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.

Later that night, we had a brush with the Italian Immigration Police somewhere off the Calabrian coast, a few hours north of the Straits of Messina. 

It was dark and I was on watch; I saw the light of what turned out to be a coast guard vessel get bigger and brighter as it approached until it nearly blinded me. 

I called out to the others and they came up on deck, blinking and stretching, just as we were hailed on a loudspeaker. We were boarded by an officer and three sailors.

They were actually quite nice. Polite. 

But what they said still shocked us: free movement of persons and the Schengen rules between Malta and Italy had been suspended. We no longer had a legal right to enter Italy as EU citizens. We were instructed, nicely but firmly, to head back home. We learned later that there had been a huge wave of boat people coming to southern Italy from Libya and Tunisia, and, for the first time, a number of boats originating in Malta. The previous night, one of the Gozo Channel ferries had been commandeered, and with over a thousand Maltese people on board, had been steered into Pozzallo, southern Sicily.

One of the Gozo Channel ferries had been commandeered, and with over a thousand Maltese people on board, had been steered into Pozzallo, southern Sicily. Photo: Shutterstock.com

Mum told them that we had nothing to go back to and said that we would formally request asylum. That’s when the politeness became rather forced. We were told that if we requested asylum, we would be put in a detention camp “with the blacks” until our request was adjudicated, which might take “many months, maybe years”. They did not recommend it.

We gave in and agreed to turn back, which we did under their watchful eye. We headed back down the Calabrian coast, but after making sure they were no longer on our tail, instead of going back through the Straits of Messina, we turned west and headed towards the Aeolian Islands instead. 

We were tense and anxious, constantly checking our radar and the horizon all around us for any ships that might be tracking us; thankfully it appeared that they had bigger fish to fry, and nobody bothered us again for a while. 

We anchored outside of the main port of the island of Vulcano, easily within sight of the volcano that was constantly belching out smoke, as if things didn’t feel apocalyptic enough already. 

Mum and I went on shore in our tiny Zodiac, and it all seemed pleasant enough. Low rise buildings, still a smattering of green around, despite the long drought. We bought some more water and went to a pharmacy to stock up on medicines. Everything in the tiny town seemed to be functioning pretty normally. 

In the local store we managed to follow the TV news that was full of the migrant crisis – ‘Sicily under Siege’ – lots of pictures of vessels of all sizes crowded with hopeless looking African migrants. 

This is going to get ugly

There were also mentions of ‘Emergenza Malta!’, and shots of that overcrowded Gozo Ferry tied up in Pozzallo. Apparently, no-one had been allowed off it as yet, and conditions on board had become difficult. Some of the passengers had hung sheets over the side with ‘Aiuto!’ and ‘Pieta`’ scrawled onto them in black paint.

We tried to call Dad, but the network was down in Malta, as it had been ever since a few days before we left. Since our phones were actually connecting to the internet, we dropped him a mail, hopefully he’d manage to connect at some point and see it. 

We also called Anselmo, the contact we were heading towards. We updated him on our situation and he advised us to try and get into a small port called Nettuno, just south of Rome. He could take us in for a while, until we sorted ourselves out.

We ate well that night. Fresh pasta, some bread and tomatoes we managed to get on shore for almost nothing and a lovely bottle of Donnafugata – a name that Mum joked pretty much summed up her situation.

The next morning, Mum called us out on deck early, her voice low but urgent. 

We emerged from the cabin below to see a long, decrepit cargo ship, faded Arabic script along the rusting sides, being led slowly into port by what looked like an Italian Coast Guard vessel. 

There were people crowding every inch of the ship, hundreds of them. Photo: Darrin Zammit Lupi

There were people crowding every inch of the ship, hundreds of them. Even the two small lifeboats we could see hanging over the sides were overflowing with people. They looked like they were mostly from North Africa or the Middle East, maybe a few from sub-Saharan Africa. As they passed close to where we were anchored, you could see they were extremely tense; many had the dull, dead eyes of people who have long ago given up all hope. 

As the ship and its escort drew slowly closer to land, we could see five or six local boats, dwarfed by the larger ship’s high bows, manoeuvring into position seemingly to try and block its passage. We could see a small crowd gathering onshore, and the murmur of distant voices. 

“This is going to get ugly”, Mum muttered. “Let’s get out here...”

Without another word we prepared to depart, pulled anchor, and left.

Part eight of We are not angry enough will appear on Saturday, January 29. See previous chapters in the story and read a note by the story's author.