The other evening my wife drew my attention to an Italian television programme called Overland. This particular episode followed a group of SUV drivers travelling through Africa on their way to Nigeria.. Beautiful scenery, fascinating people—and then suddenly the darker side of humanity.
They encountered the reality of human trafficking.
Poor people are persuaded to leave everything behind by promises of wealth, security and happiness somewhere else. Criminal gangs organise the journey, take their money and often leave them in situations far worse than the ones they escaped. Watching it, I realised that the story was not simply about Africa. It was about all of us.
Migration has always been part of human history.
Only a few miles from where I live lies the deserted village of Bugnano. Once it was full of life. Families lived there for generations before agents persuaded many of them that America offered a better future. They abandoned beautiful stone houses and left for what they believed would be a land of opportunity.

Some undoubtedly prospered.
Others found poverty, loneliness and disappointment.
Today similar houses, once abandoned because they symbolised hardship, are lovingly restored and worth small fortunes. What one generation rejects, another generation treasures.
Exactly the same has happened in England. The picturesque thatched cottages of the Cotswolds, Devon or East Anglia, now admired by tourists from all over the world, were once regarded as poor labourers’ cottages abandoned in the search for work in the newly industrialised towns..

History has an extraordinary habit of changing our values.
All this led me to a rather uncomfortable conclusion.
I am an emigrant.
I dislike the fashionable word “expat”. It always sounds as though some migrants deserve a more respectable title than others. An Englishman retiring to Tuscany is somehow an “expat”, while someone arriving in Britain from Africa or Asia is an “immigrant”.
Rubbish.
I left Britain because I believed I could enjoy a better quality of life in Italy. I am therefore an emigrant from Britain and an immigrant in Italy. I belong to exactly the same great movement of humanity that has seen millions of Italians, Irish, Poles, Greeks and countless others leave their own countries in search of something better.
The reasons differ.
Some flee war.
Some flee poverty.
Some seek education.
Some simply seek happiness.
But the human instinct remains remarkably similar.
Modern migration, however, has become something quite different from that experienced by our grandparents. Cheap travel, instant communication and social media have made moving countries seem easier than ever before. At the same time, organised criminal gangs have turned migration into an immensely profitable business, exploiting vulnerable people at every stage of their journey.
Recently another expression has become fashionable—”remigration”. Depending upon who uses it, it can simply mean people returning voluntarily to their country of origin, or it can describe policies requiring people to leave. Certainly Polish plumbers have become ever rarer in Britain and several brits in our italian part of the world have expressed the wish to spend their last days in their country of origin.. Whatever definition of remigration one prefers, the debate itself reflects something deeper: every country struggles with the question of how to remain itself while welcoming newcomers.

For me, one word stands above all others.
Integration.
Integration begins with language.
Learning the language of the country in which you choose to live is not merely a practical necessity. Language is culture. It carries humour, history, literature, manners and ways of thinking that no dictionary can ever fully translate.
Here I must make a confession.
I know many British people who have lived in Italy for years without ever really learning Italian. They survive perfectly well, often because Italians are generous enough to meet them halfway in English.
But surviving is not integrating.
If we expect newcomers to Britain to learn English, surely those of us who choose Italy should make every effort to learn Italian.
Italy possesses something I greatly admire.
Italians are fiercely proud of where they come from—not simply Italy itself, but their own town, their own valley, their own campanile. Every village has its own traditions, festivals, dialect and identity. That wonderful sense of place is something much of modern Europe has begun to lose.

Of course Italy, like Britain and every other European nation, now debates immigration, identity and religion. These are not easy conversations. They never have been. They stir emotions because they touch upon questions of belonging, history and culture.
Yet perhaps the greatest irony of all emerged during Brexit.
Many British people living happily elsewhere in Europe voted for Britain to leave the European Union while themselves enjoying the freedom of movement that had enabled them to settle abroad.
Migration always seems more acceptable when it is our own.
In the end, perhaps we need rather less shouting and rather more humility.
No country is paradise.
Britain is not.
Italy is not.

Many English people arrive dreaming of la dolce vita only to discover bureaucracy, endless paperwork and the frustrations of daily life. Others find exactly the life they were seeking and would never dream of returning.
Reality usually lies somewhere between dream and disappointment.

Perhaps the answer is neither open borders nor closed minds.
Perhaps the answer lies in honesty, responsibility and mutual respect.
Countries have every right to protect their borders and preserve their culture. Equally, migrants deserve dignity, fairness and protection from those who exploit them. Above all, everyone deserves the opportunity to become part of the society in which they choose to live.
After over twenty years livjng and working ìn Italy’s Bagni di Lucca, I have learned one lesson above all others.
Before judging migrants, I should remember that I am one.
The labels may change—emigrant, immigrant, migrant or the fashionable “expat”—but they all describe the same human story.
We are, every one of us, travellers.

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