L orda quando gli albanesi eravamo noi pdf

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Marina De Chiara - University of Naples L'Orientale'. ST. I'd like to start from .. L' Orda, Quando gli albanesi eravamo noi, published in The title, which we. 1 Gian Antonio Stella, L'orda. Quando gli albanesi eravamo noi (Milan: Rizzoli, ), Translations are mine unless otherwise noted. Stella, G.A., L'Orda. Quando gli albanesi eravamo noi, Milan: Edizione Rizzoli, Il razzismo antiitaliano', in 'L'emigrazione Italiana e gli Stati Uniti. and the Ugly', pdf/bhabha&aracer.mobi>, accessed 6 .

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L Orda Quando Gli Albanesi Eravamo Noi Pdf

Io ho scritto il libro in arabo e poi l'ho riscritto in italiano" (Sandri, ). Lakhous' L'orda: quando gli albanesi eravamo noi, Milano: Rizzoli, Tawfik. Lombardi, N. and Prencipe, L. L'orda. Quando gli albanesi eravamo noi. Milan: Rizzoli. Stella, G.A. and Teti, V. .pdf, accessed 10 January Licata, D. () L'emigrazione italiana nel dati e novità in tempo di crisi, in Caritas ——() L'orda: Quando gli albanesi eravamo noi, Milan: Rizzoli.

Our lives depend on queues. Hence, the practical and the symbolic, the insiders and the excluded, 5 power and violence were clearly displayed and encapsulated in a common narrative, whereby the clearly suffering masses were blamed for their own misfortune. In concrete zones of contact, as I argue in the following, the national state asserts its presence, and enters into experience, through a particular kind of visual realism — a simultaneous production of optical facticity and ocular exposure. Lines stretching around the block, migrants camped out day after day, subject to police abuse and public scorn, were more than adequate to demonstrate the less eligibility 25 and criminality 26 of migrants. Setting, Methods and Datasets Italy, historically known for sending immigrants, has become, like the rest of Europe, a destination for migrants from around the world. Not unlike the Italian emigrants of old, 28 the immigrants to the new Europe face myriad difficulties upon entry. Their composition consists of almost nationalities, but the general trend is highlighted by the most dramatically growing immigrant population according to ISTAT The Italian National Institute of Statistics , Albanians. With only legal residents in , Albanians grew to , in and , in One of the most substantial increases is in the number of Chinese immigrants, from 62, in to , in Although the overall ratio of immigrants in the general population is lower than in other European countries, and much lower than in a traditional receiving country such as the United States, it is the recency of the immigration, which was growing from 2. Italy experienced a number of decades of immigration before developing its first comprehensive policy in , largely in response to pressure from the European Union. Granata, Lanzani and Novak 31 showed that many immigrants have difficulty finding suitable housing, remaining homeless or in substandard conditions. One in three prisoners are immigrants, often confined for crimes due to their irregular status, even though their rate of deviance is lower than in the general population.

In concrete zones of contact, as I argue in the following, the national state asserts its presence, and enters into experience, through a particular kind of visual realism — a simultaneous production of optical facticity and ocular exposure. Lines stretching around the block, migrants camped out day after day, subject to police abuse and public scorn, were more than adequate to demonstrate the less eligibility 25 and criminality 26 of migrants. Setting, Methods and Datasets Italy, historically known for sending immigrants, has become, like the rest of Europe, a destination for migrants from around the world.

Not unlike the Italian emigrants of old, 28 the immigrants to the new Europe face myriad difficulties upon entry. Their composition consists of almost nationalities, but the general trend is highlighted by the most dramatically growing immigrant population according to ISTAT The Italian National Institute of Statistics , Albanians.

With only legal residents in , Albanians grew to , in and , in One of the most substantial increases is in the number of Chinese immigrants, from 62, in to , in Although the overall ratio of immigrants in the general population is lower than in other European countries, and much lower than in a traditional receiving country such as the United States, it is the recency of the immigration, which was growing from 2.

Italy experienced a number of decades of immigration before developing its first comprehensive policy in , largely in response to pressure from the European Union. Granata, Lanzani and Novak 31 showed that many immigrants have difficulty finding suitable housing, remaining homeless or in substandard conditions. One in three prisoners are immigrants, often confined for crimes due to their irregular status, even though their rate of deviance is lower than in the general population.

Roughly, two-thirds of interviews with immigrants and all the interviews with service providers were conducted in Italian. I also attended 11 local, regional and national conferences in Italy lasting a day or more, on such themes as immigration and racism.

Instead, interviews were conducted with as broad a range of people as possible, especially in terms of legal status and length of residence. After negotiating my way on the local buses, still jet-lagged at about 10 am on a warm morning in July of , I found two lines of people in the sun outside the police office: an unruly one on the left and a short, precise one on the right. I chose the shorter line and reached the police officer at the front after a few hours.

Vai Li! I smiled with resignation as I had seen others do and joined the line I had tried to avoid. He had a thick accent — perhaps Sicilian. He seemed a study in contradictions: he hates people, he loves people, he smiles and jokes, he gives orders. Fai uno filo! A short woman slightly more than 5 feet tall , with thin, very blond hair falling straight to her shoulders, with a very nice leather purse and white pants and blouse, exited a cab and approached the guard with a strong, forthright demeanour, belying only slightly a bit of fear with a touch of her fingers to her lips, and a slight gaze downward.

A young boy, dressed in a clean, pressed, fashionable t-shirt and khaki pants, followed about a metre behind, slightly taller than the woman, seemingly his mother, but appearing shorter with a cowed, slumped demeanour, his hair in short, gelled spikes.

She said something to the guard and then entered immediately and was out in about 10 minutes, looking refreshed as if she had just come from the spa and hailed a taxi. He paced back and forth, holding the infant lightly in his arms, sometimes transferring her from one arm to the other. Some near me remarked at what a shame it was he had to be outside with such a small baby.

No one else is here to register a baby. In this way, he finally gained entrance. After about an hour and a half in this line without going anywhere, listening fruitlessly to conversations in Albanian, the gatekeeper was occupied with something else so I went inside.

I tried one window and showed him my visto visa. I went to the next window, and they told me the same. So then I went to another uniformed officer, this one a younger, gentler, less roughened type who had worked the line a bit earlier.

Now he was at a central desk surrounded by a circular window. He told me I could only go to the third window — that is where everyone was going. A woman with papers from Belgium passed me and had the same experience being moved from window to window without explanation. Soon the officer at the central desk told me to wait outside. Outside, those waiting continued to ask for assistance, but eventually, near , the officer told them to come back tomorrow.

You must return tomorrow! I walked 2 hours home in the rain, feeling lost and angry, writing that evening that I felt like a piece of trash at the Questura. The next day I returned at 6 am with my Italian wife, both of us in professional dress. We were far overdressed, and I think the two of us attracted some attention.

I wore brown dress shoes, tan socks, brown slacks and a light linen short-sleeved dress shirt with a white and beige checkered pattern. She wore sandals, a pleasant orange and black print skirt and a net shirt with little beads over a white blouse with spaghetti straps.

She had on a gold necklace with a wide, elaborate braid pattern, and a nice wooden clasp pulled her hair over her ears. Two nearby men said there is nothing official, but some guy at the head of the line is keeping a list. Even though she had arrived after us, we signed the list after she did. I was 31 and my wife The tall man wanted to know why he was 7 — he had been there a long time. The shorter man told him he and his parents had spent the night there. His father was taller, with a granite-like seriousness and a prominent nose, while his mother was softer with thin red hair, still pretty after hours of waiting.

The shorter man told the taller that it was not important — 7 was still a good number, but the taller continued to somewhat aggressively disagree. I also told him 7 was a good number, not to worry about it, and besides the list is not official. They continued to discuss this while we returned to our spot on the rail and continued reading.

I talked with some of the other migrants in line. Beside me, a friendly, tall man from Morocco told me he had been in Italy since on a work permit which is renewed every 2 years. He was here to get permission for his daughter.

He showed me her pictures — very cute. He said he came for a job in a furniture factory. He works on his feet 12 hours a day and he showed me the unsightly bruises and swelling around his ankles from this practice, his blood following gravity. He said that his parents have a house in Morocco and he wants to return, but he wants a house of his own; he is not able to save because the economy has stagnated and prices are too high; his salary stays the same, at about 2, euros a month; goes to house, to the car, and the rest is simply gone by the end of the month.

He said that when they converted to the euro, , lire were supposed to equal 50 euros, but instead, they converted straight over, pricing items at euros, effectively doubling the price of everything. I told him I had noticed this too and talked about how much further my money had gone when one could still use lire. He said that his wife is always complaining to him to go back, but he convinces her they should stay because his job is good, and he probably would not find one as good back home.

Later I spoke with a young man in a white t-shirt and jeans named Andrei, from Romania, who had been working in Italy for the past 4 years as a general construction worker. He was now at work on a large project on a main boulevard. He talked about how he felt life was better under communism — more equality, more work, but it was not perfect, and it was not the same everywhere.

Certainly, life was not so great under Ceausescu, when everyone was afraid. He was young when the tyrant was overthrown, and he remembered innocent people — children, dying in the streets. He talked about how under Gorbachev, things began changing. Russia took over Lithuania, Estonia, etc.

After a few hours, my wife left and I held my spot, which felt like being trapped in a crowded elevator for 7 hours. We jostled up against each other, smelled one another. As the crowd prepared for the officer to come out to collect passports, two friends of the same ethnic group put their arms around each other to provide a strong barrier against me. I tried standing meditation, but neither my nice clothes nor my place on the list led to a police officer taking my passport when he arrived and called for them.

As I turned to leave and the line broke up in the afternoon, a kind Italian immigration lawyer passed and commiserated, handing me a list of necessary documents I would need and procedures I should follow.

The next morning I posted myself right at the door at am. No one was around; it was perfectly quiet. I began reading one of the four articles I brought under the bright lights in front of the station when a young man walked by me whom I remembered from prior days in line. He had short spiky blond hair, a slightly muscular build and sporty way of carrying himself.

He passed and smiled slightly. He looked a bit exasperated at my idiocy. He told me I needed to put my name on the list at the bar, because there had been people waiting all night. I got up, happy to stretch a bit from my squat, and signed at post 19 each day they only take 20 passports , but said I knew it did not signify anything. She had on a gold necklace with a wide, elaborate braid pattern, and a nice wooden clasp pulled her hair over her ears. Two nearby men said there is nothing official, but some guy at the head of the line is keeping a list.

Even though she had arrived after us, we signed the list after she did. I was 31 and my wife The tall man wanted to know why he was 7 — he had been there a long time. The shorter man told him he and his parents had spent the night there.

His father was taller, with a granite-like seriousness and a prominent nose, while his mother was softer with thin red hair, still pretty after hours of waiting. The shorter man told the taller that it was not important — 7 was still a good number, but the taller continued to somewhat aggressively disagree. I also told him 7 was a good number, not to worry about it, and besides the list is not official.

They continued to discuss this while we returned to our spot on the rail and continued reading. I talked with some of the other migrants in line.

Border Traffic: Reimagining the Voyage to Italy

Beside me, a friendly, tall man from Morocco told me he had been in Italy since on a work permit which is renewed every 2 years. He was here to get permission for his daughter. He showed me her pictures — very cute. He said he came for a job in a furniture factory. He works on his feet 12 hours a day and he showed me the unsightly bruises and swelling around his ankles from this practice, his blood following gravity. He said that his parents have a house in Morocco and he wants to return, but he wants a house of his own; he is not able to save because the economy has stagnated and prices are too high; his salary stays the same, at about 2, euros a month; goes to house, to the car, and the rest is simply gone by the end of the month.

He said that when they converted to the euro, , lire were supposed to equal 50 euros, but instead, they converted straight over, pricing items at euros, effectively doubling the price of everything.

I told him I had noticed this too and talked about how much further my money had gone when one could still use lire. He said that his wife is always complaining to him to go back, but he convinces her they should stay because his job is good, and he probably would not find one as good back home.

Later I spoke with a young man in a white t-shirt and jeans named Andrei, from Romania, who had been working in Italy for the past 4 years as a general construction worker. He was now at work on a large project on a main boulevard.

He talked about how he felt life was better under communism — more equality, more work, but it was not perfect, and it was not the same everywhere. Certainly, life was not so great under Ceausescu, when everyone was afraid. He was young when the tyrant was overthrown, and he remembered innocent people — children, dying in the streets. He talked about how under Gorbachev, things began changing. Russia took over Lithuania, Estonia, etc.

After a few hours, my wife left and I held my spot, which felt like being trapped in a crowded elevator for 7 hours. We jostled up against each other, smelled one another. As the crowd prepared for the officer to come out to collect passports, two friends of the same ethnic group put their arms around each other to provide a strong barrier against me.

I tried standing meditation, but neither my nice clothes nor my place on the list led to a police officer taking my passport when he arrived and called for them. As I turned to leave and the line broke up in the afternoon, a kind Italian immigration lawyer passed and commiserated, handing me a list of necessary documents I would need and procedures I should follow.

The next morning I posted myself right at the door at am. No one was around; it was perfectly quiet. I began reading one of the four articles I brought under the bright lights in front of the station when a young man walked by me whom I remembered from prior days in line. He had short spiky blond hair, a slightly muscular build and sporty way of carrying himself. He passed and smiled slightly. He looked a bit exasperated at my idiocy. He told me I needed to put my name on the list at the bar, because there had been people waiting all night.

I got up, happy to stretch a bit from my squat, and signed at post 19 each day they only take 20 passports , but said I knew it did not signify anything.

I sat among them in the darkness. There was the older man in black, the young man who had passed me to my right at tables for this closed bar, and a well-built, tall man in white pants and a white t-shirt with a logo of the number 69 with wings, sitting to my left, who seemed he could barely stay awake. A swarthy man, perhaps in his late twenties, with long stubble, short black hair, of medium build, asked me if I was from Romania, and then if I was from Russia.

He seemed surprised and said he did not think Americans had to go through this. He said America was the richest, most powerful country in the world.

I agreed, but said the power is waning. The strong guy in all white got up for a walk, and the kid with spiky blond hair laid belly down atop two tables to my left, one where the strong guy had sat.

I took my cue and returned to squat by the door.

More people arrived, some signing the list, others ignoring it. Around 7 am, the police came out and began to badger us. The guys in front asked why they do not follow their list.

This was not the smiley cop we had seen earlier I did not see him for the rest of the day , but a tan, mid-sized guy with short hair, bald on top, with a penetrating glare and a way of looking down even when the person he spoke with was at eye level.

The guys responded to him that they had been waiting all night. You can arrive at four, three. Spend the night. Start waiting right now for tomorrow, or for next Thursday. And make all the lists you want. The officer took issue with a rough looking, slightly smaller version of himself to my right. He had squinty eyes, a jerky, slightly battered face, and the offhand manner of a little juggernaut. After the capo, he would be my first choice in a rugby match, no doubt.

He kindly offered the officer a perfectly reasonable suggestion — one I was thinking of myself, of them posting a waiting list. If you want to go to Prato, Go! It surely intimidated the hell out of the rest of us. Perhaps he smelled anger and wanted to turn it into fear. I stood my post. Later, when two officers came to take the passports in the centre of the crowd, some of the women were blocked out by men forcing their way to the centre.

The police counted out to 20 as we jostled against each other to try to be one of the lucky ones. Exhausted, I headed home.

Mario Buda

When I interviewed a Palestinian man about his experience in the line, he echoed my experiences translated from Italian : M4: You have to spend days and sleep outside the Questura, with the cold, with all the pains, without eating […]. They push back with a communal solidarity.

I was like the black sheep, alone. So they take my place with force, telling me, go back. Finally, once you arrive at the window, they tell you to come back tomorrow. Another man told me, G5: I waited two days for 12 hours each day.

Border Traffic: Reimagining the Voyage to Italy | SpringerLink

But many times the documents that I presented were not sufficient, and they send you away, so you have to stand in line another day always without any order. Problems with the police are especially frustrating. But to whom can I denounce them? For those who had spent years in Italy and owned a business, the line was humiliating.

Thus they have to shout, perhaps. Stress to them and stress to us. Why must it come to this situation? But a person like me, who grew up here, is just as if you were handed an Italian. Like if I took an Italian, put them out at the Questura and treated them like a foreigner.

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