Lampedusa has a peculiar quality. A sun-bleached fishing town with white walls, prickly pears growing wherever the soil permits, and tourists ordering espresso at plastic tables is what you find when you arrive expecting a fortress. The border is both everywhere and nowhere. It doesn’t resemble the steel slats that separate Mexico and the United States. It doesn’t make an announcement. Even though the majority of those who discuss the island have never visited it, it has become one of the most photographed locations in Europe over the past 20 years.
A military checkpoint a few hundred meters prior to the gate blocks off the reception center, which is situated in a valley obscured by vegetation. To avoid being noticed, photographers describe parking on a nearby hilltop and raising their cameras just long enough to capture the red and white prefabricated roofs that protrude from the green. Getting closer is possible, but only if you’re invited, and invitations usually have requirements. Almost invariably, the pictures that make it onto television screens are those that someone, somewhere, decided we ought to see.
People don’t realize how important that decision is. For years, scholars such as Chiara Giubilaro have argued that the visual coverage of Lampedusa—the same crowded boat, the same tired face, the same blue water—has solidified into a sort of grammar. The repetition seems to be intentional. It fulfills a purpose, which is frequently both humanitarian and the opposite at the same time. It’s difficult to ignore how infrequently a migrant on the island is depicted just going about their daily lives, such as eating, waiting, or simply walking.
The scenery is enhanced by the geography. Due to a peculiarity in the drawing of the border, Italy’s territorial waters surrounding Lampedusa are technically located inside what would otherwise be the Tunisian Sea. Since a wall is impossible, there isn’t one. The cameras take care of the rest while the Mediterranean does what concrete does elsewhere. Lampedusa is arguably the world’s cleanest example of how a border can be enforced through visibility just as much as fences.
Under the direction of photographer Armin Linke, the Migrant Image Research Group began traveling in 2010 to interview nearly everyone involved, including residents, fishermen, NGO employees, photo editors, and the migrants themselves. Published by Leipzig’s Spector Books, their book reads more like an autopsy of the process of creating an image than it does like a report. who sets the scene. Who is the seller? Who purchases it? Who determines if the boat in the picture represents an invasion or a rescue? Naturally, the responses are uncomfortable.
People on the island discuss the cameras in the same way that people in other towns discuss the weather, which is an inevitable aspect of life. While some people enjoy the attention, others dislike it, and the majority have learned to ignore it. Nowadays, there is tourism, dining establishments, and a small economy based on visitors, even if the majority of the visitors are other tourists. When the migrants arrive, they are promptly removed from view. The island continues. The pictures continue to circulate. Beneath all that scrutiny, Lampedusa is stubbornly, almost defiantly, unphotographed.
