Italian Exodus and its Consequences

 Italian Exodus and its Consequences

My village, Boralessa, is only 40 km from Colombo. Starting with my paternal grandmother, our family has resided at Boralessa for well over a century. My modest ancestral property, “Pondside,” was previously owned by my grandmother, an uncle, and an aunt. It has been mine for nearly fifty years. Most probably, I’ll be the last Braine to live there.

About 95% Sinhala Catholic, the villagers used to be masons, carpenters, sawyers, and workers in tile factories and brick kilns. Over the years, as the population grew, the large coconut plantations that surrounded the village were divided and sub-divided for distribution among landless villagers. Gradually, these plots have been reduced to only 10 perches.

The “Italians”

About forty years ago, looking for work, villagers began to travel to Italy, first illegally (on jam-packed, rickety fishing trawlers, and later with forged passports), then by legal means through family connections. Almost every household now has a parent, a child, or a relative living and working in Italy. Most work as carers for the elderly, shop assistants, farmhands, and in logistics. Many have gained citizenship there. Routinely, they would visit Boralessa for events like the annual church feast. They stood out for their flashy clothes and lavish spending and were referred to as Ithali karayo, or Italians.

As they accumulated wealth, these expats needed to show off to the villagers tangible evidence of their good fortune. So, they began to build houses, not just ordinary homes, but extravagant multistoried structures with gabled roofs, parapet walls, and massive gates. The construction would stretch over several years. First, a plot of land was bought. On the next visit, a parapet wall was built, along with the massive, elaborate gate, referred to as an “Italian gate”, that signified the owner’s affiliation to Italy. Building the foundation was the next step, followed by the walls and the roof. I have observed the entire construction taking seven years or more.

Usually, the elderly parents of the owners would reside in the backroom of the house. Cash, and gift boxes containing chocolates, pasta and other Italian items, would be sent regularly to these people. They may have missed their children but were well taken care of. The annual visits of the relatives from Italy was a time to celebrate and enjoyed by all.

Pandemic and Bankruptcy

Even before the pandemic arrived, this smooth arrangement ceased to function at some houses. The elderly parents or relatives who had been caretakers began to die off, mainly of old age. The pandemic, which caused travel restrictions, only exacerbated the problem. Boralessa’s population being depleted due to so many villagers being abroad, there simply was no one to take care and maintain these houses. That’s when I began to notice a marked shift in their appearance.

The front yards became overgrown with weeds and the once pristine outer walls began to show streaks of black mold, sure signs of a neglected house. The gate may be firmly padlocked but the iron frames showed signs of rust. Roof tiles, also moldy, showed damage from falling coconuts or coconut fronds. No lights came on at night.

Annual visits by “Italians” became irregular or stopped altogether. Travel, with broods of children or grandchildren, had become expensive. Instead of building and maintaining houses in Boralessa, they began to purchase property in Italy. A neighbor, after more than 30 years in Italy, bought a house in Italy only last year.

I live in Kiragara Road, which begins at Boralessa junction and runs through the village for a few kilometers. Within a 200-meter radius of my house are four abandoned structures, as seen in the photographs below. If I walk down the road for about a kilometer, I can count at least ten more abandoned houses.

The first house below was built about six years ago. Two storied, built along sleek modern lines sans multiple gables, the house was visited by the owner’s family only once. Behind the iron and concrete fence, the front yard is covered in weeds.

The second photo is what could be termed a shophouse, with accommodation for the owner on the upper floor. Built for a tailoring business about five years ago, it attracted a good clientele for about two years before the pandemic hit. When business declined, the seamstress who ran it returned to Italy, perhaps permanently.

Shown below is another multistoried house, enclosed by a tall fence. This house is better maintained because the owner’s relatives live nearby. He has not returned in more than five years, and, though built at great cost, the house has never been occupied.

Finally, one of the neighborhood boutiques (sillara kade), which had operated for as long as I have been in the village, closed when the family went abroad. It is very unlikely that it will open again.

Consequences

The pandemic and the bankruptcy that came on its heels hit Boralessa hard. The “Italians” stopped visiting and less money began to circulate in the village. Building construction stopped, throwing masons and carpenters out of work. Rata yanda (go abroad) was the response.

Italy was the prime target because relatives and friends there could help one to find work and settle down, even if one had entered illegally. Romania began recruiting workers in Sri Lanka, and, apparently, the route from Romania to Italy could be easily traversed. Amazingly, tiny Malta (120 sq. miles; 550,000 population) also became a draw because the route to Italy was only a ferry ride. So many Sri Lankans were applying for visas to Malta that an honorary consulate was opened in Colombo.

Let me cite two instances of neighbors emigrating recently. One, to escape her abusive husband, went to Romania as a seamstress, although she had never stitched anything in her life. She took her grown daughter with her. Within three months, she had entered Italy, illegally.

Sriyani, my caretake at “Pondside,” whose husband died of covid three years ago, has a 23-year-old son. I found him work at a nearby electronics factory, but the Rs. 35,000/ monthly salary did not attract him. The young man had also been bitten with the rata yanawa fever, and, after a year of trying, he managed to obtain a visa to Malta, paying a Sri Lankan there Euro 5000 and wiping out the family’s savings. He left for Malta three weeks ago, and his mother had to remit another Euro 500 after he landed. She is heavily in debt now. Lakshman’s job is to assemble pantry cupboards at salary of Euro 1000 per month, minus rent, health insurance, travel, and other miscellaneous expenses. He has not started work yet due to ill health.

The consequences of this exodus on the village have been drastic. Working age men, and to some extent women, are in short supply. Skilled craftsmen – electricians, plumbers, welders, mechanics – are impossible to find. A pall of gloom seems to hang over the village. While at Pondside, I love to watch the world go by, sitting on my verandah with a direct view of Kiragara Road. Once busy – with schoolchildren and office workers (on their way to the railway station) in the morning, housewives walking or riding to the market later on, idle young men roaring by on their motorbikes, the tuk tuks, occasional car or lorry – the road traffic has diminished greatly. Instead of three chuun paan men, only one plied Kiragara Road now. Most customers were gone.

Boralessa has changed, and it may be a microcosm of what is happening to other villages and towns in Sri Lanka.