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| I travelled by train all the way from Zurich down the east coast of Italy to Siderno Marina |
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| I dragged my luggage up and down a few platforms in the dark |
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| and sometimes the time dragged |
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| but the trip was worthwhile. Another piece of the jig saw puzzle ... a photo of a photo of my grandfather (left) and his brother |
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| time to reflect |
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| and enjoy simple things |
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| the beauty of a sunrise |
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understanding how tragic events shape future lives
(memorial to 3 young boys killed when a wall collapsed on them at a soccer game ) |
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| simple food offered with abundant generosity |
In some places in the world death is not hidden away. It is simply another event, which people must prepare for.
The tiny round energetic ball of a woman with a huge heart is explaining her father’s death to me. Most of the family has left the hospital about midnight, and her husband Joe, as the only male relative (her father had no sons) volunteers to keep him company during the night.
At about 6am the old man wakes up and asks why so many people are around. Joe replied, “Father in law, you are in the hospital. There are always lots of people visiting”.
“ah … these people are all here for me”, the old man replies. “They have come to take me home”, he says without fear and shortly afterwards he closes his eyes, his head rolls to the side and he dies peacefully.
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Siderno Marina, as the name implies, is right on the sea.
It is my Dad’s home town, a place which comes alive for a few months every year during summer, but for the most part, it is a place where people do it tough. Like most of the south of Italy it is a place that even God abandoned, according to Italian writer Carlo Levi who wrote “Cristo si e’ fermato a Eboli. (Christ stopped at Eboli).
Levi’s premise was that beyond the small town of Eboli, the land was so arid and the place so primitive and backward, that even Christ did not venture any further.
And it is true that the South has been deprived in many ways. The lack of government funding, investment, work opportunities and sophistication, have all taken their toll.
But there has been something else sucking the life blood from these simple, hospitable people. Organised crime families, known by different names in different places (Mafia or Cosa Nostra in Sicily, ‘Ndrangeta in Calabria, La Cammora in Naples, and Sacra Corona Unita in Puglia) require all but the poorest person to pay for “protection”.
These bullies and ignorant thugs, who often hide behind respectable facades are responsible for much of the suffering, economic and spiritual poverty and fear that I have seen.
These few but pervasive negative forces have managed to strangle the life-blood out of this beautiful country that has so much potential.
It is robbing its children of a future and its adults of hope.
The only options are to submit or leave. Few families here are intact. Most children have to “go north” or further to study or work and most families have relatives or cugini (cousins) overseas in Canada, America and Australia.
It makes me sad and mad that little has changed since I was here nearly 30 years ago.
At that time I was idealistic, a naïve young woman, with starry eyes and a strong sense of social justice. I couldn’t see beyond the beautiful summer tourist town that I was in for the first time, and yet the dark tendrils of this insidious poison touched me even then.
For some reason I became unwell, and was hospitalised for tests.
I remember it as a frightening experience, relieved only by the handsome young cardiologist who looked after me over a number of days.
He told me of his own experience, of standing up to the mafia (who were insisting that scarce hospital beds be reserved for members of the “family”). At first they had simply torched his car, but as he continued to refuse to submit to their demands, they had upped the anti beating his grandmother and raping his sister.
I remember only half believing what the young specialist was telling me, as it was all too horrible and I was mesmerised by the energy and beauty of what I perceived as a carefree summer holiday place.
A part of me did not want to accept what I considered a negative stereotype, and after all, “these people” were part of my ancestry.
It was only a few months later, back in Australia, that I read the few lines in a newspaper that announced the death of the young cardiologist in suspicious circumstances.
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I had not intended to come back, but as the train makes its way past familiar coastal towns I remember the excitement I felt arriving here all those years ago.
It was summer then.
I remember walking to the beach from my grandmother’s house, past the colourful beach umbrellas and sun beds, neatly arranged along the shoreline, and feeling the warmth of the sand under my beach towel, as I watched my body turning a golden brown. I remember the sweet coconut smell of the sun tan lotion and the taste of the latte di mandorla (fresh almond milk drink) and the carefree hours spent strolling along the promenade on balmy nights, stopping for an ice cream or a drink and listening to the music from the disco that was held under the stars.
I have other memories too, of my half uncle Alfredo, a huge man suffering from ‘shell shock” from the war in Africa who would follow me at a distance on his rusty old bike, warning off any potential suitors. He would peel me fresh peaches that were dripping with sweet juice, and make “freeza” wetting toasted bread with water and serving it with plump sun ripened tomatoes, fresh oregano and olive oil (this peasant fare now being served all over the world as bruschetta) and he would frighten the hell out of me at night, when with a bath towel wrapped around his head he would plan and enact strategic manoeuvres for a war that existed in his head. He never even noticed me when half asleep, I would sneak past him to go to the outside loo, that was simply a hole in the ground.
My grandmother, who by then was a gummy old lady dressed in black, with white hair and my father’s eyes, disapproved of my mother’s independence and very reluctantly handed over the key to the house, a foot long rusty metal thing that had never been used and that my mum had to carry around in a big shopping bag!
Two of my half cousins had a dress shop, and I remember buying my first truly glamorous “new season” creation, a delicate cotton 3 piece burgundy outfit with tiny white flowers that I wore with pride on my return to Perth when I attended a fashion show and kept for years.
As I walk around the cemetery with Giuseppe a few days after arriving, looking for my grandmother’s grave. I am conscious of how much has changed since then and how much has stayed the same.
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My Dad loves soccer (football). When I was a child he would kick a soccer ball around our back yard, chuckling gleefully as we kids tried unsuccessfully to wrest the ball away from his control.
As a child, he collected worn stockings from old ladies and would make a soccer ball from them, kicking that makeshift plaything around for hours.
Once, grounded for misbehaving, he snuck out with three mates to watch a weekend soccer game. Unable to afford the admission price, the young enthusiasts were watching their heroes through holes in a wall, when perhaps weakened by rain (and maybe even faulty workmanship) the wall collapsed. His three friends ran and were all killed by the falling wall.
Dad, thinking he was going to die, crouched down and covered his head. That action saved his life, and some hours later he was pulled out from underneath the rubble, the only survivor. A spinal injury and claustrophobia (inability to be in confined spaces) are the only obvious outcomes resulting from this childhood trauma.
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The old lady is barely recognisable.
She is skin and bones lying in the foetal position in a sunny, spotless room. A blanket covers her tiny skeletal frame, and the indignities of her helpless, hopeless state (the catheter that still needs changing every day and a nappy covering her genital area).
It is hard to wash and dress her and tend to her bedsores, as her hands are clenched fists pushing against her cheeks and her legs are pulled up to her body and locked in a rigid pose.
Emilia is worried that her mother’s fragile bones might break as they gently wash her or the nurse tends to her ulcerated sores, and how they will be able to dress her when she dies.
She is also worried that for the last 20 days her mother barely stirs, lying motionless, eyes closed and only taking tiny bits of baby food or yoghurt from the family when they push small spoonfuls into her mouth. They have noticed she is having trouble swallowing the last few days as well.
She has been bed bound for a year, but it’s been nearly two, since her husband and carer died, and she has needed full time care.
Emilia is lucky. She has three sisters, who share the load of daily caring for her Mum, and a helper lives in full time, and a nurse comes every day.
I speak to the old lady, and tell her of the love that I know surrounds her. She opens her eyes and moans. A wave of emotion overwhelms me, part anger, part revulsion, part fear, part love.
I leave that spotless, sunny room, hoping for a different end, but surrendering to the not knowing.
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I wander around the old streets of my dad’s home town for one last time. I’ve been here a week, but it feels like much longer. I’ve retraced my steps and those of my relatives. I’ve met a new ‘cousin” and reconnected with old ones. It’s been frustrating at times dealing with the downside of hospitality Italian style, but these simple, gentle people have touched my heart and given me safe haven for a while as I continue this journey of rediscovering and letting go. Sitting in front of a crackling open fire each night and feeling its warmth seep into body, I felt safe and at home for a while. When I say goodbye, it is with gratitude and love.
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