MOLISE - ITALY'S NO MAN'S LAND
- Kapok
- 15 ene 2020
- 7 min de lectura
Actualizado: 24 ene 2020
Text: Alex Iasilli
Photos: Jacopo Rufo
Molise has no borders. We enter a gallery and the radio trembles; the sky is clear outside, but inside it’s raining. There is no written sign that invites us, but we know where we are.
We find the first sign of life in the Venafro Cemetery, with its terrifying view of the Casertan border. The large cement factory of San Sesto Campano stands out on the horizon, sadly known, in recent years, for the exchange of waste belonging to companies run by organized crime. This is where eco-mafias continue to bury nuclear waste from France and Germany, while burning huge amounts of illegal, toxic garbage. Within a 15 km radius, in the Venafro Valley, there is a cement plant and two incinerators, with a total of almost 450,000 tons of waste burned annually. Morning dew tries to hide evidence of the crime, but then we realize that what we thought was fog is simply smoke and pollution.
The retired traffic-light, its bulbs long stolen, confirms the time and place: we've entered no man's land.
Paradoxically, one of Italy's highest provincial capitals is called Campobasso (Low Field), a magnetic confluence of state roads and icy winds. We get lost as tourists in the endless one-way streets, tricky labyrinths bleached by the first seasonal snows.
We find more than one grocery store selling Specialties of Puglia or mozzarella from Campania or Fruit and Vegetables from Lazio.
"How many times have you been told that the Molise does not exist?", I ask Giuseppe, who has been promoting the region privately for years, God knows why.
"Too many," he replies, "invisibility is probably the only recognized fact about our region. We want to improve traditions, blah blah, culture, blah bla, nature, etc."
He often uses the concept of community and, from time to time, he feeds us some marketing term in English.
"Public institutions are slow and third-worldish, they do not respond to the rapid changes of today's world. Since the region promoted active residency funding to repopulate the region, we have had a boom of messages on our page. They wrote to us from Russia, Mexico and the United States because they couldn't find the application form on the region's website. This is unclear, slow and lacks transparency."
In fact, most of the international news about Molise that can be found on the network relates mainly to the active residence subsidy, a state aid to repopulate the "unpopulable".
The mandatory way out has many recipients but few senders. Most young people migrate to Naples, Rome, Milan or, who can, even further. Families suffer and at the same time they expect their children to leave the ghost region. "What makes you stay here?" they seem to suggest among the hidden tears of a constantly exiled South.
Lorena has lived abroad for seven years and every Christmas, without fail, she relives groundhog day. "Ah, where do you live now?" they ask her repetitively in the village, like a good morning, how are you doing?
There are no highways to connect the 130 km that go from west to east, nor does the wind of information blow between the two distant valleys. In Longano they are not even aware of the 2002 earthquake. "Which one? The ‘85 one, you mean?"
In the municipality of Casacalenda, the councillor speaks in public about non-existent trains on the stage of the prestigious Film Festival. It's been six years since Trenitalia last chugged along these rails, but these people all seem to suffer from mutismus tremens.
The historic town centres are almost completely abandoned and people often prefer to live in the prefabricated buildings of 2002 rather than return to their former houses renovated with European funds.
"So, shall we send some refugees to live in these empty houses?"
"No, thank you," the demonstrators replied.
How do you see the Molise in 15 years?, the forward-looking and cyclic question.
Termoli, the region's second city, commemorates the day of Doomsday with its utter desolation. The cold wind, Christmas holidays and abandoned beaches might justify this post-apocalyptic stillness. The only survivor of the nuclear attack is a numb Neapolitan guy who sells homemade sfogliatelle.
"But... has something happened?" asks Jacopo. "Is there a match on? Did the pope die?"
"No, no", he replies, getting as close as possible to the oven. "This is normal around here!"
Even the wind turbines are on vacation: they can’t be bothered to spin. At least Radio Maria, the vatican’s radio station, has crystal-clear reception.
In the luminaria of Larino we find our Virgilio, who redeems us from a neon hell made of Santa Claus and cotton candy. Donato has recognized us and feels a moral obligation to be our teacher. He aggressively invites us to his cellar, cutting cheeses and salami hung in sight. "We're fine for today," he says, opening a closet with many bottles of homemade wine, a dark color with many good promises.
He is clearly enthusiastic about our "visit" and wastes no time in praising Larino and the surrounding area.
"You know, there's a New Year in Gambatesa where the whole town is on the street," he says. "Imagine that, every year 200 campers come from all over Italy."
As if it were an island, Molise remained true to its origin, in a constant post-war of neorealist episodes: wine, cacio cavallo and family.
"This is from my countryside," he stresses, offering us another secret delicacy.
We don’t know how to thank him, (one) because everything is homemade and tasty, and (two) because we’d like to escape from the seclusion of his violent hospitality, but don’t know how.
If there's one thing worth praising about this unknown wasteland, it's not its nature, food or history, but its people, who represents the main course on an overly bland menu. And I do not consider it unique and unrepeatable only because of the historical need to praise his millennial efforts for bread, nor for the stubbornness of surviving in this land of passage, difficult and hard...
The people of Molise, in my opinion, boast a peculiarity that makes them a bitch among pigs, as De Gregori said on his musical journey through the Bel Paese. Geographically, Molise is a region bursting with humility: I cannot understand how the proximity of the criminal underworld of Foggia, Cassino and Caserta does not affect in the least the transhumance spirit of small local productions. With the exception of the Venafro plain, the entire region seems free of ambiguity, its essence almost untouched. The natives confirm our suspicions.
"60% of the national production of truffles comes from here," Max explains, as he prepares about a hundred arrosticini (sheep skewers). "Truffles grow on unused, uninhabited and abandoned lands." Thinking of the Spanish Molise (Teruel and its province), the truffle has been yielding surprising results for several decades, producing 36000 kg per year for a village of only 8600 inhabitants.
What do you say to someone who tells you the Molise doesn't exist?
"I would tell him that it must be created, since it’s a brand like all the others, Puglia, Calabria, Umbria, ...", suggests Maurizio. "On the island of Giglio (Tuscany) there is nothing, but I remember that the guide spent two hours explaining the uniqueness of a flower. We have to know how to sell the land and history, but it seems that many of us have lost pride in our origins".
Grandma Carolina is unaware of these modern dilemmas. When we meet her, the cold is getting more intense; it's 5 p.m. and it's time to pick up firewood for the fireplace. Maybe those blue eyes have seen more than a century, but we can't be sure. She has lost count of the years and, surprised by our sudden visit, adjusts the veil, putting the crucifix in good light.
Flash!
Camille, on the other hand, comes from another world. About ten years ago, this french artist acquired her second residence in a small town, with less than 100 inhabitants. "I came here looking for simplicity and quiet, and the place it does for me," she says. "Molise has nothing to sell for tourism, there are no airports and, from Naples, it takes forever to arrive. It's uncomfortable and not practical at all, but I'm not complaining, quite the opposite. Sometimes I think it's better to stay like this: pure, simple and distant."
The neighbor greets her, it’s the first time they meet after the holidays. She’s wearing tattered shoes and a dirty country sweater, as in the old days when there was no provincial obsession with white shirts and renewed bars with Ikea's (bad) taste.
"You know, it’s all right, here with the family," she replies, in a sad unconvinced tone. A family member looks out the window for a few seconds to check the situation, just the time needed to satisfy his thirst for curiosity: the rumors about the foreigners were true. Head inside because outside is a bad world.
The fact of living constantly in an eternal post-war period, among migrants and natural disasters, portrays the Region That Doesn’t Exist as a literary picture of magical realism.
"Where are you going to eat today?" Lorena's grandmother repeats to us obsessively, after we decline her offer of a luxurious lunch. "Try this", she continues, cutting bread, mozzarella and cold cuts. "But... where are you going to eat today?"
God only knows where we're going to eat, but snow, frost and national roads certainly don’t help the good intentions of the family’s hospitality.
Often, the lack of comfort and practicality can represent an added value to it, as in the case of unknown beaches or excellent family taverns. You can't spread the word too much and, probably for this reason, secrets are revealed with their more refined flavor, because only a few lucky people can appreciate them.
The strength of Molise is clearly revealed in its humble and naive spirit, which, through the gift of invisibility, surprises the few (modern) transhumance travellers who are unaware of the deceitful "abandon all hope, ye who enter here". I reluctantly believe that their destiny is to disappear in silence, without any written history.
Because, unfortunately, those who do not write history do not suffer forgetfulness.
Comentarios