Reflections on Abduction, Daniela Debono

Women in the Mediterranean, Med25 Bel Espoir, April 27, 2025

Reflections on Abductions –Il-Ħatfa

Daniela DeBono

I would like to begin by thanking the organizers for this invitation. I am grateful for the opportunity to contribute to this conference and the Med 25 'Bel Espoir' initiative.

I'll start with a little story. Every year, at the beginning of October, political authorities gather in Lampedusa to commemorate one of the worst tragedies in the Mediterranean on October 3, 2013, when 368 people drowned—or 369 if we count the baby still connected by the umbilical cord to the mother who died during childbirth. This shipwreck shocked many people: it occurred only half a nautical mile off Lampedusa, the official rescue took time, and locals at sea played an important role in the rescue. Equally shocking were the testimonies of survivors who said that other ships had passed by several times and turned a blind eye. It was a tragedy that attracted considerable media attention, and many politicians from all over Europe traveled to Lampedusa to pay tribute to the dead.

But what is even more shocking is that a week later, on October 11, 2013, the tragedy repeated itself. This time, 268 people died, including more than 60 children; in Italy, it is known as "Il naufragio dei bambini" (the sinking of the children). Those on board called Italy, and were told to call Malta, which in turn told them to call Italy—this went on for hours. An online recording of the sixth and final phone call before the ship capsized: "We are dying, please. We are dying. Three hundred people. We have no captain, the captain is running away. You understand me—we have no captain. Don't throw us away. We have a woman who had an abortion and two injured children." I don't have enough in my mobile account, it's going to cut off, please, call me, please..." (L'Espresso, 2017, excerpt from audio recording 3:45-4:45).

For three consecutive years, I would be in Lampedusa around the commemoration of the October 3 shipwreck. I was there for ethnographic fieldwork and volunteering with an organization called Mediterranean Hope or the local church to help with activities in the church of the Madonna of Porto Salvo, Our Lady of Safe Harbor. Just outside the church, that's where I first met Hadia. Hadia (I use a different name) was a survivor of the tragedy of October 11, 2013. Originally from Damascus, she had undertaken the sea voyage from Libya with her husband and two young boys—a 5-year-old and a 7-year-old—along with other relatives and friends. She, her husband, and the 7-year-old boy survived the journey, but her 5-year-old son drowned on October 11, 2013. His body was never found. Three years later, the family was now living in Germany and had been granted refugee protection. They were settling in well, and her husband and son already spoke German. Hadia, however, couldn't get over the death of their other son and still hoped they would find him alive. That year, and a few years later, she and her husband went to Lampedusa because they learned that many important people would be there. She toured Lampedusa showing the last photos she had of her 5-year-old son, hoping that someone would recognize him. She went to politicians, the police, passersby, and journalists to ask them to help her find her son, or at least his body. Her husband translated from Arabic to English, and they translated me from English to Italian. It was, we all knew, an impossible task. Hadia and I couldn't have deep conversations: she speaks Arabic, I speak Maltese, but we would sit together, have tea, and she would show me all the photos of her missing son on her phone, occasionally grabbing my arm and crying silently. All I could tell her was how beautiful he was—but in my heart, knowing that her son's death wasn't the result of a natural disaster, but a preventable tragedy—or rather, the deliberate failure to save lives—the result of a system built on unjust and unequal principles, I wondered why the violence, why the indifference?

Borders and Hospitality

By way of introduction, I would like to say that this brief talk is based on elements of my research and experience in the field. I will share with you my experience of the "Mediterranean," or what the "Mediterranean" means to me today. Most of my research over the past twenty years has taken place in Sicily, Malta, and Lampedusa. More precisely, in the ports where boat migrants disembark and in the port cities that welcome these new arrivals by providing them with food, shelter, and legal access to asylum. My interest as an anthropologist has been in understanding how global and regional political and cultural processes intertwine with local interests and everyday life. The purpose of this talk today is to give you food for thought and to propose a way of discussing global issues while keeping people at the center. Today I'm going to talk about some of the encounters I've had with women that offer an opportunity to question hospitality and care, through direct encounters but also through transnational communities of care.

The border system is not only an institution made of laws and policies, but it is constructed by the everyday and mundane relationships between different workers, professionals, migrants, locals and others.

Needless to say, these places and spaces of “hospitality” present contradictory narratives. It is in these places that the poor and vulnerable traveler—who, let us remember, would never have obtained a regular visa to travel—becomes an “enemy alien,” an “Other” is criminalized and portrayed as someone to be feared and treated with contempt. It is also in these places and spaces that care and hospitality are enacted either spontaneously by unorganized locals or by people working within institutions, often out of public view.

The construction of the alien enemy, or the other alien.

These travelers, as scholars such as Iain Chambers and Gabriele Proglio, among others, have argued, are the result of a racial hierarchy that permeates global and local relations: they are not considered children, parents, professionals, or artisans, but become "irregular migrants," "boat migrants," or, if we're lucky, "refugees." The labels Heaven Crawley and Dimitris Skleparis have demonstrated only serve to exclude. Certainly, these are labels I wouldn't wish on any of my friends.

Indeed, although in human rights rhetoric and law it is decreed that everyone is human, everyone should have access to basic human treatment, to fundamental human rights – these people are subjected to a system that treats them as second/third class humans, if not humans at all.

It is no coincidence and is confirmed by research that when these people describe their treatment in Libya, their sea voyages, their reception and detention in Europe, they make allegories to animals.

But let's take a step back: what is the reality I am describing?

The voyages of hope in the Mediterranean

The Mediterranean Sea is a busy sea, full of different types of travelers on military and commercial vessels, pleasure boats, and fishing boats. Crossing the Central Mediterranean, there are also many unregistered/irregular migrant boats filled with people fleeing to Europe. Unlike other maritime vessels, these migrant boats are unseaworthy, often overcrowded, and very few have the capacity to reach continental Europe. The UNHCR and IOM report that in 2023, 212,000 people attempted to cross the border. About 150,000 people arrived in Italy and Malta. The rest were pushed back to Libya and Tunisia. 3,155 people died or went missing (IOM Missing Migrants Project).

These crossings are shrouded in secrecy and removed from public view. They are rarely reported. They are often rendered invisible by politicians and institutions who strive to normalize deaths and arrivals as accidents of "nature." This invisibility is often left unaddressed by a society seeking to avoid painful reminders of privilege and pain.

Survivors are not celebrated, they are not welcomed into Europe. They are detained in hot spots, in impenetrable black holes where, despite repeated criticism of the human rights system, people are treated as "less than human," as I wrote in 2013. This is at odds with the principles of liberal democracy and human rights professed by Malta, Italy, and the European states.

Upon arrival, systems effectively silence many survivors through various processes of subjugation. The chain of migrant detention centers that stretch along the northern shores of the Mediterranean; the precarious legal status that allows them to reside but not thrive in European societies; that the disappeared, the dead, often remain unburied, unidentified, as their worldly existence fades.

Transnational communities and care networks 

Women in the Mediterranean have a very strong presence, even if this is not reflected in the statistics of people crossing the border.

A few years ago, I received a WhatsApp message from a friend of a friend asking if I had heard about Ahmed's arrival in Malta (again, not his real name). This minor had been flown to Malta because his health was not good. Fortunately, the others were rescued but had been taken to Italy. His mother learned that he was not in Italy with the others. It is common practice for young people not to tell their mothers about their travel plans, for fear of being dissuaded or banned. Fearing the worst, the mother started asking everyone for news. At Mater Dei, I asked people if they knew who he was. One of the officials took me to him. He was indeed quite ill, but not in danger of dying. I told him, in Maltese and repeated in English, that your mother was looking for you. Would you like to call her? He dialed my phone number and, in a weak, faint voice, said, "Marhaba, Ene haj! It's good, ene haj, it's over." (Hello, I'm alive, I'm fine, I'm alive, it's over.) As he said this, I heard a loud cry of relief and sobs.

The voice of this mother, echoing through the Mater Dei neighborhood, all the way from a village near Damascus, reminds us of the interconnectedness of our world. Her voice reached the people caring for her son, showing proper hospitality—regardless of legal status, skin color, or prejudice. This network of care connects us to one another in an intimate and personal way. It is another Mediterranean—perhaps not as visible, but one that resists violence through care and hospitality. It is this celebration of life, relationships, and care that should guide our discussions and political decisions.

The call to be present, to seek the truth, to stand with people

The Mediterranean is a sea of death and sorrow. And we must remember this. As you sail, as you look out at the water from the shore, remember all the people who died there, all the dreams that literally ended up on the seabed. Please do not run away from the pain and discomfort of these words. Do not hide your anger at the injustice that led to these deaths. We must not be afraid of strong emotions or discomfort—instead, we must dig deep into our souls, into our hearts, actively seeking out these stories, studying these issues, challenging dominant narratives, and praying. For this is how we too can be part of this global family of humanity.

We must commit to listening to and supporting the survivors among us. We must draw inspiration from the courage and resilience of mothers who continue to search for their children in unfamiliar places. By mothers who continue to provide strength and care to their children from afar. By migrant communities who offer care and solidarity despite their impoverished and precarious circumstances.

THANKS.

.translated from English.