Carbonia. An indefinite time hope for multitudes of people came from all regions of Italy to find work, perhaps flattered by the propaganda of the totalitarian regime, celebrating its obsessively social power and building. Many were placed in numerous mines scattered around the area, where they found support for their families but sometimes the disease, which finally came up weak body enervated by fatigue. Numerous books, disparate research, hundreds of pages have spoken and they speak of the vicissitudes of pain, history and the indomitable courage of these workers, men sacrificed to pay the salary in a Republic founded sinister at work. Here they are, therefore, workers killed by landslides, workers torn by underground explosions, workers died from silicosis, workers trapped, crushed, choked by lethal noxious fumes ...
Yeah, Carbonia, emblematic town of the coal. City suddenly sort of dust, a bit 'like the legendary Las Vegas, however, made in the American desert and not in the lonely countryside of Sulcis. Carbonia, symbol of the mystifying power of the fascist regime, a metaphor for utopian city of the same imperial dictatorship, which aimed to forge a varied group of people and become a compact nation, concentrated, and solid ... With due proportion that reflects the core Sulcis Fascism did, or tried to do, on the large peninsula cast from weapons of Savoy. A nation that does not exist, a nation of peoples, ethnic groups and cultures are diametrically opposed and varied. Republic of Venice, the Papal States, the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, Piedmont and the Kingdom of Sardinia of the Two Sicilies, microcosms in which social practices are structured and intellectual who took very different life experiences. Fascism tried to give these discrepancies, sought to do with the image, by propaganda, perhaps tempted by the legal system, of course with the baton and tried by the sword. A Carbonia attempted to do so by promising jobs and prosperity but these masses, rather than by planning, institutional and slogans from the prestigious representations were compacted concrete from the pain and daily struggles, from the ancient struggle of peoples for survival and honor.
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Where the streets you can meet people of Carbonia that have nothing in common except the vertical lines of their own destiny. The facial features are substantially different here is a northern and a southern face, a boy taken from Africa and one from the Anglo-Saxon features, and still singular intersections of chromosomes, as we were visiting a genetic laboratory in the open. Who knows ... It would be interesting to live in those times, to see firsthand the beginnings of our melting pot, as the Yanks call the coexistence of different ethnic groups within the same territory. This town is in fact an infinitesimal melting pot, a mixture, a mixed dough which they were forged in the different cultures of our nation. Neapolitans, Venetians, Sicilians, Lazio, Abruzzo, and of course any kind of southern Sardinia. All thrown together in a young, dry environment, identical houses crammed into each other, row, line, cross, according to an architectural style which reflects the general area by the Roman regime. Today as then, the plot is certified by the family still there, as traces in the sand by a tired seller of Oriental rugs. Surnames Sardinian certainly not, or sometimes Lombard Calabria, grotesque last names, family names, which sometimes turn into adjectives, nouns or verbs. Surnames from families once dominated, names can indicate a defect or a fault of the original house, surnames documenting the state of abandonment to the moment of birth, names that sometimes cripple, labeling an individual already in the vital moment when, baby, emigrated weeping womb.
The memories of the town occur as soon as I close my eyes. Only then I can still see them, and sway in the streets abundant only stones and dust. Elderly forgotten isolated on benches, old tottering in wide sidewalks, old dying, lonely, crumbling, while head weakly to the satisfying entry in a church of modern style. Full of pathos and resignation, stoically with their usual pace sticks, meditating on the words of the next dialogue with the Almighty. Yes, the Almighty, the Director-General, the team leader, what form the idea of \u200b\u200bthe Almighty in their fantasy dream, with what voice will respond to their claims? With that of his childhood, his father, the mother, the prostitute who turned out all the intimate secrets, or lost his wife in a hospital ward, just when it seemed he could do it ... Well you will speak with the dead, Justice or ask forgiveness for the faults, for the words, In the Immaculate marble sculptures of the acts of eternity. What ever asked, kneeling on the hardwood stands, what to claim, rhythm of the prayers during the scan? A painless death, a call from an ungrateful son, a kind word to become a nurse too demanding? Or ask a bit of youth, perhaps with his fist toward the crucifix so excited to show more of what they are capable of such daring and valiant deeds are still keepers. A rematch, a duel, face to face in the realm of the dead, a request from nothing, a little tribute on the altar of their consistency, nothing else ...
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Here they are then atomized , in the arms of those who know perfectly cobbled streets. When an acquaintance greets them smiled, looked at the youth slipped away too quickly, as the ship crossed the Tyrrhenian to catapult there in Sulcis, the granary of the Romans, far from their mothers, their friendships and first loves sad ... I do not know . We recognize that observed in young people wandering on the same dusty streets? Maybe they sense the looks, including their skin and some focus is not entirely dissolved, faded traces of belonging to families who have lost all their peculiarities. Yes, those young people apathetic and desperate young men certainly more educated but totally ignorant of the essential. Those young people from the future technology on which they had placed extraordinary expectations, these young men have become immortalized in pictures and faded, some even in black and white, someone on the marble slabs of the cemetery, victims of work, or drug intoxication, but primarily for themselves. Young emigrated to legitimate dreams, like so many years before they tried them, fatally attracted by the sirens of the redundant system.
before us would be therefore be the bridge between these generations disjointed imagery, including the elderly, eternally lonely sitting on the benches, and the young men hidden in the corners of the streets. The ideal relationship, or a goal inevitably pursued for generations, ambition has grown with the passing time, wait a concept identified in fragile and inconsistent. As in other provinces of the island, even here the work becomes the reason for the prophetic exodus to other regions, Carbonia as if he were in a phase of implosion, and families come from the overseas territories were returned to their own contexts, as if nothing had ever happened, as if no city had ever been made. Chasing the chase work alongside hope, and you can just the young unemployed, recognize those expressions when they speak of the crisis of Porto Sorry, the layoffs or the dismemberment of their companies. Easily identify those voices and those looks, you know distinguish with certainty the same conclusions resigned. The same words and phrases themselves smothered in Sulcis as in Ogliastra in Marghine as in Sassari. These giovanti disoriented share a perspective, leave, leave these cities in order to live where we should not ask for anything, where we should not deny anything, where you do not have to go up on factory chimneys to shout their demands. Each with a clear vocation, all with the same hope: to return to this land and among these people, to carve out a space in the city where they were born and raised. Back home ... Why can not be replaced by another house, and no will rise to nostalgia overwhelming that floods this heart of exiles. My Sardegna, as you are beautiful, with unlimited beautiful and proud, you turn into a mistake that you can not embrace.
Vincent D'Ascanio, 2010 indedito
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