Photographer captures the faces we will never see: documenting the global migrant crisis
From a distance, they looked like a human tide slowly spilling across the land. Mercilessly, the sun beat down, stifling the air with its intense heat. Every breath felt like a furnace as my body burned from the inside out.
- 3 weeks ago
November 11, 2024
Italian photographer Nicolo Filippo Rosso captures the journey of migrants, using his camera to highlight their struggles and inspire change. | Photo courtesy of Nicolo Filippo Rosso
OUADDAÏ, Chad — In 2011, as a photographer, I set off on my first journey to America, fueled with curiosity and frustration. Eager to document migration, I accepted various job proposals and worked on short assignments, capturing only a few images at a time. As I met migrants hauling their lives after long journeys, I recognized the limitations of my rushed work.
Each photo I took felt incomplete, unable to capture the depth and complexity of their experiences. In 2016, I returned to America, determined to explore the complexities of migrants’ lives. As I extended my travels, I walked alongside migrants to capture their every step and border crossing. This effort unknowingly launched a long-term project I eventually named Exodus.
Read more immigration stories at Orato World Media.
Young man walks through life, capturing moments with his camera
As a child, I developed a deep fascination for the mountains surrounding the small village in northern Italy where I grew up. My father took me for walks along the hidden paths among the pines. Although I often complained of being tired, each step revealed something new. I discovered a crystal-clear river flowing beside me as I watched a flower begin to bloom. Feeling the wind whisper in my ears, I noticed carpets of leaves covering the trails.
In those tranquil places, I found an overwhelming peace and silence, encouraging me to observe every detail. Those walks taught me to look slowly and take my time to absorb each image, igniting my desire to capture the world. I received my first camera much later as a curious teenager eager to explore beyond the mountains.
With my camera in hand, I began photographing everything around me. I captured the faces of my neighbors, who looked at me with bewilderment and sympathy. My studies in literature and anthropology in Turin eventually transformed my relationship with photography. I read stories from different cultures and studied languages like Arabic. As I expanded my knowledge, I grew more passionate about documenting diverse lives. My camera became my eyes, allowing me to explore and share untold stories. As a result, those early years shaped my worldview and taught me to discover a story worth remembering in every face.
Photographer captures migrants fleeing crisis across America
In 2016, I decided to return to the Americas and explore migrants’ stories more deeply. I started in Venezuela, witnessing families fleeing the crisis and crossing into Colombia. I moved on to Central America, where I encountered the struggles of those escaping hurricanes and violence. Immediately, I realized each route carried its pain and shared a common thread. Survival united migrants from different regions on an uncertain path. Each place they reached presented such hostile conditions; it forced them to keep moving. Soon, I recognized migration in the Americas as not just displacement but a Dantesque cycle of poverty and uprooting.
Initially, I focused on capturing images of indigenous communities and the surrounding landscapes. However, in 2018, while working in La Guajira, Colombia, I witnessed thousands of Venezuelans crossing the border to escape the crisis in their homeland. The scene felt chaotic as people carried suitcases and children in their arms. They navigated deserted, inhospitable roads under a scorching sun, which rendered everything blurry, like a mirage. With the heat, dust, and harshness of life surrounding me, I felt deeply burdened.
Under relentless sunlight, mothers struggled with their few belongings. Exhausted and dusty, children gazed at the horizon, their eyes filled with curiosity and fatigue, unable to grasp the situation. As entire families fought for water, coal-laden trains thundered past on their way to the port. Each photograph I took drew me closer to their harsh reality. I felt their gazes and the weariness was etched on their faces. It resonated within me. At that moment, I understood photography served as a testament to forgotten lives.
Photographer documents migrants’ struggles across Central America and Mexico
After witnessing the hardships migrants endure, I decided to follow their route north through Central America and Mexico, immersing myself in their stories. In Guatemala and Honduras, I encountered a new face of migration. Caravans quietly formed in the early morning and moved along roads concealed in the twilight. During the journey, I met families who carried a distinct exhaustion. The weight of their backpacks, along with constant violence, political instability, and crushing poverty, burdened them. Consequently, they left their homes in search of a better life.
One night, as I documented a caravan moving through the darkness, migrants whispered stories of what they fled. They described gangs controlling their villages and the constant threats of death, rape, extreme violence, and cruelty. While expressing hopelessness and vulnerability, they articulated their uncertain future, marked by uprooting, instability, and an endless journey. Then, I headed to southern Mexico, where I followed migrants as they rode La Bestia, the notorious freight train traversing the country.
At every station and stop, people huddled in the cars and gripped the edges while the train roared beneath them, resembling a battlefield. I watched men and women hold on tightly, their hollow eyes staring into nothingness. Their bodies jolted with each bump as if their survival depended on the next moment. Amidst the anguish, a man shared how his brother fell from the train weeks earlier while trying to escape assailants.
From the Sonoran Desert to Sudan: photographer highlights the unseen realities of migration
After a few days in Mexico, I traveled to the Sonoran Desert along the Mexico–U.S. border, where extreme heat pushed bodies to the brink of collapse. There, I confronted another harsh reality: shadows moved stealthily through metal barriers at night, desperately avoiding detection. Migrants described how the desert swallowed people who died in the heat and from lack of water, gambling with each step between life and death.
Listening to migrants’ stories and seeing their exhaustion at migratory stations, I realized every stage is a battle. In those moments, my camera became a tool to preserve their stories, keeping them from fading into oblivion. For me, migration revealed itself as an open wound, where hope walked side by side with death.
Leaving the Sonoran Desert, I traveled to Chad, near Sudan’s border, for a humanitarian mission with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). From the start, I knew this journey to Sudan would be unlike any I had before. As I expected, I witnessed people trapped in a continuous cycle of violence and exile throughout my journey. Day and night, I worked with the UN team, reviewing maps and routes to fully analyze the conflict’s geography and the vast scale of the crisis.
Photographer follows refugees at the Chad-Sudan border
As I traveled to Chad, I felt a deep unease and an unshakable fear of the unknown. Yet, I knew what awaited me in Darfur [a region in western Sudan] would surpass anything I ever experienced. When I landed in N’Djamena, the capital of Chad, I set my final destination for Adré, a city on the border with Sudan, where millions of displaced people fled the violence in their homeland. I struggled with visas and logistics, but the mission’s urgency made it worthwhile. As we flew east, I looked down at the vast landscapes of sand and scrub. Occasionally, isolated villages appeared, highlighting the scarcity of resources, even from the sky.
Upon landing near Adré, the situation proved even more dire. Along with an interpreter and the local UNHCR team, I set off on dusty, poorly maintained roads. The wheels of the vehicle ground over the sand, creating a rhythm that matched the barren surroundings. As I traveled the first few kilometers, the journey seemed to stretch endlessly. The border between Chad and Sudan, an invisible line on the map, seemed to consume anyone who crossed it. As we moved further, people emerged from the desert. Some were alone while others moved in small clusters. Sometimes entire families dragged their meager belongings behind them.
From a distance, they looked like a human tide slowly spilling across the land. Mercilessly, the sun beat down, stifling the air with its intense heat. Every breath felt like a furnace as my body burned from the inside out. The landscape stretched with sand and stone, while faces blended into an indistinct, eternal crowd. The brutality and desolation numbed me, leaving me struggling to comprehend the enormity of what I saw. As we pressed on, I encountered Chadian soldiers patrolling the border, a constant reminder of the tension at this volatile intersection between two warring nations.
Photographer confronts harsh reality at Adré refugee camp
As I crossed into Chad and arrived in Adré, the reality of the refugee camp hit me with a force I never anticipated. No report or testimony prepared me to witness millions of people enduring such extreme conditions. Adré did not just serve as a camp; it functioned as a makeshift city, fractured and steeped in misery. Swiftly, I realized my role here went far beyond taking photographs. As I carried their stories, I bore the weight of lives broken and forgotten by the world.
On the first night, as the desert cooled, I sat and watched the camp form near the border. The wind flapped the tents and tarps, creating a scene resembling a pale painting. Earthy tones filled the area, while long shadows stretched beneath the faint glow of a dying moon. The silence felt tangible, almost suffocating. Around me, families huddled together, trying to find comfort in their closeness.
In the darkness, I saw an older man leaning on a makeshift cane, staring into the horizon as if he searched for something. I wondered if he and the others held real hope of returning home or if the horizon marked another boundary they could never reach. That night, I could not sleep, as the desperation I witnessed pressed heavily on my mind. Undoubtedly, what I experienced was a fragment; the true suffering remained out of sight.
Amid crisis, translator helps photographer capture bitter truths
I felt out of place in Adré, intruding into an abyss of suffering as photographing in Chad became a battle against time. I confronted the harsh climate and pervasive desolation, yet I embraced the experience in order to highlight the suffering the world often overlooks.
Chaos erupted as the space cramped with exhausted bodies, tattered clothes, and lost gazes. Refugees lacked clean water, while the blistering heat rendered the days unbearable. Hundreds, thousands, or perhaps more, shuffled forward. They all wore the same drained expression, moving with the same quiet steps. Suddenly, I witnessed a father cradling his son in one arm while dragging a battered suitcase with the other. Their survival conditions left me shaken.
Amid this hostile environment, my translator, Amina, anchored me. With her serene face and steady gaze, the young Chadian woman connected deeply with the refugees, going far beyond simply translating words. We communicated without speaking. Over time, she not only became my liaison but also my friend and guide, helping me see the world through her eyes. She showed me how, in a place where pain lingered, every gesture and every word carried tremendous weight. As we moved together through the makeshift camps, Amina did not just translate words; she translated silences. She knew when to push, pause, and ask without intruding.
Photographer’s lens reveals the silent desperation of displaced families
Amina and I traveled in an all-terrain vehicle, with an experienced driver guiding us along the routes and navigating the ever-present dangers. Checkpoints were frequent, each one a physical and emotional barrier. Armed men guarded them, inspecting our credentials with stern scrutiny. Although international support and permits backed me, each checkpoint reminded me I was in a land marked by constant tension. Nevertheless, the conflict and the fear it bred created the greatest barriers.
Exhausted, we stayed in temporary shelters on some nights, with the wind howling and gunshots echoing in the distance. Despite the fatigue, I knew the real work began once we stopped, allowing the people to approach and grow accustomed to my presence. At first, wary glances greeted my camera, but slowly, it became a part of our relationship. Some began sharing their stories, allowing me to capture their faces through my lens. Despite their sorrow, they hoped someone, somewhere, would witness what they endured.
In a corner of the camp, a man stood among a group of young women and girls waiting in line for water. He trembled as he held empty jerry cans, his skin burned, and his eyes fixed on the makeshift well. In that place where scarcity ruled, every drop of water felt like a blessing. Similarly, I saw a little girl, no older than five, carrying a small metal bucket likely weighing almost as much as she did. Beside her, an elderly woman gripped a container, and next to her, another woman held one, and so on, each of them carrying the same hope. When they finally reached the well, they extended the containers with trembling hands, as if those precious drops promised another day.
Health crisis deepens as disease spreads through refugee camps
Lack of food and water was not the only problem in already crowded camps. The unsanitary conditions created a perfect breeding ground for disease. In a field clinic, I watched as doctors and nurses battled to control outbreaks of malaria, hepatitis E, and other diseases, spreading in every corner. Feverish, shivering children and adults filled the beds, while their families waited anxiously for improvement. In addition, the rainy season constantly threatened to loom. The first drops of rain did not bring relief. However, it sparked concern the water would breed diseases and overwhelm health services.
I remember one night when darkness enveloped the camp. Only a few flashlights pierced the gloom, casting eerie shadows among the tents. I moved slowly, enveloped in an almost total silence. Occasionally, a child’s cry broke the calm, starkly reminding us we were in a place where pain and suffering reigned. Mothers comforted their children, whispering words of solace.
These stories weigh heavily on me, yet they drive me to keep documenting the paths of migrants, connecting hope with sacrifice. In every step, migrants take and each glance we exchange, I know the real story does not lie in statistics. It is in the individuals who, despite everything, keep walking forward, carrying hope on their shoulders, even as the world turns its back on them.
Man brings relief to struggling mother with soap and water
I will forever carry the moment I met Fatima. A few days after I began touring the camp, she approached me for help, accompanied by her five children and her sister, with whom she fled. At just 30 years old, hardship aged her, marking her face with the wear of time. Pregnant and nearing childbirth, she had no idea whether the rest of her family survived. Spending several days with Fatima and her children, I watched her life swing between resignation and constant struggle. The nights were hard.
As the camp descended into darkness, I watched her huddle with her children, trying to protect them from the cold with whatever fabric she had. She moved silently like a ghost, rising early to fetch water without waking her children. Laying on top of them, she covered them with her own body, as if trying to chase away danger or the nightmares which often disturbed their sleep. One afternoon, in the sweltering heat, I approached Fatima, holding a small bar of soap and a couple of water bottles I had grabbed from the camp.
Amazement and gratitude filled Fatima’s face as she slowly washed her hands with soap and water, moving almost ceremonially. She washed each of her children with great tenderness, ensuring she did not waste a single drop. That evening, her children slept more peacefully than I ever saw them. The next day, Fatima found me and looked at me with eyes filled with a quiet, almost disconcerting joy. “They were able to sleep,” she whispered, as if sharing a secret. At that moment, I realized I witnessed something extraordinary, a mother’s power to find relief amid tragedy. As I drove away, her children’s laughter reached my ears. It felt fragile and beautiful, like a melody vanishing before anyone else could hear it.
Photographer vows to keep voiceless stories alive in photos
Halima, another woman who arrived at the camp weeks earlier, left a lasting impression on me. When I met her, she sat alone on the dirt floor with her young son, too exhausted to seek shelter from the sun. In a quiet voice, she told me she fled Darfur after militias attacked her village. Along the way, she lost her husband and brother, and since then, her life became a continuous flight. Her son slept beside her in the dust, his tiny face covered in sand.
Halima gazed at him with love and sorrow. Gently stroking his cheek, she shared her nightly fear—he might not wake up the next morning. Grief engulfed me as I felt her constant dread of losing the last person she had left. As my time in Chad ended, I struggled with the decision to leave. I had to go, but each story I carried felt like a part of me I would leave behind.
Returning to Europe, the echoes of my time in the camp haunted me. The harshness of those days marked me deeply as I realized I had not just documented but given a voice to the voiceless. Since then, I traveled across several continents, listening to the stories of those who walk without rest. Migration becomes a journey with no return. I will continue to travel, to photograph, and to bear witness. With every photo I take, I vow to keep their stories alive. I hope one day these faces will witness a future free from suffering.
