When you get into the mud and rubble, only the names, surnames and faces of the dead are unpublished. The rest has already been seen and heard in other disasters
There was a flood, a storm in the Marche, there are dead, injured and missing, and then the newspaper calls you, asks you to go, understand, tell. But then when you get into the mud and rubble, and smell, throw your first glances, take your first notes, you immediately realize that, as always, again you can only find the victims’ rosary. Only their names and surnames, their faces, their stories private are unpublished. The rest will have already been seen and heard in other disasters, because ours is a tragic country where the earth periodically trembles and rivers overflow, schools are already coming, whole pieces of mountainssnow avenues, and everything ends – regularly – within the usual narrative.
With people coming towards you, faces twisted by anger and fear, to tell you that the danger had been completely ignored: and this time – between Cantiano and Pianello di Ostra – together with the inhabitants there are even the mayors who describe this story of tremendous underestimation, they had just received a yellow, generic, low, stupid alert, and nothing more. There is always someone who wanders in pajamas, with a dressing gown, slippers in the mud, their hair matted, white with dust, and spreads their arms, looks at you resigned, mortified, because it’s okay that we are a small fraction, but, in short. , the delays in the rescue – write it down – there have been.
Firefighters they pretend not to listen and break their backs, and even risk their skin to take back the cat that went into hiding in the attic. At this point, on time, the ritual battery of news starts: two days of mourning proclaimed, flags at half mast in the institutional offices, the local prosecutor announcing that it has opened an investigation against unknown personsthe governor (in this case, Francesco Acquaroli of Fratelli d’Italia) who makes it known of constantly follow the situation, and to be in contact with the Civil Protection. Then to discover that to overflow the river that everyone knows, a river that swells easily, flows in front of the houses, under the houses, and so here is the geologist on duty, for the little lesson that by now we should all know by heart. And what nature must be respected, cared for, supported. And here instead they didn’t care, the bed of the Misa river was full of dry logs, old toilets, rusty carcasses of scooters: so when the rain swelled the waters, everything ended up under the bridge, which closed, like a plug.
There is always some elderly survivor who explains, simply, how the tragedy could have been avoided. And there is always some elderly person who instead died in solitude. Then there are the mothers crying and screaming and getting ready for the little white coffins. Priests who bless. And the lights of the tig connected live. To tell the Italians that there has been another tragedy. The usual tragedy. With many corpses and no culprits.CopyAMP code.
September 17, 2022 (change September 17, 2022 | 23:48)
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