Traffic noise floated through an open window as a Bangladeshi migrant named Nanue Matabor took a seat inside a tiny immigration office in central Rome. Only 19, Mr. Matabor had waited months for this hearing. He was asking for the right to remain in Europe. His life was in the balance. He stared at the floor, terrified.
First came the formalities. Mr. Matabor speaks only Bengali, so an interpreter explained the asylum system to him – and the possibility that his application could be denied. Then basic questions: Was his name spelled correctly? Was his birth date correct? Did he belong to a certain Bangladeshi ethnic group?
“I’m an orphan,” Mr. Matabor replied. “I don’t know my ethnic group.”
For the next 46 minutes, Mr. Matabor sat inside one of Rome’s Territorial Commissions for the Recognition of International Protection and pleaded for asylum to an audience of one – a smartly dressed Italian civil servant named Giorgio De Francesco. One man asking for protection; another man charged with deciding his fate.
Across the world, more than 65 million people migrated to escape conflict, hardship or persecution last year, either inside their own countries or across borders, the most since World War II. More than one million refugees arrived in Europe on smuggler boats, a fourfold increase from the previous year, as record numbers also applied for asylum – an exodus that has continued this year.
But having made it to Europe, many migrants face the challenge of proving they qualify to stay. Public attitudes have hardened against them. Most European economies remain weak and unable to absorb new workers.
Asylum systems in countries like Italy are overwhelmed, and some nations are tightening their requirements. Simply being from a poor or war-torn place is generally not enough. This fall, for example, the European Union reached an agreement with Afghanistan to send back home tens of thousands of Afghan migrants who had reached Europe.
For the moment, a hierarchy of human misery prevails: People fleeing well-defined conflicts, like the civil war in Syria, or oppressive states, like Eritrea, have a far higher chance of success, while the fate of many others can hinge on their individual stories.
Mr. De Francesco’s job amounts to parsing the misery, picking winners and losers from a pool of applicants who had lost so much already.
In early May, Mr. De Francesco was busy as I sat in his hearing room and listened to Mr. Matabor tell his life story. Usually, asylum hearings are confidential, but Italy’s Interior Ministry allowed me to attend nearly a dozen hearings this spring so long as I had the permission of the applicants. I then kept up with those applicants as they waited for answers.
One Nigerian man, Franck Iyanu, described how thugs had killed his brother as his stepfather tried to steal his land. He feared the police as much as his stepfather.
One afternoon, three Syrian families appeared – part of a group of Syrians whom Pope Francis had brought to Rome from a refugee camp on the Greek island of Lesbos. I was one of the reporters traveling with Francis on that trip in April, and the Syrians had clambered onto the papal plane, dazed by their good fortune. Now, I unexpectedly met them again in the hearing room.
During his hearing, Mr. Matabor described growing up illiterate in a Bangladeshi orphanage until a family informally adopted him. But the parents died, and he lived with his adoptive brother, a figure in opposition politics. Men came looking for the brother and instead found Mr. Matabor, beating him unconscious and threatening to kill him.
Mr. Matabor borrowed money, fled to Libya and worked in a hotel. The hotel was destroyed in Libya’s civil war. He escaped on a smuggler boat and arrived in Italy last year. In his absence, his young wife in Bangladesh had given birth to his son. He has never met the baby.
“They will kill me,” Mr. Matabor said, explaining what would happen if he went back to Bangladesh. “They want to find my brother, but they will kill me for revenge.”
Mr. De Francesco listened quietly, typing notes on his computer until the hearing ended and he hit a button. The printer whirred to life, spitting out three pages.
Those pieces of paper represented Mr. Matabor’s old life, and would be added to his official application for a new one. He signed his name, and later that day Mr. De Francesco presented the case for a vote to the five-member asylum commission he oversees.
The odds were not good: Nearly two-thirds of asylum applicants in Italy are refused asylum or lower levels of protection. Mr. Matabor’s answer would not come until October.
During one of his worst days, Mr. De Francesco walked to Piazza della Minerva. There, surrounded by the decaying grandeur of the ancient city, he said, he nearly broke down after hearing the case of a Nigerian woman.
“The refugee problem is a real emergency,” he said.
First came the formalities. Mr. Matabor speaks only Bengali, so an interpreter explained the asylum system to him – and the possibility that his application could be denied. Then basic questions: Was his name spelled correctly? Was his birth date correct? Did he belong to a certain Bangladeshi ethnic group?
“I’m an orphan,” Mr. Matabor replied. “I don’t know my ethnic group.”
For the next 46 minutes, Mr. Matabor sat inside one of Rome’s Territorial Commissions for the Recognition of International Protection and pleaded for asylum to an audience of one – a smartly dressed Italian civil servant named Giorgio De Francesco. One man asking for protection; another man charged with deciding his fate.
Across the world, more than 65 million people migrated to escape conflict, hardship or persecution last year, either inside their own countries or across borders, the most since World War II. More than one million refugees arrived in Europe on smuggler boats, a fourfold increase from the previous year, as record numbers also applied for asylum – an exodus that has continued this year.
But having made it to Europe, many migrants face the challenge of proving they qualify to stay. Public attitudes have hardened against them. Most European economies remain weak and unable to absorb new workers.
Asylum systems in countries like Italy are overwhelmed, and some nations are tightening their requirements. Simply being from a poor or war-torn place is generally not enough. This fall, for example, the European Union reached an agreement with Afghanistan to send back home tens of thousands of Afghan migrants who had reached Europe.
For the moment, a hierarchy of human misery prevails: People fleeing well-defined conflicts, like the civil war in Syria, or oppressive states, like Eritrea, have a far higher chance of success, while the fate of many others can hinge on their individual stories.
Mr. De Francesco’s job amounts to parsing the misery, picking winners and losers from a pool of applicants who had lost so much already.
In early May, Mr. De Francesco was busy as I sat in his hearing room and listened to Mr. Matabor tell his life story. Usually, asylum hearings are confidential, but Italy’s Interior Ministry allowed me to attend nearly a dozen hearings this spring so long as I had the permission of the applicants. I then kept up with those applicants as they waited for answers.
One Nigerian man, Franck Iyanu, described how thugs had killed his brother as his stepfather tried to steal his land. He feared the police as much as his stepfather.
One afternoon, three Syrian families appeared – part of a group of Syrians whom Pope Francis had brought to Rome from a refugee camp on the Greek island of Lesbos. I was one of the reporters traveling with Francis on that trip in April, and the Syrians had clambered onto the papal plane, dazed by their good fortune. Now, I unexpectedly met them again in the hearing room.
During his hearing, Mr. Matabor described growing up illiterate in a Bangladeshi orphanage until a family informally adopted him. But the parents died, and he lived with his adoptive brother, a figure in opposition politics. Men came looking for the brother and instead found Mr. Matabor, beating him unconscious and threatening to kill him.
Mr. Matabor borrowed money, fled to Libya and worked in a hotel. The hotel was destroyed in Libya’s civil war. He escaped on a smuggler boat and arrived in Italy last year. In his absence, his young wife in Bangladesh had given birth to his son. He has never met the baby.
“They will kill me,” Mr. Matabor said, explaining what would happen if he went back to Bangladesh. “They want to find my brother, but they will kill me for revenge.”
Mr. De Francesco listened quietly, typing notes on his computer until the hearing ended and he hit a button. The printer whirred to life, spitting out three pages.
Those pieces of paper represented Mr. Matabor’s old life, and would be added to his official application for a new one. He signed his name, and later that day Mr. De Francesco presented the case for a vote to the five-member asylum commission he oversees.
The odds were not good: Nearly two-thirds of asylum applicants in Italy are refused asylum or lower levels of protection. Mr. Matabor’s answer would not come until October.
During one of his worst days, Mr. De Francesco walked to Piazza della Minerva. There, surrounded by the decaying grandeur of the ancient city, he said, he nearly broke down after hearing the case of a Nigerian woman.
“The refugee problem is a real emergency,” he said.
