The soup kitchen is a place through which the geopolitics of all four major continents is paraded. The history of the world passes by in an orderly manner here. Along the gratings this history unfolds dispersedly: the war in Libya, the violence in the Horn of Africa, the collisions of Côte d’Ivoire, the Afghan tragedy, and the false democracies in Togo and Guinea are all there, waiting for someone to notice them, to care about what happens in their cities, in their homes, to their people. Young faces, often no more than kids made adults by their journey, and obviously newly arrived, find themselves waiting in line in the center of Rome for a meal to eat—often their only one of the day.

The operations of Centro Astalli had their beginnings here: by autumn of 1981 sandwiches were already being distributed in the corridors of Via degli Astalli to the first refugees present in Rome. The refugees were Ethiopians and were in need of everything—especially someone that listened to them, that took note of their presence in a city full of indifference. Thanks to the commitment of many others, that original service grew to reach today’s capacity of serving nearly 400 hot meals a day. Eating is a basic human right, and the soup kitchen is the place where one begins to ask for justice: if even food is a privilege, everything else is an impossibility.

The line of people for the soup kitchen that carries out onto the sidewalk, right in the center of Rome, challenges the indifference of those who pass by it. After the meal, dedication can be given to everything else: for many asylum seekers and refugees, the hallway of Via degli Astalli is the beginning of a process of assistance and integration. All the other services of Centro Astalli grew around the central idea of the kitchen, much as occurs within a large family. After rising from the table, one enters into the other rooms to seek out information, assistance, a doctor, a lawyer. Sometimes one forgets how humiliating and embarrassing it can be to be constrained to stand in queue for a meal. For the Afghan and Kurdish young men, who come in large groups, it’s easier: the meal is an occasion for joking amongst themselves and with the staff. But for he or she who comes alone, and perhaps is no longer young, it’s different. That queue is the tangible sign of all that has been lost, a difficult weight to bear for he or she who is used to not having need of anything. A refugee doesn’t flee out of need, but because someone has robbed them, from one day to the next, of safety, of freedom—of life itself.