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Let’s not console ourselves this time. We do not seek peace. Yes, there is the white of the shirts, twelve hundred “hello Willy”, so immaculate that it hurts the sight. The one with the flowers, pure as smiles, and globes of light in the air. And the white sobs of the kids, the friends, many, that break the sunny silence of the Paliano sports field, on the synthetic grass, around the coffin. But let’s not calm down this time with good feelings. “Have a good trip, brother, justice is done” is not enough. It is not enough Giuseppe Conte, who arrived with Luciana Lamorgese and Nicola Zingaretti to sincerely bring to Mama Lucia and Papa Armando a national emotion, which has been growing since last Saturday for a week, day after day, to every horror revelation, in each fragment of the minutes, in each photo of the Bianchi brothers, so far alleged but predestined executioners, in their caricatured brutality.
This story is blasphemy. So it is not enough for Monsignor Parmeggiani to pronounce words of conciliation (“forgive those who have done the unimaginable”), as requested by the docile family of this twenty-one-year-old young man who still looked like a teenager, he was a “kitchen helper” but he dreamed of a champion of his Rome right here, in the Italian homeland that his parents conquered him coming from Cape Verde and working hard for twenty years: here, on this soccer field where now, at ten o’clock in the morning, a yellow and red shirt greets his coffin in the air suspended, Raised by an unlikely pain, equally unlikely is what happened one night seven days ago in the valley, in Colleferro, the only way out for the children of these ancient villages clinging to the Lepini mountains and often raped by small villages with gems in its ends. Peace, says the bishop, “Jesus did not save us with muscles but by giving his life for us” and mother Lucia sighs more deeply, in the composure that marked her torment, because Willy did so in the end, a wren weighing only 60 kilos who threw himself into evil to save a friend.
What happened to Colleferro: from the role of the Bianchi brothers in the murder to the delay of the ambulance, everything you need to know
But there is no peace and it is not enough: why Today there is a close thread between life and death. Between the “social battlefield” of Artena, the village of thugs, and this small field of Paliano, the village of the victims, forty minutes from Rome, the road and then the “via del Cesanese”, the good wine , the park, a promise of beauty long betrayed by a landfill planted in the area. In this thread run the destinies not of monsters or saints, but of children from a province that has become a periphery of the periphery, a human desert, news of crimes like in Alatri or Ardea, satellites of Rome, dried up by Rome: “dormitories” of the capital where nobody really lives and finally, yes, “social battlefield”. And where few speak, it is known, for a quiet life. After the crime, he found the courage to do it with the agency. Say she was just a volunteer from the Arci di Artena, one who fights every day to irrigate the desert and overthrow the destinies marked out: his mayor reacted badly, certainly with pain when he saw that jewel that is the town, the old Montefortino, with its monuments and its story, crushed in an MMA gym, about the blows of an extreme sport, about drug nights. So the first citizen of Artenese Felicetto Angelini is right in his outburst of pride, but he is also wrong in defending the impossible. Because they are clearly seen two worlds facing each other without peace at these heights, eliminating one of the two is of no use to anyone.
here Mrs. Cocaine, nothing full of testosterone in the gym, the pill-filled emptiness and resentment rising each night, and beyond resistance, one human resilience interwoven with small everyday gestures, Willy’s latest work at the Hotel degli Amici, the smile that defied fear, the courage that does not require muscles because it is in the soul. One against five … «We have to talk about that, among the Municipalities. If 50s keep quiet, how can we expect twentysomethings to step forward? », Medita Paola Imperoli, councilor of the opposition in Paliano. “The danger”, murmurs a wise retired person like Roberto Adriani, “is that in some time, when the lights go out, a dozen boys will leave Paliano and … open sky.” It is a tense thread where now the words of the homily, “we need an educational pact”, are linked with difficulty, so much so that with sad realism even the bishop admits that “we are defeated in front of this coffin“On the hill of Paliano, the last town of Frosinone before the metropolitan city of Rome, they swear that with those of Artena it has always been like this, to hatred and resentment. There is a lot of bell tower in the middle of this catastrophe and an old saying remains , “go and tell a Cuccò”, which recalls the splendor of a local executioner from the fifties, a peasant who called to settle accounts from one country to another. Others, a bit like what happened to the Bianchi brothers . With the difference that Cuccò knew above all to listen to people while, in these years of carrion in which they have ruled, Marco and Gabriele tried to bother to hit at all (“even a great and great rugby player, they decorated it! right here! “). A certain rate of rebellion up here creates status.
Artena has a long tradition of banditry. They left Paliano twenty years ago due to the kidnapping of bank managers and it is possible to meet those who still talk about it with a touch of flirtation, a bit like Robin Hood. “Willy killed him in Colleferro, because if they went up here we will throw them away, and our walls are high.” Colleferro is indeed the promised land for these communities full of nothing. Here comes Amazon with the mirage of work (500 warehouse workers are needed, before Covid-19 Artena had an unemployment rate of 17%, Paliano of 20%). There is “even” the cinema (“not every town can have one”, admits Mayor Angelini). There the groups of kids from Lariano, Artena, Paliano come down to fight for a little escape, to look at each other, to dance and get high. “Everyone knew, but we were scared,” many later said, unnamed. In Largo Santa Caterina, where Willy was massacred, there were dozens and no one moved. Trust in the state is not very high. Someone Willy saw growing up, the uncle of a childhood friend of his, showed up a few days ago at the Whites’ gym to “look the teacher in the eye, who is also his uncle.” It could have ended very badly, but the teacher was devastated, “if this place burned down I would be almost happy,” he seems to have muttered. The idea of doing justice for oneself remains ingrained. There remains that silence that, no, it is not just a youth phenomenon. Then there is no peace or comfort. Not even here on the sports field. Even today Willy is not victorious over his executioners. Because, yes, his life and even his death tell how in the desert you can be different from the Bianchi brothers and their gang. Refilling it with wonders: with hard work, friendship, an idea of tomorrow, even a smile. That smile. But the battle has just begun. And today nothing is enough for us.
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