I haven't posted in a while but I wanted to write something about the flooding in our area, which is causing such hardship and hasn't been covered much in the international press.
In one day, the Grosseto area of Tuscany received the
amount of rain that normally falls over an entire winter. Flooding reached
three meters in some areas, at least four people were killed and nearly 3,000
left without water or power in the area of Albinia, the epicenter of the
damage. Most of the people that were received by the hotel where I was when the flooding started -- and which opened only to receive the flooded and emergency workers -- were elderly women, many with disabilities. Towns throughout the area, including ours, remain largely isolated by closed roads and washed
out bridges.
It’s November.
The water is
cold.
Every surface
is reflective, glassy. What overrides is the unrecognizability, an unfolding mental
failure that, burrowing deep, conjoins nodes of doubt, panic, any spare
psychological detritus, and renders the world as strangeness in the sense of étrangeté
-- unknown and
outsider.
Nature, confident, exudes no great
effort, but neither is deterred. Just blooms, engulfing.
The rest, instead, uprooted. Unlighted.
Thereafter, every
high-pitched swish, every tenor of rumbling – rain? Thunder? Thankfully now
just phantoms.
I wonder,
Sandy, is this like you? Are we made distant Atlantic relatives, similar not in
magnitude but in how we receive you, in
ginocchio?
What we feel,
what is dismissed, what merits newsprint and ambitious, white-teethed telecasters.
And what does not.
Where are
we?
No sight of
civil protection, no coordinator. Where are they?
For now just the
unsteady, expanding of human emotion, scavenged constructions of care, the
humble offering of our imaginations, of seeing ourselves in one another.
I understand
more by watching than by hearing. It’s too hard to piece together through the
layers of dialect, my own ignorance, confused retellings. But my gaze is less
encumbered, and I watch the firemen’s
eyes as they trudge in with midnight, glistening with fatigue, their gaits
weighted as though by the mud they have battled since dawn.
It’s the hair
that gives them away, the alluvionati.
What is normally a source of Meridional pride now juts out in frizzy tufts,
bathed but unwashed. The new snug-fitting, Red Cross clothing, awkward and
transgendered, seems unmatched with its wearers. But what their usual attire
is, I have no clue. They are all strangers to me.
A handful of weathered
Maremman women populate the lobby of the (until now) shuttered Park Hotel. They
converge in a corner, take up position, keep company. Maybe there were family
invites, entreaties, insistence, stay
with us. Some have accepted, but the few who remain seem resolute, even as
they ask us again where they are. Gli
uomini duri fanno le donne forti.
Two scale across submerged mulberries, loose their
grip on the only donkey. One fights cancer; water reaches her chest. Another
braves the window of her drowning car, never wavers that her husband is at home
and safe.
At the end of a
long, shocked day, we sit together, unknown, unknowing, unrecognizing. Refugee
upon refugee, fleeing, but with an expectation of return. Some flee floods, gather
courage to face down loss. Others shirk shadows, duck ghosts, and slowly, gingerly,
locate nodes and begin to untangle.