On the white and blue boat a woman gives birth, Malelyn and I helped her, there was no water to wash her: the new mother is called Janeba, she is perhaps no more than twenty years old, I ask her if the father has already seen the child. Janeba replies: “I don’t know who the father is”. I am calm at Mrs. Annamaria’s, now in Cagliari, before in Rome, I think back to my life, to the night in the camper, to the hell of many like me, to my friend who works as a carer in San Giuseppe Vesuviano. I wonder if sooner or later it will end. If sooner or later women will also be respected in Romania. Before going to sleep I remember the poem Ful de nea which translates to Snowflake. These women who come to Italy from all over the world to work as carers are autonomous and aware, economically active, in migration they have found a way to affirm their subjectivity… The journey is not only the crossing of geographical spaces. The journeys are those made within oneself. But it is difficult to reconstruct one’s identity in social contexts different from the starting ones.
