even used the existing sewage pipe to build toilets, which were cordoned off by curtains and equipped with toiletries.
“We are offering much more than an institutional camp,” explained Lorenzo, an Italian supporter who has camped here since the beginning. Maps and papers detailing the asylum-seeking process were pinned next to posters announcing camp activities: “French class at 2 PM. Circus at 3 PM. Pizza and Movie at 10 PM!” Amnesty International provided legal workshops, and Médecins du Monde (Doctors of the World) made regular visits as well.
The contrast with state-supported camps was perhaps most pronounced in the area of camp governance. The migrants of No Borders took an active role in shaping the community they had founded, and decisions regarding camp organization and priorities were made collectively through regular camp-wide assemblies. The assemblies — designed to encourage a free flow of ideas and foster a sense of shared responsibility — provided an alternative to a system often plagued by a dearth of accessible information and the relative isolation of migrant populations.
“La solidarietà è nostra arma,” No Borders proclaimed — “Solidarity is our weapon.”
Border Tales
On the adjacent rocky beach, a swimming lesson was underway to help migrants traumatized after a perilous trip across the Mediterranean. Most of them were refugees from Eritrea and Sudan fleeing civil war, compulsory military service, and brutal dictatorships. They recounted a similar story: lack of a viable future in their home country, a dangerous desert-crossing in an overcrowded car, fear of kidnapping and rackets in Libya, a journey across the Mediterranean (during which thousands perished last year alone).
“What could I tell you that you don’t already know?” asked a young man from Eritrea. “We are escaping our country to take control of our lives,” interjected a friend sitting next to him. The two men met in the camp a few days earlier and decided to continue on together to England, where they hope to resume their university studies.
Like most of the young men arriving alone in Europe, they left behind family not by choice but by necessity. “I could have never taken my sister nor my mother on this trip,” one said. “The women have to take birth control pills during the three-month trip.” His account highlighted how, for most women, the threat of rape makes the journey untenable.
The border between Menton, France and Ventimiglia, Italy is yet another obstacle on the path toward a better life. The heavily policed and militarized checkpoint may not be as visible as Hungary’s four-meter-high razor-wire fence, but it is disturbingly effective. After June 8, any migrant attempting to cross here has been either halted on foot or pulled off the train at the station. Targeted according to the color of their skin, migrants are asked to produce papers and, if unable, are detained for hours before being sent back to Italy.
“Humanity and Firmness”
Sensationalist media coverage of the migrant crisis, the rising popularity of the National Front, and pervasive xenophobia appear to have fueled the French government’s effort to stem the influx of refugees.
While official rhetoric on the subject favors the slogan “humanity and firmness,” border closures, parsimonious migrant intake, and rampant racial profiling reveal the credo as skewed toward firmness. French authorities have been attempting to control the notoriously squalid and overcrowded Calais “Jungle” in the north of France at the same time they dismantle squats occupied by homeless refugees all over Paris. Closing the southern border with Italy was just another step in that direction.
Prime Minister Manuel Valls has bragged that his Socialist Party has deported more illegal migrants than its predecessor, Sarkozy’s right-wing UMP government. And the numbers back him up: forced removal of undocumented persons increased 13 percent from 2012 to 2014. Such policies have drawn the ire of many humanitarian organizations, as well as that of the Italian government, which is reticent to receive the migrants France regularly returns to its soil.
Termed a “front-line” country, Italy reported being overwhelmed by migrants who now have one less way out due to the French border closure. Though Italy was subsequently placated by the European Union’s introduction of the so-called Hotspot approach — in which Frontex helps provide rapid registration, identification, fingerprinting, and debriefing of asylum seekers — concerns have been raised about the implications of holding migrants against their will for unspecified periods of time.
For Teresa, a No Borders activist, the camp was a good place to look at Europe anew. “From here it is easy to understand the extent of the social, moral, and human crisis Europe is experiencing,” she said. Her statement underscores the defining characteristic of No Borders — ordinary people helping others through simple acts of solidarity.
Repression and Resistance
Throughout the summer, regular peaceful protests denounced the inhumanity of borders. Migrants with scarves and articles of clothing tied over their faces to prevent police video recognition held hand-painted signs reading, “The world is ours to share” and “Why so much contempt and so little support?” Activists thrust flyers detailing the camp’s cause through the open windows of passing border traffic while sounds of clanging pots and pans and rocks striking against metal fencing kept rhythm with the chant, “We are not going back!”
A larger protest on August 22 attracted a number of French citizens. The demonstration was convened to remember the death of Todor Bokanovic, a migrant child fatally shot by police twenty years earlier. Protesters also recalled the tragic deaths of French teenagers Zyed and Bouna after being chased by police in October 2005.
It was here that we met Fouad, a French antiracist activist and member of the presidio community. Fouad views the struggle as much bigger than the refugee crisis and dreams of building solidarity between migrants and the second and third generations of immigrants in France. “As a child of immigration, it’s important for me to address the bigger systemic racism in France,” he said.
Fouad was arrested a week later after an altercation with the French police and sent to the Nice prison. According to a witness, the confrontation was triggered by his attempts to speak with migrants detained in containers at the border; police officers panicked, then beat and arrested him. He now faces charges of “rebellion, outrage, and assault against a police officer.”
No Borders’ radical stance on border policy and their mistrust of government solutions made the presidio a target of authorities from the moment it was formed. For migrants, the greatest threat is identification; allowing one’s fingerprints to be recorded meant either deportation (if the migrant is determined ineligible for asylum) or forced detainment in the European Union country where he or she first entered. Migrants identified through police photos and video footage of the camp-associated demonstrations risked being charged with participating in an illegal occupation, destroying their chances of obtaining asylum.
Activists also faced penalties for their participation. Throughout the summer, expulsion orders — which prohibit the individual from returning to the town or area from which he or she was expelled for up to three years — were meted out to Italian citizens involved in the occupation. These penalties dealt a significant blow to the project of cohabitation, which rests on the idea that an ethical response to the current crisis must start from what a camp blogpost terms “the immediacy of living together.”
#VentimigliaEverywhere
Just before dawn on the morning of September 30, the presidio was forcefully evacuated and then cleared by the Italian police. Camp residents gathered at the water’s edge and watched bulldozers and trash compactors destroy the fruits of nearly four months of collaboration, erasing the physical traces of a space that had welcomed over two thousand traveling migrants and three hundred Europeans during the summer.
Yet the camp’s continuing vocal activism has preserved it as a model of solidarity that can be channeled into the ongoing struggle for human rights and freedom of movement. No Borders activists plan to share the Ventimiglia experience through an Italy-wide tour signposted by the hashtag #VentimigliaEverywhere, spreading the idea that the process of imagining a better Europe can begin with a single case of borders interrupted. They hope, in doing so, to spark a global conversation.
“This Camp Is My Family”
The camp was not perfect,” acknowledged Alexis, a French student who camped at the presidio. Some criticized activists for placing the No Borders cause above the needs of individual migrants — revealing the fragile balance between personal and collective struggle. Others objected to European leadership at camp assemblies, which sometimes superseded the voices of migrants. “We should take notes on what needs to be improved for future self-managed camps,” Alexis said.
On our last evening, Sudanese migrants spent hours preparing a traditional meal and invited presidio residents and visitors alike to share in the feast. A French band from Paris had accepted the camp’s invitation to come down and give an outdoor concert. In attendance were families and residents from small towns on both the French and Italian sides of the border, showing how the camp had become a space to socialize and dream of a better world, a world without borders.
After the band’s last song, a young migrant took the microphone and delivered an emotional speech to the assembled crowd:
I cannot say my name, but my name is migration. Imagine you fall from the sky and you arrive in a place you don’t know anything about. You try to continue on your way, you knock on a door, but they refuse to welcome you. Then you go back, and find this place. I have found brothers, sisters, and I can even say I found a mother with Anna. This camp is my family, it’s the No Borders family. Here, you can find whatever you need. A school, some practical information, but also life advice. I would like to thank every resident of the camp, but also everyone who came here to listen to us, to listen to our stories.