Stories of People Who Left

"Sir, do you perhaps speak English?" an older gentleman called out to me as he sat on a wooden bench in the village square.

"Yes," I replied hesitantly.

"Would you perhaps have five minutes to chat with me?"

His name was Giuseppe. We met in the Calabrian village of Civita, perched high above the Pollino National Park—a stunning rocky landscape that rises from the Ionian Sea just a few kilometers away. If you stand on your toes, you can almost see two other seas—the Adriatic towards Bari and the Tyrrhenian—surrounding the heel, sole, and arch of the Italian boot.

Giuseppe had spent ten years in America, in New York. When I asked what he did there, he simply showed me his hands. Now, he sits in the square every day waiting for tourists so he can practice his English. At the end of our chat, he asked me to write a message in a small notebook he pulled from his briefcase. It already contained half a dozen similar notebooks, filled with notes. He watched with delight as I wrote a few words. “Look at him, a real doctor,” he called out to indifferent passersby—following the Italian tradition of liberally bestowing the title of “doctor.”

Giuseppe is a migrant—or more precisely, a former migrant. He is also a descendant of refugees. Civita lies in the heart of a region where the Albanian ethnic minority lives. His ancestors fled from Albania in the 15th century after the death of their national hero Skanderbeg, escaping the Ottomans. All signage is bilingual. At the village entrance, it says not only Civita but also Çifti. Many Arbëreshë, as they call themselves, still speak their Albanian dialect and preserve their cultural customs and traditions. The wooden bench where Giuseppe waited for English-speaking tourists sits in front of a small museum dedicated to the Albanian minority, where three of his friends were seated.

Both Giuseppe's personal story and the history of Calabrian Albanians are not unique. They’re just fragments of a rich mosaic shaped by people who, since the beginning of civilization, have migrated—seeking survival, hoping for a better life, or fleeing danger to save their lives. Our world and our cultures, ways of life, traditions, and customs—with all their richness and complexity—are what they are because of those who left their birthplace and left a mark wherever they arrived.

I admit, I’m not completely objective when it comes to people who left or were forced to leave their homeland. It’s also the story of my family. And I believe most of us would discover something similar if we thoroughly examined our ancestors’ past. My grandfather Vlado was born in Nabrežina near Trieste. Due to fascist violence, like many Slovenians from that region, he had to flee across the Rapallo border. He settled in the first village on the other side, in Unec, where my father was born. On my mother’s side, the story is similar—only my grandfather Franček and grandmother Anuncijata didn’t flee but were deported by the German occupiers from Sveta Ana in Slovenske Gorice to the Bosnian village of Boljanić near Doboj. They were forced to leave behind their newborn daughter because the meticulous Nazis didn’t have her name on their list. My aunt never lived to see her parents return from exile—she died a few months later. But my mother was born in Boljanić. And if it weren’t for the villagers who helped the young Slovenian family despite having little themselves, my mother wouldn’t have celebrated her 80th birthday recently—and you wouldn’t be reading this article.

These examples aren’t empirical proof but glimpses that allow me to draw some conclusions.

First: migration has always existed and always will. The idea that we can somehow stop it in this historically random era into which we were born is illusory and senseless.

Second: migration does affect our culture and way of life. Newcomers bring their customs, leaving traces in their new environments. Today, we often automatically view this cultural influence as a threat. Yes, cultural clashes and conflicts do occur. But we too often ignore the progress and positive changes that migrants bring. Nationalists and chauvinists loudly proclaim that migrants threaten our culture and way of life—but rarely does anyone reflect on what our culture and tradition would be today without all the past influences they absorbed. The notion that any society’s cultural and civilizational development can or should be frozen at a politically convenient moment is arrogant, unrealistic, and dangerous. What nationalist extremists sell is a dystopia of monocultural bunkers defending and fighting each other across gun barrels.

Third: the short-term effects of migration, especially in times of sudden surges, must not be underestimated. Not everyone comes with good intentions, and rapid population increases do create stress, cultural shock, economic and social strain, and political tension. But the fact that we’ll never completely stop migration doesn’t mean we can’t or shouldn’t influence and manage it. That requires measures on every level—from global (tackling root causes like war and climate change), to European and national (effective border controls), to local efforts (humane treatment and integration).

This is about solidarity and empathy—but also pragmatism. Though it may sound provocative in today’s anti-migrant climate, Western societies—including ours—need migration. The reason is demographics. The economic and social time bomb of aging populations can’t be defused by creating government offices for birth rates.

Again, this doesn’t mean opening borders and hoping for the best. But what’s worse—and more dangerous—is the current approach in most Western societies. The stigmatization and manipulation of fear surrounding migration, done for political gain, prevent the adoption of effective migration management policies—including security measures.

Panic and scapegoating migrants as the cause of all our problems benefits only those who manipulate the issue politically. The rest of us pay the price—including the distraction from other serious problems. The UK offers a sobering example of where ideological obsession with migration can lead. There is growing political support for leaving the European Convention on Human Rights over a few thousand people arriving in small boats across the English Channel. That convention, drafted by British lawyers over seventy years ago, primarily protects British citizens—and is a key part of the Northern Ireland peace agreement. But no matter: for a few more votes, some politicians are ready to sacrifice it and join Belarus and Russia—the only European countries outside that human rights protection framework (aside from Kosovo, which includes the ECHR in its constitution).

Stigmatizing people based on ethnicity, skin color, or religion also devastates social cohesion, which is essential for peace and progress—especially in countries where many people already have migrant backgrounds, often for generations. Instead of integration and its benefits, we see structural discrimination and growing demonization of citizens who’ve lived in their “new” countries for decades. This provokes radicalization and violence, as we’ve seen in many European countries—including France, where I’ve lived for thirty years.

We hear a lot about migrants threatening “our culture.” Of course, not every external cultural influence should be accepted, especially those that clash with our values—equality, human rights, political freedoms, and opposition to discrimination and intolerance. These are protected by national and European law. A civilized society must insist that newcomers accept and respect these values. In my experience, the vast majority of immigrants in France have no problem with this. The paradox is that many of those who shout loudest about cultural threats share disturbing similarities with extremist newcomers. Ultimately, culture won’t just survive—it will thrive—if it's seen as positive and inclusive, even by those who arrive from elsewhere. Today’s anti-foreigner hostility, which dominates much of Europe, only fuels radical violence—on all sides.

A central pillar of populist fearmongering about migration is the idea of religious incompatibility—specifically that Muslims threaten us. Years ago, I spoke with Dr. Ismail Serageldin, founding director of the Library of Alexandria—one of the Arab world’s most important cultural institutions. (Incidentally, Alexandria is also known in Slovenia as the destination of economic migrant women known as the “Aleksandrinke.”) Dr. Serageldin noted that while the Mediterranean has long been a site of war and conflict, it has also been a space of cultural and commercial exchange enriching both southern and northern shores. What we are witnessing today, he said, is not a clash of civilizations—but a conflict between grotesque caricatures of both sides that feed off one another.

“But how can we change that?” I asked, still under the impact of terrorist attacks in France.

“Look at what France and Germany did after World War II,” he said. “Anything is possible—if there is political will.”

That will, sadly, is fading. Fear, intolerance, and hatred are rising. Compassion and solidarity are in retreat. In Athens, we’ve worked with schools on democratic citizenship programs. One student—a migrant—once wrote a line I’ll never forget:

"Why does no one talk about the fact that we didn’t just arrive—we also left?"

A child’s pain, caught between the sorrow of losing a home and rejection in a new one.

As I spoke English with Giuseppe in Civita, tourists were sipping cocktails on nearby beaches. My phone buzzed with a BBC alert: a boat had capsized near Lampedusa, carrying 41 migrants. Another statistical entry in the sea of anonymous victims of our indifference—people who left, but never arrived.