I fenicotteri viaggiano di notte

by Emanuela Laurenti e Francesca Maceroni At night flamingos fly. They move in groups, making long journeys. For Hindus, they are the symbol of the soul that migrates from darkness to light. Light is hope, dark is fear. Hope is what keeps you alive, which led you to leave, to try to save yourself, your children, your own kind. It is the food of survival instinct, is the reason why thousands of people every day flee from their cities, their homes. The dark is what they have seen and experienced, but it is also the color of the trip. The barges that depart from Turkey to land in Lesbos sail the sea at night, trusting in the coverage offered by the darkness. They arrive on the banks of the island at first light of the sunrise, and the cycle begins again. A new day, a new light, a new beginning. And then the night. Again. Flamingo, flamenco... these names origin from Latin and Greek languages, and translated mean "purple wings" or "blood red wings", “wings like flames”. And in the reddish waters of Kallonis' salt pans it is easy to see these groups of beautiful and proud birds. You can not be very close, a natural barrier is protecting them, isolated on the island. The similitude is clear and immediate. But the flamingos are free to go whenever they want. Migrants don't. They arrive and remain there, stuck in fields too small to hold them all. The beaches of Lesbos are transformed from the promised land to infinity deadlock. And the European dream fades. They are surrounded by barriers too, but made of other different materials than grass and ground. For them, there are brick walls and cultural limitations, terror of the unknown and political manipulation. They arrive and remain. They are not free to leave, but if they want they can come back. In Syria, which no longer exists, in Pakistan where the Taliban are waiting for them, in Afghanistan and Iraq under the bombs of Daesh. They can do it, but cannot be reunited with loved ones already arrived in northern Europe. Because it is easier to return. Many Member States do not want them. Let them to be a turkish problem, let's leave that Greeks and Italians help them. They can just wait. A endless, tremendous, deadly waiting. A slow agony that does not allow to look beyond, to forget the horrors they fled, that does not give them a chance to start over. And in dreams, at night, the monsters of the past repopulate the mind. Mothers raped, brothers tortured, houses destroyed by bombs, maimed children. The nightmare does not end, even worse. The psychological repercussions are incalculable and they become increasingly vulnerable, stripped of everything, including dignity and identity. But go ahead, do not stop, keep coming. And they are stopped halfway between despair and the right of welcoming. It can take months, even years, before the system collapsed decides their fate. So they wait helpless, spectators of the world's inhumanity, and live this "no life." An existence suspended, totally dependent on the discretion of others. They just have to adjust and wait, because return is not an option.