Europe, they say, is back. The road between indifference and concern for refugees is long: but Europe is already making headway. Angela Merkel and Germany deserve credit for making Europe a safe and hospitable place for asylum-seekers. But how did this transformation begin? The photograph of a deceased three-year-old boy named Aylan provoked a reaction that momentarily interrupted racism and vitriol flowing among the 'Internet community' and from the right-wing leader Matteo Salvini.
But is the death of an innocent Syrian child, amid hundreds of thousands of other innocent people, really enough to shake Europe's conscience? Can a photograph change us? The photo did what the numbers couldn't achieve on their own (thousands of people have died in the Mediterranean en route to the Balkans, and many more lost their lives on their way to the Balkans, in cargo trucks rolling through Austria and France, and in Ceuta and Melilla, the Spanish territories bordering mainland Africa.)
These people, who risk their lives to flee conflict, violence, and poverty, are part of what we call a 'mixed-migration flow.' Among them are Syrian families, who, after four years of war, have no other escape, and youth from Eritrea, Mali, and The Gambia seeking basic human rights, and many more who may be denied their long-awaited asylum if they are categorized as "economic refugees."
The unjust death of Aylan has, thankfully, not yet been placed amidst a petty debate. Hopefully, we will be spared listening to blame being dumped on those who are helping or trying to reestablish cooperation among receiving countries. A respectful silence prevails, like the pallbearers' pause after the child, Cecilia, dies of the plague in Manzoni's novel, The Betrothed. Primo Levi captured our inability to feel mass compassion (a dreadful gift only granted to saints) when he wrote about the employees at the gas chamber at Auschwitz, who had grown accustomed to killing thousands of people every day, but suddenly had the urge to save a girl who miraculously survived the gas. "All we have, at best, is a sporadic compassion focused on individuals," he said, at once describing Cecilia's pallbearers, the gas chamber team, and all of us. Meanwhile, Susan Sontag wrote that "Being a spectator of calamities taking place in another country is a quintessential modern experience." We see so many images of pain throughout our daily lives, but we don't suffer with their subjects. Instead, the immediate rush of compassion that we experience is often fleeting, and almost never materializes in the form of helping those who suffer. But our ability to witness images of death without flinching does not mean that we all lack empathy; no one is completely unfeeling. But a kind of moral void seems to emerge, which impedes our full recognition of the pain of others, and dilutes our surges of emotion.
People are right to fear that looking at painful images will make them immune to even harsher images; they are also right to fear "gruesome" descriptions which draw them close to evil, giving it a morbid allure.
Our sporadic bursts of compassion won't do much good, if we quickly dismiss them. But if we allow them to, they can create openings within us. Aylan should not have died as he did, and something must be done. We are not being forced to sit lamely like shameless voyeurs. Although one might think that Europe has aged, she is finding her way back to a sense of unity, through policies that are fair, open, longsighted, and cohesive. Germany has already figure out how to take this step, and other countries can follow suit; Italy created Operation Mare Nostrum, in which the country's Marines and Coast Guard saved more than 130,000 lives. It is possible to open humanitarian routes through the countries people are traversing, and to write common regulations for providing shelter. The Dublin Regulation, which is still being tested, might be changed if history turns out to have surpassed it.
To be sure, 52 million refugees and displaced people worldwide in 2015 and 20 million in 2005 are the largest numbers since 1951, when the Geneva Convention established the sacred right to asylum for those in danger, and turned democratic countries into sanctuaries. But they are manageable numbers for the 28 countries of the EU, if the East doesn't stumble back into the ghosts of the past -- into numbers tattooed on arms to avoid seeing stories, names, faces -- if the North doesn't tire of solidarity, and if the West is not too distracted and complacent. It is disturbing to see border walls return, but people are jumping over them and pressing against them with the force of hope, even more than desperation. Their strength could push Europe to take initiative in foreign affairs in ways that don't just advance European interests.
The reception of refugees at Milan's Holocaust Memorial shows that we are not condemned to repeat history. In the city's underground central station, which in 1944 became a point of departure for concentration-camp-bound trains, a place of memory has emerged. Liliana Segre, who left as a 13-year-old after being turned back from the Swiss border, wanted to see the word "INDIFFERENCE" written in large letters at the station entrance. This is where the Catholic Community of Sant'Egidio and the Jewish community, with help from volunteers of every faith and nationality, have now been receiving some 50 people each evening, who seek safety after disembarking in southern Italy. In makeshift cots, tired and aching people pause for rest: an 80-year-old woman from Aleppo, the Syrian city under siege for years without food or water; a 13-year-old Eritrean boy who, like Liliana, wants to reach his family in Germany. A glance at their faces is all it takes to see the sadness and hope.
"Refugees welcome," Europe has begun to announce -- if we can just seize the opportunity.
This post first appeared on HuffPost Italy and was translated into English.