THE HOME
- Brando Ottavi
- 4 days ago
- 8 min read
The home has always represented one of the most fundamental archetypes for human beings—not only as a physical space but as a deep-rooted structure that shapes our very presence in the world. It is the place we leave and the place we return to, a space that accompanies our lives, marking moments of transformation and homecoming.
It is the "place of recognition," both for the individual and the community—a space that gathers, protects, and defines social, cultural, and emotional relationships.
The home reflects what we, as individuals and as a collective, understand as "belonging." It is not merely a place of shelter, but a symbolic anchor that nurtures the emotional bonds necessary for our growth.
Psychologically speaking, the home is the ultimate container of identity: it rebuilds the affective structure to which the individual aspires. It defines us and shields us from life’s uncertainties. When we think of home, we don’t just envision a building—we see a refuge, something akin to a psychic envelope that allows us to feel safe with ourselves and with others, a place where familial and emotional bonds find their natural space.
This is where we first experience the attachment bond, and its importance goes far beyond physical refuge: it is here that our social identity begins to take shape. Every home is a product of culture, history, and social order—reflected in architecture, domestic habits, rituals, and traditions. A home is never neutral: it gains meaning through the individual’s social position, cultural ties, and personal history.
Ultimately, it becomes a metaphor for our "rooted existence." In philosophy, the home has often been explored as the place where one finds a sense of self and belonging in the world. Heidegger described it as the “place of being,” a space that is not only physical, but woven together with our emotions, thoughts, and consciousness. It is the condition that allows the individual to truly inhabit their life, with continuity and a sense of stability.
But what happens when this essential structure is broken? When one is forced to leave their home, not by choice, but by necessity?
In the context of migration, the concept of home becomes even more complex. Its loss becomes a deep psychological wound, leaving a lasting mark on the individual.
When a migrant leaves their country, it is not just a matter of geographical displacement—it is a profound separation from what defines their identity. Migration is not simply a physical journey; it is a psychological and emotional experience, marked by grief for the loss of one’s home and all that it represents: culture, family, roots, and the sense of belonging.
From a psychological perspective, separation from home generates disorientation and a sense of loss. Grief sets in when one is forced to confront the “inevitability of loss.” In this case, home is not just a physical place, but a symbol—a container of emotions, memories, meaningful relationships, a representation of the known world. Losing that connection means confronting an overwhelming sense of emptiness.
This migratory grief is often described as a “multiple loss”: not only the physical place is gone, but also the social, cultural, and emotional ties that once grounded the person. The migrant experiences a rupture with their original identity, leaving behind a void that is hard to fill. They no longer belong to the social fabric they once inhabited, yet struggle to find a place in the new context, where they often feel rejected. Nostalgia becomes one of the most visible aspects of the migrant condition—a persistent longing to return. Home becomes more than a place—it becomes an unreachable symbol of stability, security, and identity.
In many cases, the migrant becomes a “non-identity,” someone who belongs neither to their homeland nor to their host country—neither citizen nor foreigner, neither wholly Self nor entirely Other. They become atopos, out of place, trapped in a continuous state of uncertainty and disorientation.
This condition of double absence gives rise to a constant effort to reconnect with a past that is no longer accessible—with a place that exists only in memory, with a life that can no longer be lived.
The migrant lives suspended in an uncertain geography, somewhere between the place they left and the place that never fully accepts them. Their existence unfolds at the border—not entirely a citizen, not entirely a stranger, not completely part of the familiar or the foreign. A life lived out of place: atopos, where belonging crumbles and must be endlessly rebuilt.
Doubly absent and doubly excluded, the migrant lives the paradox of exile: wherever they go, they are elsewhere. The sense of being “outside” is one of the most common feelings among those who migrate. It reflects direct contact with a self in transition—a "modified self" that adapts by altering parts of its identity in order to feel in control and to preserve a comforting sense of continuity. This process often involves avoiding the risk of truly confronting the unexpected or the Other.
In such a state, it becomes difficult for the person to distinguish between inner and outer worlds, between the conscious and unconscious. The barrier separating them weakens, allowing unresolved psychic material to surface. The identity process fragments; the continuity that normally ensures a stable and healthy sense of self is missing. The migrant’s identity becomes fragile, suspended, precarious.
For all these reasons, every migration can be considered a trauma. It severs the deep link between internalized reality and external cultural experience, dismantling the subjective identity and exposing the person to a dehumanizing condition. Migration-related trauma is not limited to the physical journey—it shapes the psychological image one has of oneself and the world, carrying painful experiences into the present and the future.
Disorientation, the loss of stable cultural references, and the rupture with the original context generate what we call cultural shock. The individual is suddenly immersed in a new, often hostile environment that undermines their sense of security and throws their identity into crisis. This type of trauma, deeply connected to cultural and relational dimensions, is known as migratory trauma. It involves a shift from the “True Self” to the “False Self”: the authentic, spontaneous identity is suppressed by an adaptive structure, one that tries to meet the expectations of the external world—at the cost of inner coherence.
This explains why individuals who experience forced migration are more likely to develop psychological vulnerability. The combination of psychic suffering and migratory trauma can result in specific disorders, the most common of which is Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Forced displacement, grief, repeated loss, and exposure to violence all contribute to the traumatic impact. One of the clearest symptoms is numbing: emotional and affective detachment. The person feels estranged, as if watching their life from the outside. They no longer feel “at home” in their own skin. The body becomes a shell, the mind a refuge, identity a state of suspension.
In such a fragile context, the quality of reception in host countries plays a crucial role in either supporting or hindering the process of rebuilding identity. Unfortunately, the current containment strategies adopted by the Italian government—and by many other European states—often worsen this state of invisibility and limbo, revealing a painful truth: not all human beings are granted the same right to safety, to protection, or even to be heard.
Italy is undergoing a profound transformation in its reception and integration system for asylum seekers and migrants. But instead of evolving toward greater inclusion, this shift has taken the form of increasingly rigid measures—undermining the already fragile psychological and social balance of those arriving. This obsession with security, influenced by broader European trends, has also fostered a growing sense of hostility in Italy. The country has chosen a path of exclusion, leading to the marginalization of many asylum seekers. Those who arrive often do not feel welcome. They are stigmatized, labeled as “foreign,” and kept at a distance from the host society.
The presence of the migrant becomes a constant reminder of incompleteness and implicit guilt. They are marked as “out of place” in every sense of the word.
The Italian system lacks a comprehensive legal framework to safely manage sea arrivals. The central Mediterranean presents specific challenges in terms of rescue capacity. The disembarkation of rescued individuals in a “safe port”—and thus the entire pre-reception phase—is a crucial part of every rescue operation. A safe port should be a place where survivors are no longer in danger, where their basic needs are met, and from which they can continue their journey toward a final destination.
Pre-reception, in this sense, means the prompt assignment of a safe landing place. Yet in the Mediterranean, disembarkation is often delayed, with serious consequences for both the physical and mental well-being of migrants. Already exhausted by violence, abuse, and suffering during their journey, they face yet another trauma: waiting at sea, suspended, uncertain of their fate.
But it is not only the reception system that must be questioned—it is contemporary society as a whole that struggles to process the changes of recent decades. In a culture dominated by consumerism, individualism, and the homogenizing force of globalization, coexistence with otherness becomes a challenge. Migrants risk further marginalization.
Cultural hybridity, when experienced without the proper tools, can lead to confusion, loss of reference points, and identity crises. Isolation, fragmentation, and exclusion are no longer just social conditions: they become internal states—lenses through which the individual comes to perceive themselves and the world.
This is why protecting human rights and implementing effective migration policies should not be seen as competing goals. Rather, the protection of human rights should be the foundation of any legitimate and effective migration policy. Nowhere is this more evident than in the Mediterranean, where the current approach of EU member states has failed to prevent unnecessary loss of life—and has left those who are rescued in a state of precarity and uncertainty.
The challenges are vast, but the need to shift course is even more urgent—to safeguard human life and human dignity. The act of rescuing migrants has been politicized, turned into an attack on national security and sovereignty. Those who close ports and leave helpless people—children included—stranded at sea for days present themselves as defenders of the homeland, as if the nation’s security were under threat from a foreign invasion.
We must understand that those boats drifting in the Mediterranean carry people fleeing despair, in search of hope—not criminals, enemies, or invaders. They are human beings who have sold everything they had to pay for a chance at a better life.
In this painful and complex scenario, Gianfranco Rosi’s film Fuocoammare offers more than just a documentary: it is a stark yet poetic narrative that confronts us with the often-ignored reality of the migrant crisis. Set in Lampedusa—an island that has become a symbol of the border between those who stay and those who arrive, between those who have a home and those who have lost theirs—the film immerses us in a suspended space, where home is not only what we leave behind, but also what we desperately seek, often without ever finding it.
In Fuocoammare, the home is what’s missing. Through the contrast between the ordinary life of Samuele, a young island resident, and the suffering of migrants rescued at sea, the film lays bare the meaning of belonging: on one side, someone rooted in their land, protected by continuity and memory; on the other, those who have left everything behind—home, family, language, identity.
Fuocoammare does not only show the crossing; it captures the silence that follows, the emptiness of waiting, and above all, the absence of a certain future. It echoes a lost stability, a fragile hope for a new beginning, and the weight of a collective responsibility that too often goes unacknowledged.
Saving human lives should never be a matter of political or ideological debate.It is a choice—every time.
Letting people die at sea is also a choice.
Choosing who gets to live and who doesn’t, who deserves shelter, and who must remain at the margins, is the reflection of a society that has lost touch with its own humanity.
The Mediterranean—once a cradle of civilization—has become a deadly border, a liquid graveyard. And yet every lost life represents a home that will never be rebuilt, a story that will never be told. Every migrant carries with them a world that asks to be welcomed, recognized and heard.
This is why the real challenge is not only to provide shelter but to restore dignity.And maybe, then, home is not just a place we leave or return to, but an ethical horizon—the possibility of being recognized as human in a space, real or symbolic, where we are protected, but above all, heard.
For those who flee, home is the right to imagine a future.
And today more than ever, guaranteeing that future means recognizing in every migrant not a stranger, but a human being searching for a place to belong.
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