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.

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.

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.

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.

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.