Housing Politics and Human Response After a Disaster Through the Lens of Anthony Micallef

Text by Alice Santinelli

Photos by Anthony Micallef

August 20, 2025

In Marseille, Anthony Micallef revisits Rue d’Aubagne, where a building collapse in 2018 left eight dead and 4700 residents displaced. In conversation with photo editor Alice Santinelli, they reflect on the current housing conditions of those affected. This tragic event, the responsibility of politicians and particularly lawmakers, has stirred reflection on how urbanization models can both engender and resist social inequality.

Alice Santinelli: Thank you for accepting this invitation to talk about your book, Indigne-toit* (éditions André Frère, 2021). You are not from Marseille, can you tell me a little about the context that led you to work on this subject, and to write a book about it?

Anthony Micallef: Looking back, my reasons for moving to Marseille from Paris are intrinsically linked to this project in at least two ways. Firstly, I sought more personal time. Secondly, upon arriving and before starting this project, many aspects of the city struck me due to my fresh perspective. As some photographers who had lived here for decades told me, “It’s understandable that you’re the one doing this book, because by living in Marseille, you get used to everything.”

On 5 November 2018 at 9 a.m., buildings 63 and 65 on Rue d’Aubagne in Marseille collapsed, causing eight deaths. All the world’s press—cinema, television, international media like CNN, the Australians, the Japanese, the Americans—were there but not me.

However, a few days later, when I came back, I said to myself: “Maybe there’s something to tell afterwards.”

Starting work in late December, after a two-month gap, I aimed to report on displaced people. While unsure of how to follow-up, covering the story was important. The building’s collapse spurred mayoral action, highlighting years of neglected inspections.

Scared it might happen again, the authorities quickly got to work checking on and moving hundreds of people to hotels or friends’ homes within weeks. That’s why I decided to tell the story of everyone having to leave.

In fact, it’s still going on in 2025: buildings are regularly being closed and people evacuated. This phenomenon has never stopped. But in the months that followed, it turned into a humanitarian crisis. Around 5,000 people were evicted even though the Town Hall had no precise figures. We were in a situation where the word “humanitarian” was only used by associations, and it resembled what we see during earthquakes or crises in regions like Asia or South America.

I embarked on this topic, not just for the press, I continued to follow it without a clear aim in mind. I went to the hotels, I followed the people around the city while being relocated, housed or hosted by friends, even in the reconstruction of their homes.

The production lasted a year, a year and a half, and after that there was a very fine exhibition in Marseille, on the outer facade of the city, which for me was very symbolic.

A.S: Your book effectively highlights the importance of understanding the impact of events, using compelling figures to illustrate the scale of the issue. For instance, the statistics about evacuated and secured buildings are quite remarkable. For example, in October 2024 there were still 800 people to relocate out of the 4700. Today, in 2025, the city still has more than a thousand buildings which are considered unsafe.

Your book highlights the unseen reality of individuals awaiting answers, even if they could theoretically return home. I was struck by two aspects: your narrative relies on human testimonies and a small portion of the book is dedicated to poetry, offering a sensitive point of view on this human catastrophe. Can you tell us more about this documentary approach, blending researched information, statistics and personal perception?

A.M: I don’t know if it can really be called poetry—I wrote it, but it’s not signed, so I’m leaving some doubt in the minds of those who read it. And it doesn’t have my name on the cover either. I didn’t want to go all activist either, even though it’s true, the project was sometimes perceived that way. Everyone said to me: “It’s a fine piece of activist work, you’re really fighting against this problem.” I wasn’t comfortable with the word “activism” because my work is really just a record. I simply gave a voice to people and showed things as they were, without sugarcoating anything. The tough truth and unfairness of their situation were so deep that just showing it actually became a powerful statement. I’m all about telling other people’s stories, not my own, which is why I’m mostly not there.

There is a real value to field journalism, a sincere commitment, a presence on the ground. That’s what I’ve been doing since 2018—I’ve almost stopped traveling internationally. I’m now concentrating on Marseille and my immediate surroundings.

For the past year, I’ve been working in a secondary school in the northern districts—Quartiers Nord, the poorest neighborhoods in Marseille and among the poorest in France and Western Europe—and I’ve also done a series on squats in Marseille. So I’m trying to represent the city in all its diversity, particularly the part that isn’t seen in the traditional media, the part of the working-class neighborhoods, the people who don’t get the spotlight.

Marseille has a population of 900,000. I’m trying to tell the story of a part of the Marseillais who will never feature in publications on Instagram or elsewhere, because they don’t fit the image “Marseille bébé” we want to give of the city.

These are people who live in large families or, on the contrary, who live alone and isolated, surviving on 600–800 euros a month, or even less, and who walk past restaurants where they will never be able to afford a dessert. They are invisible and invisibilized, they don’t vote, they struggle. At the same time they are first in line to suffer from the reduction in public services and the neglect of the State. For example, the disappearance of hospitals, post-offices and schools. The few buildings that remain for this class, are in poor condition with collapsing ceilings that bear the full brunt of disappearing public infrastructure.

A.S: My choice was to present your book as part of a theme—that of the urban and social dimension—and how a city can, through its layout, creation and management, give rise to major social injustices.

A.M: This is an important aspect indeed, and it’s mentioned in the poem in the book: everyone knew.

There’s something very hard, unspeakable publicly, because the tragedy was so violent and people were so shocked that Jean-Claude Gaudin (Marseille mayor at the time) said, “It’s the fault of the heavy rain.” The court handed down its verdict ten days ago, seven years later. Responsibility has been attributed to fifteen individuals, with over 1.5 million euros allocated to refund the displaced families.

Politicians like Gaudin prioritize re-election, focusing on voters. This leads to neglect of these non-voting neighborhoods. Ultimately, true power resides not only in the ballot box but also in the wallet.

Marseille is not a city from which you can leave easily. Here, you feel good, despite many difficulties, residents aspire to survive.

For a long time, the people of Marseille did not take charge of their city. They have been unwilling to invest in their own future, often voting for personal interests over collective.

Politics extends beyond formal institutions and into the street. Our projects, like the town hall exhibition, aim to reclaim public spaces, making them accessible to all citizens again. The exhibition’s strength wasn’t just its size, but its role in demystifying the town hall. Similarly, journalistic photos should be publicly displayed, like early newspapers, to empower people to engage with their city and shape their own destiny.

A.S: Your choice of subject matter is grassroots and the way you treat it is as well—you see this in your energy, in the process of your engagement.

You can also see it in the people you’ve met through the book: people who have become activists, or who weren’t yet, but who came to find themselves committed to the collective struggle.

A.M: It’s important to mention some stories that have had an impact on you, and of course, photographs, as this is a photo book. One story that stood out for me was about the piece of ceiling falling down in the flat. The family received a note from the town hall saying: “It’s OK, you can go back, it’s safe.” Yet one can see, in your photograph, it’s not a piece of ceiling that’s falling down: it’s half the kitchen roof that’s gone.

That’s why it’s so important to tell stories using photography too, because it’s an immediate, universal language that can break down social barriers. But it’s also the way you photograph these people, their efforts to change things, that for me is militant.

The first encounter that impressed me was Evelyne Bachoc, the psychologist, who appears at one point in the book. She herself was evacuated from the Rue d’Aubagne, and during an interview she told me things that would enable me to understand my next encounters differently, because when you haven’t lived through it, it’s impossible.

When talking about housing, Evelyne tells me that there is the roof on one side, the top, and the walls on the other. The roof is prehistoric protection against storms and hail; the walls are for privacy, you know, the towel you wrap around yourself to change on the beach.
By losing these two elements, you lose security, the roof, but also your privacy.

There was also this man who, during a three-hour interview, tells me at one point that this flat is where he used to listen to music, and also where he used to bring his girlfriends.

The implication is that it’s been two years since he was evicted, and he has not made love,

because “when you’re rehoused in a hotel, you’re not going to take a woman there”.

This sentence alone shows that, for him, this place was also a place of tenderness, encounters and sexuality.

The other encounter that really moved me was that of a woman crying with her arms open in the middle of her flat. I was in the same building, two flats above, with a friend, Irina, who I’ve known for two years. I heard her screams. I went downstairs to see what was going on. I came across this woman screaming and crying in the middle of her dismantled flat. She showed me a box of baby teeth, those of her child, whom she had also lost.

I’m also going to mention this woman, Baya. In my photograph she is holding her bedside lamp while sitting on a bed, she is 75 years old. I came back to see her a year later, and she was still in the same bed. Nothing had changed, but something moved inside me.

We put on an exhibition at the town hall and the mayor of Marseille, Michèle Rubirola, said: “Bloody hell, that’s a horrible story.” I said: “You can tell her, Baya is here in front of you. She still hasn’t found a way out.” And I deliberately wanted her to face up to her responsibilities.

A week later, accommodation was found. I posted a photo on Facebook, sharing the story and wrote: “Look, that could be my mother.” While intended to provoke a reaction, I now realize such images also convey a reality, a truth, about what these people are going through.

Thanks to this post, 10,000 euros was donated from across France.

I found myself repainting the flat with a friend, and going to IKEA. It was deeply impactful. I think there’s something that appeals to my roots, my family origins, in this story.

Because finally, what connects us to our roots is this relationship with habitat.

A.S: Home defines our societal place, the foundations of the family, and a community’s starting point. It’s often linked to the Greek idea of oikos, conveying a spiritual dimension as well. I’m interested in your broader view of Marseille, from schools to squats, and how the city and its inhabitants are organized. What are your perceptions of housing’s social dimensions and your understanding of the city?

A.M: What I’m getting at is two essential things. Firstly, this permanent emergency, the state of survival that prevents people from politically organizing themselves. Secondly, a strong solidarity, very Marseillaise, shows that, despite everything, the city will not let you down.

Yes, your wallet or your phone may be stolen in the morning, but in the afternoon, the same person may come to your aid and help you change your tire. That’s Marseille: a city where neighborhood solidarity is very strong. But such a solidarity shouldn’t have to exist for essentials such as housing, work, food, healthcare. It’s precisely the role of the State to guarantee all that.

And then there’s the cruel reality that hospital emergency departments are so full that soon

it will be your neighbor’s responsibility to give you a heart massage (cardiac resuscitation) or the nurse next door who you will need to ask for an injection on a voluntary basis. It’s just not right.

We fell in love with Marseille because it has extraordinary assets. But, at the same time, 90%

of its districts aren’t facing the sea, and children in the northern districts can’t even swim. I discovered all of that by working here, by doing all these different photographic projects. What I’ve learnt is that it’s often hard to see the other side of a city that’s so touristic and beautiful.

What you have to understand is that the other side of France’s number one Airbnb city and France’s number one Instagram city, is also the other side of Marseille, the other side, that of working-class neighborhoods, invisible places.

For example, I met a young man who did a work placement at a nice restaurant in the town

center, near the Cours Julien. I went to see him, and I found him cutting up a piece of fruit and asked him: “How are things in the high-end restaurant you are working for? He replied: “Well, I’m discovering what it’s like, you see. I know what the neighborhoods are like, that I’m not going to eat here any time soon, but I’ll be able to say ‘I went to a restaurant.’”

And my heart sank: he’s 16 and he’s never been to a restaurant in his life.

You see, it’s got nothing to do with the metro or mobility, it’s all about access.

What we can say is that the place where we are born also has an impact on the legitimacy we give ourselves in public space.

A.S: To conclude on a visual note, I would be grateful if you could share one or two photographs from your most recent work, particularly those featuring teenagers in a school or images of squats. Squats have always represented a powerful political statement to me, often serving as a final stand of resistance and protest. Any thoughts?

A.M: What I noticed when photographing is that, visually, the first thing that strikes you is that the inside is not necessarily the outside. People take great care of their interiors. I think the first word that comes to mind when you hear “squat” is fear. Because most people think of the injustice of a place occupied by people with no rights, no property. They don’t see the human or social aspect, they see the danger, the filth, the violence.

In 95% of cases, uninhabited places are used by those without housing, including families. This fosters a world where people, despite precarity, care for their homes.

The aim is to go beyond the image, to give a real human dimension, to show that behind every situation there are people, families and stories to tell. Because, it’s only by telling all these stories that we might be able to change perceptions, take concrete action and perhaps one day, change these realities.

* French pun playing on the homophony of toi (you, as in ‘indignate yourself’) and toit that means roof.

Photographs and text: Anthony Micallef
Publisher: André Frère editions
160 pages
format: 16,5 x 22 cm binded
78 photographs in color
Language: French
ISBN : 979-10-92265-96-5
Date: 16/09/2021
Price: 27 €

This book has received support from the Abbé-Pierre Foundation, Région Sud, Provences – Alpes – Côte d’Azur

Alice Santinelli

Alice Santinelli, after studying Middle Eastern studies, serendipitously discovered photography. Learning about printing, silver-based reproduction, and archive management at Cameraphoto Epoche Archives deepened her passion. In 2013, she moved to France, working as a picture editor for Getty Images, then as an exhibition project manager, customer service, and gallery manager for leading Parisian labs. Since 2016, she has been a consultant, dividing her time between conserving the Rouchon Héritage Archives, teaching visual identity at Spéos, and assisting photographers with editorial/exhibition projects, including editing and fundraising.

Anthony Micallef

Anthony Micallef is a Marseille-based documentary photographer drawn to the Mediterranean, its borders, and invisible communities.
He explores themes of exclusion, dignity, and resistance through long-term, immersive work rooted in empathy and social justice.
He works regularly with national and international media (Télérama, Le Monde, The Guardian, Der Spiegel…) and NGOs like the Abbé Pierre Foundation and Action contre la Faim.