This is a story set in Malta and Europe in the near future. In the form of a letter from a mother to her daughter Maddy, it shows a family trying to navigate the crisis in the region caused by a rapidly warming climate.

See previous chapters in the story and read a note by the story's author.

At least in part because of my friendship with Rami we were generally tolerated by the community.

Most people in the camp were West African, with a Somali enclave at the eastern end. There was also another Maltese family living precariously on the outskirts, but they never really responded to any of our overtures. They seemed to be highly traumatised, and their two young kids were filthy and clearly undernourished. We started bringing them some food when we could. They would accept it wordlessly with downcast eyes; I don’t think I ever managed to make eye contact with them. 

While our living conditions could not have been cruder or more basic, after a really tough first month I actually remember our time at the camp with some fondness. The weather was mild enough while we were there, so that wasn’t too big a problem; and though our shack was robbed by kids a couple of times, we kept the very few ‘valuables’ we still had hidden on our person, so that didn’t really bother us either. 

Against all odds there was a feeling of community in that camp. People really did pitch in to help and we enjoyed a couple of very special campfire parties that lifted all our spirits, however briefly.

For about a month before the birth I started giving some English classes to the kids in the camp. I’m not sure how much English they learnt, but we ended up having a whale of a time – 20 minutes slogging through the present perfect or past continuous, then an hour singing Bob Marley classics (the only music we had in common) to out-of-tune guitars and assorted makeshift drums. 

I wasn’t paid for the lessons, but some of the parents – who often joined in the singing at the end – took to leaving me little gifts. A couple of potatoes or tomatoes, an aubergine, or some tangerines; on one memorable occasion, a plucked pigeon.

It all helped, and it felt good to be earning something.

As you know, you were born in July of ’35. Despite all the planning for the birth, by the time the doctor got to us you were already firmly latched on, looking as if you would never let go. You were two weeks early; even then you were in a hurry.

For the birth, Rami roped in some of the ladies of the camp, one of whom had some experience as a midwife. Apparently it was a textbook delivery. I won’t say it didn’t hurt because it really did, but at least it didn’t take impossibly long – and you were alive, you were healthy and I was pretty much whole. The sense of relief that flooded over me was incredible. 

The moment they cut the cord and put you in my arms I had a new purpose: to try and give you the very best possible start in life. 

It was the same for Mum, and to an extent even Tom – we weren’t just muddling our way through anymore; we were forging a path for you, and even if we weren’t sure exactly where we were going, we knew we had to make sure it was somewhere worth living.

*       *       *

After you were born we had two good months at the camp together, but when trouble came it was very nearly the end of us.

First we knew about it was when two social workers guarded by a group of heavily armed police came into the camp – I wasn’t there at the time, but they apparently started telling people, almost apologetically, that the camp would have to be emptied ‘immediately’ as there was no permit for it, and it was on public land. The reaction in the camp was obviously hostile, with people shouting out things like “are you serious?” and “where do you want us to go?” in broken Italian, English and Hausa.

It was close to getting really ugly right then, but the two just gave up and left after a while.

Word started to spread around the camp that there would be a meeting next morning to discuss this, but that very evening all hell broke loose.

They came in like it was a war and we were the enemy. I suppose that’s the way they saw it.

We heard truck after truck coming up the approach road to the camp, and most of the residents made their way there to see what was happening. Mum and I remained in the camp with two-month-old you, but Tom went and joined the crowd. He later told us that soldiers with batons and shields were pouring out of the trucks and getting into formation, waiting in place until they were all ready. A few of the camp residents tried to talk to them, but were roughly pushed away and ordered to stand back.

At a certain point a voice on a bullhorn started instructing everyone in Italian and English to disperse and clear the ‘nature park,’ repeating the message again and again for about 10 minutes.

Mum and I could hear this and started to panic, quickly packing our few belongings into our rucksacks, with another small bag full of your baby things: two precious packs of wipes, some creams, your spare cloth nappy and a plastic bottle that you hadn’t started using yet.

Suddenly Tom burst in, frantic, and we threw his rucksack and the baby bag at him. Mum took the other rucksack and I wrapped you up West African style, and strapped you across my back. We ran out of the shack and through the camp away from all the commotion, then up the nearby hill along the edge of the forest. 

At the top I stopped to get my breath and we looked back.

One corner of the camp below us was on fire. I’ve always wondered whether it was purposely lit by the soldiers or whether it started by accident, perhaps a lamp that fell and shattered in the confusion. The flames lit up a line of soldiers advancing through the camp with earth-moving machinery behind them, bulldozing the shacks and lean-tos in their path. 

The voice on the bullhorn was still shouting something. The exact words were drowned out by the screaming and by the roar of those giant machines, but the meaning was only too clear to all of us.

There were other people on the path with us, but no-one we knew well. I wondered about that Maltese family that had already been so traumatised even before that night. We never saw Rami or her family again either (though I have heard from her, more on that later).

We turned around and started walking.

I’m not going to dwell too much on the next few months after that. We hit rock bottom. 

Every time I thought I just couldn’t take it any more Mum or Tom would pull us through, or the kindness of a stranger would somehow save the day – an old lady who let us fill our water bottles from her tap, a farmer who let us sleep in his barn for a couple of days; an NGO volunteer who gave us a box full of ready-to-eat Meals when she saw us trying to take care of you, and another who gave me her own shoes when she saw the state of mine.

We didn’t have much of a plan, but the pull north was strong – Germany, the Baltic states, Scandinavia, maybe even Canada somehow. There was water there; often far too much of it with the flooding that had become so frequent. But most of us who had experienced the creeping, slow-motion death that is prolonged drought would probably take too much water over too little any day.

In any event, where we wanted to go soon became irrelevant. 

Maybe four months after the camp eviction we were stopped for the night in a layby for trucks along the autostrada leading to Florence, when a Carabinieri van came up and we were instructed to get in. We were cold, exhausted and uncomfortable, and a ride in a nice warm van seemed like a pretty good idea.

The final part of We are not angry enough will appear on Wednesday, Febryary 2. See previous chapters in the story and read a note by the story's author.

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