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Zahra, a young girl who used to play happily in her yard, faced a sudden earthquake that changed everything. In just a minute, she lost not only her home but also her family, leaving her all alone.

Now, Zahra had to figure out how to survive in a world that felt unfamiliar and scary. She wandered through the broken pieces of her old life, trying to find a safe place to stay. Along the way, she met others who, like her, had lost everything.

Despite the tough times, Zahra found comfort in this new group of people. They became her makeshift family, helping and supporting each other. Together, they worked hard to rebuild their lives and the community around them.

As the years passed, Zahra became a symbol of strength. The once-damaged neighborhood turned into a place where kids could play freely again. Zahra, who started with just her concern for toys, became a reminder that even in the toughest situations, people can come together and create something good.

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Venice is a hydrowoman. She recalls her roots to be symbiotically intertwined with the water that surrounds, traverses, surpasses, and sustains her. Yet, she has lost contact with how that feels. Compressed by a top-down system that sells her away, piece by piece, to the evils of profit and cement. She is impeded to summon the indigenous spirit within herself, the vitality of her archipelagic soul. Silenced, petrified, deprived of any vital space for dis-ruption or re-volution, she helplessly floats on a lagoon of nihilism. Even her tidal cries that once empowered her with fluid scapeways, are bothered, bordered by a massive wall. Only the water carries her transient memory.

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Aisha squinted through the salty spray, the rickety fishing boat groaning under the relentless monsoon. Memories of lush green mangroves, home to her ancestors for generations, flickered through her mind's eye. Now, a desolate expanse of churning grey stretched before them, a constant reminder of the rising sea levels that had swallowed their island whole.

Aisha, her husband Karim, and their two young children, Kiran and Priya, were part of a mass exodus from the Lakshadweep archipelago. Rising sea levels had turned their fertile lands saline, decimating their fishing livelihood. The close-knit community, known for their intricate seashell art and vibrant underwater festivals, was now a scattered diaspora.

Their journey was arduous. Packed onto the small boat with other families, they endured days of churning seas and dwindling rations. News of overcrowded refugee camps on the mainland was a constant worry. Karim, a skilled woodcarver, dreamt of finding work on the mainland to rebuild their lives.

After a seemingly endless journey, they landed on the shores of Kerala, a state already grappling with its own climate woes. Finding refuge in a temporary camp, the close quarters and unfamiliar surroundings were a stark contrast to their island life. Yet, amidst the despair, there was a flicker of hope.

An NGO working with displaced communities offered training programs. Aisha, with her knowledge of the delicate mangrove ecosystem, found work in a coastal restoration project. Karim's intricate carvings, depicting the lost world of the Lakshadweep, caught the eye of a local artisan collective.

Five years later, the scars of displacement remained. Yet, a new life had begun to take root. The family lived in a small, government-built house on the outskirts of a coastal town. Aisha's work with the restoration project helped rebuild lost mangrove forests, offering a sliver of solace. Karim's carvings, infused with the stories of their lost island, became a symbol of resilience, finding a place in local exhibitions and tourist markets.

While the ache for their homeland remained, they had found a way to adapt, their story a testament to the enduring human spirit in the face of climate upheaval.

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Home Sweet Home | Short Film about Israeli's Apartheid

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The rhythm of life in the town of Cedeño, located off the coast of Honduras, was dictated by the tides of the ocean. For generations, Francis' family relied on the wealth of marine resources to sustain themselves, ensure stability, and pursue their dreams.

Working in shrimp farming was tedious but stable. Everything changed at the end of 2021 when the first flood wave hit. Several months later, another wave came. The third one submerged Francis' street underwater, destroying shrimp farms, as well as the school and kindergarten. The sea, which had provided their livelihood for years, now took everything away from them.

The Fonseca Bay had always been prone to floods due to its proximity to the coast and river mouths. However, climate change induced more frequent storms and floods, causing at least 300 meters of land – along with dozens of hotels, restaurants, shops, and houses – to disappear underwater over the last decade.

So, did he have a choice? The decision to leave was not an easy one, but in this situation, it became a necessity. As more families left Cedeño, the once vibrant town slowly became a ghost town.

Most people chose to embark on the smugglers' route to the USA. The land route through Mexico is one of the most dangerous migration corridors in the world – it's easy to become a victim of gang attacks or corrupt officials. Nevertheless, people tried – they had nothing to lose, as they already lost everything.

With financial support from his aunt, who awaited him in Houston, Francis managed to gather the sum demanded by the smugglers. He set out by car first through Guatemala and Belize to Cancun, then boarded a plane to Ciudad Juarez, a town on the USA-Mexico border. There, he was held in a hideout, and an additional fee was demanded for smuggling across the border. It was too late to back out. Francis' family took out a loan on their home and gave the money to the smugglers. The final bill amounted to $18,000.

After crossing the border and arriving in Houston, Francis began to apply for asylum. Unfortunately, under international law, fleeing from climate disaster is not recognized as a basis for seeking refugee status. Francis, like any other person fleeing from rising sea levels, floods, droughts, or fires, could not legally seek shelter in another country.

However, reviewing asylum applications can take years. While waiting for a decision, asylum seekers may remain in the United States, and after six months, they qualify for a work permit.

So Francis waited. Little did he know that when he received a negative decision five years later, Houston would be hit by a powerful hurricane, which would force him to leave his home once again to escape the effects of climate change, even if he had avoided deportation.

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I work and am interested in flooding and will write about this, specifically an imagined story of the Emilia-Romagna floods: It had been a year of drought. It wasn’t an issue I would have noticed living in the historic center of Raveena but my parents are farmers and so they always tell me about the water.

They told me (jokingly) to pray for water for their crops in between my university art classes. I did it sometimes and now I wonder if all those prayers for water caused what came next.

The water came in quickly that day, the Po rising fast and fiercely under rainy skies. I didn’t stay to see the water, the evacuations were quick. So quick that I could only grab my essentials. I came back a week later when they told us it was safe. I suppose safety is relative. My apartment was on the first floor a cheap place ten minutes walk from the center. When I returned a thick layer of mud coated everything, hard like concrete. My artwork lay on the floor images of destruction in their water logged mass. I cried for days over that art work it was everything I had produced in two years of art school just destroyed. Sometimes I think about how silly it is that I cried over paper and ink compared to what others lost but those had been almost my children, my creations.

Of course it wasn’t until later that I heard what happened to my family’s farm, swept away, everything destroyed. My family had been farming that land for generations, but after the flood there was nothing left. My dad refused to leave he said ‘we have always survived we can survive this’. But I guess he was wrong. There was simply too much damage. The mud that coated everything turned into dust in the sun and my dad breathing it in as he tried to hack at it developed asthma. He becomes winded too easily to work the land now.

We had to move and find work. My parents hard saved funds to send me to art school dissapearing into recovery along with any hope of being an artist. Now it’s my brother and I who need to provide for my family. We moved to Napoli suburbs because Milano was too expensive. But there aren’t many jobs here so I started working at the local Coop. My dad is quiet now sitting with cats and watching the tv. Mainly he watches the weather reports. The summers here are hot and hard on his lungs. If I had money I would buy them a place with a pool so he could stay cool. But then again I don’t know if any of us really want to live close to any water.

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Adriana is a 46 year old woman from Sicily. She has a severe phisical disability and she lives in a rural area. After the death of her old parents she is obliged to move to another place, but she has no friends nor family living close to her. She is part of a large disabled activist community, active online, but she does not know how nor where to move in order to find a better welfare and social aids. She is applying to different scholarships and fellowship to find other ways of living. She is planning to move to a northern area in order to find a colder climate and a better welfare. She knows italy won't be a place for here in 5 years. She has chosen to move to South Tyrol even though she knows she will need to wait five years to obtain the citizenship. Traveling alone won't be easy, especially because she has to travel laying down. She decide to travel by train. She hopes in five years to be able to live by herself and be part of a queer and disabled community in the mountains, maybe as part of a cohousing project.

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In the south of Italy, in the Campania region in particular, lives Fabio who is currently working in a tomato fabric nearby since that is a territory well known for this production. Fabio has always been an active and optimistic guy: he's 24 and is working in that fabric in summer when the production of tomatoes is at its peak in order to pay for his studies, he really wants to become a musician. The hours at the fabric are kind of exhausting however: everyday is like from 6 am until 4 or 5 pm, and it is continuously characterised by the sound of industrial machinery in there. One day his chief asks him to be different: to go outside of the industry by night during his nocturnal shift and follow him next to the river. The territory has in fact a river, which is polluted from years, whose machines that could depurate that water don't work, and that especially in August has a terrible smell. Fabio discovers that the industry for which he works for, throw away all the tomatoes and the rest of the scrap in the river to not pay for a better method of cleansing.

Once discovered, he doesn't ask himself too many questions, it has always been like that and it is the reason why every September (after the working period) that industry is controlled and closed for a really short term. But he asks himself: "why does it open again every year?"

Fabio knows that this pollution is among one of the worse things that happen in his territory: the leaking cleansing of the river make the city flood every time a massive rain is approaching, the toxicity of it is highly connected to a rising cancer level in the area and Fabio with the passing of the years doesn't know what to do also because for the rest of the people "it has always been like that".

At the end he decides to move in northern Italy: he finds a job there and is able to purse his studies in music... However, after 5 years he finds himself asking again the same questions: it never rains, the air is heavy and if it actually rains it is hugely problematic since floods happen very easily. Fabio now has the chance to react thanks to a group of activists since the governments and policies have always the same approach. In fact, also in northern Italy "it has always been like that".

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The island where she had been waiting for months for her papers was now becoming too suffocating for her, a sense of claustrophobia was causing her constant anxiety, which towards evening turned into a depression that took away all the energy she needed to continue hoping. It had been almost five years since she had landed with so many others who had embarked with her in Tunisia. They had entered Europe, that was all that mattered; she remembered well the sense of relief when the coast guard in Malta stopped their boat. Someone beside her had whispered in English, “We made it, we made it,” continuing to thank her God. She had believed those words then, but by now she remembered them only with great cynicism, and often with anger. It seemed to her as if she would never see the day when she would finally say, “I did it.” That island, that refugee camp before, and that small dark room in the midst of other apartment buildings all the same, had slowly become her prison. Her work as a cleaning lady in hotels for tourists a pastime to make time less slow, and waiting less alienating. The recognition of her refugee status had been the only small escape route to the beginning of a new freedom. But she could not yet leave the island; she was waiting for reunification with the two daughters she had left behind in Zambia with her sister. The bureaucracy, however, was getting slower and slower. And in the meantime she lived in expectation. Of what, she did not even know anymore.

It was June, but it was already stiflingly hot. The humidity in the air had become almost unbearable to deal with. It seemed to her as if all the water from her land had flown up to her, in a strange twist of fate. That water was haunting her. Its absence, the reason she had left her home; its exaggerated abundance, the reason she now wanted to leave again.

They called him “El nino,” the child, the one who took his own child away. He was then only two years old, his body still too weak to endure the malnutrition they had been forced to endure for months. That “nino” came now every year, punctual, more and more overbearing, more and more extreme in its effects. Her family could no longer cultivate anything and so they had had to abandon the fields and move to the capital, Lusaka, where her husband could hope to find work. It could not seem possible to her that the cause of all that pain, the prolonged drought that had transformed her land, killed her son and indirectly her husband as well, could be embodied by a child. There had to be, she was convinced, a greater cause. A force more evil than a child, something more adult in its form. In her head she pictured it with a grown white man, like the ones in suits she saw driving around in their too-big cars on the too-small streets of Malta.

They had told her she had been lucky to get the papers, that they often noticed when you lie about your history and your journey. But she, despite the fact that she really didn't like the idea of lying, had been preparing her new story for weeks while in Tunisia, thinking about the smallest details. In fairness, she had not told a story so different from her own. Some women she met there in Tunisia, however, had suggested that she change her narrative, because they would never grant her refugee status if she said she had fled because she had no more money, no husband, because drought had destroyed her land. Natural disasters, she had been told, were not enough to make you a refugee. There was no one to pursue you, just a sad fate caused by a natural disaster. Natural. In which there was no human responsibility.

And yet, she, on that island, while waiting for her daughters, waiting to be able to live her life, felt more and more persecuted, unwanted. And perhaps from that very Europe, that West in which she thought she could live free.