Diary from L'Aquila

For time immemorial, during the Holy Week, L'Aquila prepared for the Dead Christ procession. The many panels created by a renowned artist were some days before gathered inside San Bernardino, from where the procession would start at 7 pm and proceed along the main streets of the city to end at San Massimo. Shops would close, lights turned down, at the passing of the Christ, accompanied by the fine voices of the Choir of L'Aquila raising the Miserere. And shops are closed this Holy Week in the year 2009, lights are off, the city itself has turned into a Golgota. Angels from all over Italy have come for the procession, and they wear the mimetic garments of soldiers, the yellow and red and bright waistcoats of rescuers, volunteers, firefighters. They are slowly walking the streets as the Procession would do, searching for signs of death or resurrection.

I am in Roseto - the small town that opened its hotels, homes and heart to embrace mine and thousands of other displaced families, treating us all as precious guests. This morning I set off at 5.30 am, I wanted to be near some of the people I know whose Passion started on April 6, whose culmination was to be at 11 on the day when Christ death is celebrated, they would be there, in the wide courtyard occupied by 205 wooden coffins, some of them - too many of them - white; on the coffins just a flower, or a child's toy, or the shirt of the local rugby team. Along the autostrada I stopped at an autogrill, where also buses were parked and a great great number of funeral cars. The best funeral cars, shining, luxury vehicles, whose plates showed they came from all over central and southern Italy, cars coming for the last drive to the final destinations of my unfortunate fellow citizens.

As I proceeded towards L'Aquila, the sun was rising, lighting with red and pink shades the snows of the Gran Sasso, and filling of colors the green valleys and hills on both sides of the road, which like a meandering grey river slowly moved towards the city. Along the road, the endless line of these unusually long cars, one behind the other, going downtown each to pick up its passenger. I have always found rain is a proper setting for a funeral, not the warm rays of the sun on the faces of people burnt by salty tears, the anguished souls chilling inside in the icy winter of despair, not the sun rays that try to warm the bodies that will never be warm again ... "we are put on earth a little space, so that we may learn to bear the beams of love".