Xénos in Italy: My Journey of Belonging

 

Migration has always been a part of human history. People have crossed borders, seeking safety, opportunity, and a better future. Italians themselves have known this journey well. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, millions left their homeland, carrying little more than hope, only to be met with suspicion and slurs in the United States, where they were called "dagos" and "wops." They were seen as criminals, as outsiders who didn’t belong. But time softened the edges of their struggle, and generations later, they became a part of the fabric of their new home.

Then history shifted. After the fall of communism, it was Albanians who left their country in search of a new beginning. The first boats arrived on Italian shores in the early ‘90s, filled with people desperate to escape poverty and dictatorship. And as they stepped onto the land of their dreams, they too were met with judgment, fear, and rejection. After many years of democracy in Albania, as I approached my 18th birthday, it was finally my turn to become an emigrant, in search of a better future, more opportunities to continue my university studies, and to become someone in life, finding my destiny.

I arrived in Italy in 2013 to pursue a college degree, young and hopeful. But no matter how well I spoke Italian, no matter how much I tried to integrate, there was always a wall between me and them. The words they used—Albanese said with a certain tone, extracomunitario as if it was a stain—cut deep. It wasn’t just a label; it was a reminder that I didn’t belong. That no matter how hard I worked, I would always be seen as the other.

Words carry weight. They shape perception, reinforce bias, and divide people. I began to notice how some were called migrants while others were expats. The difference? Skin color, country of origin, privilege. An English-speaking Westerner moving abroad was an expat, a traveler, an adventurer. But an Albanian, a North African, a Middle Easterner? A migrant, an outsider, someone to be scrutinized. The terms themselves carried an invisible hierarchy, a quiet prejudice disguised as vocabulary.

I knew there were Albanians who committed crimes. I read the newspapers, saw the headlines. And yet, it burned to be reduced to that. As if one person's wrongdoing defined an entire people. I wanted to scream, We are not all the same! Just as Italy is not just the mafia, just as Italians in America were not all gangsters, Albanians in Italy were not all criminals. But prejudice is a stubborn thing. It clings to the mind, reshaping reality until people see only what they expect to see.

I remember the low moments. The looks of suspicion, the way some people clutched their bags tighter when I walked by. The way job interviews seemed to end the moment they heard my accent. I remember the silence after someone said extracomunitario in a way that made it clear they weren’t just talking about geography. And I remember how it made me feel—like I was lesser, like I had to fight twice as hard to prove my worth.

But I also remember the kindness. The ones who saw me for who I was, not just where I came from. The teachers who encouraged me, the friends who stood by me, the moments where I felt—if only for a second—like I belonged.

Time changes things. Attitudes shift. But the weight of those early years stays with me. And so, I write. Because stories matter. Because behind every label, every slur, there is a person. And maybe, just maybe, if we listen to those stories, we can start to see each other not as foreigners, not as stereotypes, but simply as human.

Through this journey, I have realized something else: I will never be fully Italian, even when I get my citizenship. I will never be just Albanian, either. I am more than a single identity. I was born and raised Albanian, but I have studied in Italy, I am a USAphile, and I have felt the warmth of Spanish culture. I carry threads from many worlds woven into me. I have come to embrace this—this mix of places, languages, and experiences. I am not just an immigrant, not just an outsider. I am a citizen of the world, a lover of languages, and a soul in search of beauty. The eagles, with their majestic flight, never stop soaring, neither pausing nor surrendering. And I am an eagle, and this is enough for me.