According to the UN refugee agency (UNHCR), at least 1,778 people have perished this year in the attempt to cross the Mediterranean Sea, the world’s deadliest migratory route. But European political leaders rarely mention this figure as they celebrate the results of their current migration policies. This is the highest percentage of fatalities ever recorded along this route.

Since last year, migrants, refugees and asylum seekers have been represented increasingly as numbers, their ordeals under-reported or minimised, their lives used as statistics, not flesh and blood. But when the official narrative is limited to numbers and figures, people disappear.

So what’s happening to vulnerable mothers and children stranded, for instance, in Libya? What about elderly people? Who is taking care of them? Are medical conditions being treated?

Violence in Libya has escalated recently, further exacerbating a volatile environment that puts at stake the lives of hundreds of thousands of vulnerable people trapped amid chaos. There are a number of detention centres, the locations of which vary, where access is mostly forbidden to humanitarian organisations. The UN has often declared that working in Libya is extremely difficult and dangerous, and its staff on the ground can’t cover all humanitarian needs.

Last December, the Migrant Offshore Aid Station (Moas) could see at first-hand the dangers of the situation on the ground and assisted the UNHCR’s staff during an evacuation flight to Niger, where 51 children, 22 women and one man found shelter after a long stay in Libya. Nonetheless, the resettlement plan didn’t work as expected, and many people are still waiting to start their new life in another country.

As migration flows intensified in 2013, public opinion showed indignation and empathy, political leaders promised to take immediate action to prevent further deaths and humanitarian organisations consolidated more efficient patterns to welcome rescued people at disembarkation ports.

All eyes were focused on the survivors of desperate journeys, but the sea was still killing an unknown number of children, women and men. At that time, Moas was created to mitigate the loss of life and to allow journalists to document what it meant to be in distress out at sea. The impact of these life-saving search-and-rescues was unparalleled for three main reasons: fewer and fewer people died, journalists joined us and we gave voice to the rescued.

But, our missions were not limited to rescue. We also provided post-rescue care to migrants and refugees. During their time spent on board, the people rescued didn’t receive only food, water, clothes and blankets, but also comfort and care from the Moas team.

No one could say they didn’t know what was going on out at sea. Our mission helped people to share their stories – of trafficking and of hope.

Now, it’s all over. Since the end of 2016, the process of dehumanisation has progressively escalated, its peak coming in 2017 when fake news and hate speech reinforced a criminalisation of solidarity.

The lack of European empathy and the failure of relocation schemes profoundly changed the way we can operate, and reduced the capacity to perform rescues at sea.

Almost all humanitarian boats were forced to suspend or redeploy their missions elsewhere. Merchant ships no longer perform rescues because, they say, they are afraid of being left adrift while waiting to be notified of a disembarkation port while those who survive almost fade away.

The evolution of migration flows and policies has constantly silenced the voices of migrants and refugees. We have never known so little about them. Official figures are likely to be underestimates, so we don’t know how many people perish crossing the desert or the sea. We fail to help them if they end up in Libya and we neglect their lives when they step off the boat.

They become invisible because we talk about them, but never talk to them, to listen to their stories.

It’s easy to dehumanise people whose lives, faces and dreams are unknown. We don’t need much strength to offend and be cruel about people who are just represented by a number. Numbers don’t have feelings, scars or wounds.

But behind those figures there is a person with flesh and bone, with dreams and a soul, in search of a peaceful future.