To come to France, migrants take significant risks crossing the Alps. In 2023, nearly 150,000 passed through Italy. While waiting for the Immigration Law, here is a report from the border.
In the heart of the mountains, at the end of December, among the vacationers enjoying the ski slopes, there are young men seeking a better future in Europe. Getting off a bus in Clavière, an Italian village bordering the Hautes-Alpes, the tense and resigned expressions of the migrants ready to take all risks to reach France contrast sharply with the carefree attitude of the young English teenagers they pass, who are engaged in a joyful snowball fight.
A journey of more than ten hours
Here is a group of about fifteen undocumented migrants, mostly from sub-Saharan Africa and Morocco. For them, the snow is a new experience that accentuates the menacing nature of the mountains as the challenge they face becomes more apparent.
The weak winter sun gives way to a biting cold carried by the wind. Sheltered under the porch of a wooden cabin, four of them wait for nightfall to cross. While this approach allows them to be more discreet and avoid border police, it exposes them to higher risks of fatal falls, with some narrow paths barely fifty centimeters wide. In 2018, Blessing Matthew, a Nigerian migrant, drowned in the Durance River after falling in while fleeing a police check. "The fallen trees on the path don't help," laments Fabrizio (1), a man in his thirties with round glasses, who works for a migrant reception center located further down. He points to a path, describing it as shorter but steeper and more dangerous.
There is another path on the other side, longer and easier, but known to the police. Despite the risks of getting lost, all will cross the border that night, after a journey of more than ten hours to reach Briançon (Hautes-Alpes). These same migrants pass through the Oulx shelter, where Fabrizio works. In the entrance hall, the walls are covered with drawings of African, Iranian, and Afghan flags, signatures, and first names, marking the passage of men and women in search of a future.
Sitting on a stool, a 19-year-old Guinean plays a melancholic tune on the guitar. Some listen, others scrutinize Google Maps or rest, waiting for departure. Next to the canteen, a small room serves as a locker room. Warm clothes and mountain boots are piled up to equip those preparing to leave. On the door of the room, a map of the area is dotted with skulls to inform the undocumented migrants about the paths to avoid.
"He will try as many times as it takes."
Aboubakar, 23, left Mali five years ago. He went through Tunisia before reaching Lampedusa after an ordeal of three days by boat. In his eyes, one can see a resilience that accumulated fatigue weakens but does not erase. "With God's help, it's easier," he says simply when asked if he fears crossing the border.
He has already tried once but had to turn back when confronted by border guards. "He will try as many times as it takes, like all the others," explains a volunteer from the association. Most aim to reach France and stay there, as their relatives are already settled. One is heading to Paris, where his family awaits him. Another wants to go to Lyon, where a friend is ready to welcome him.
On the French side in Briançon, another shelter takes over. It provides accommodation and meals for a maximum of three nights. It's a melting pot of migrants, European outcasts, young far-left activists, and ordinary volunteers. (2)
In the kitchen of the establishment, Christine, a retiree, busily tends to a large pot of sauce that fills the room with its aroma. For her, the association represents an "extraordinary intergenerational third place" where people with the same values of solidarity come together, which "lifts her spirits" amid the context of the Immigration Law.
Marc-Aurèle Barez
(1) The names in this article have been changed.
(2) Discover the work of these Swiss, French, and Italian associations, including the Swiss NGO. VanForLife.
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