Aldo Moro's Grave

It was only a short way to the cemetery, on a little sandy path. Everything here is much greener, more natural and romantic than it looks like on Google Maps.

On the cemetery itself there are the alcove graves that are so typical for southern countries, but also one or two earth graves as we know them in central Europe. I walk around, do not search, allow myself to be guided, and then - a line of mausoleums, individual catacombs.

Very polished "mini villas", well taken care of ...

... no, it's not them, but there, at the very end of the line ... a building in a totally different style. Simple, no splendour ... my heart beats faster ... that's not it, is it?

 Yes, it is.

Inside is the white sarcophagus. The name: Aldo Moro.

1800 kilometres on foot, across mountains, ravines and rivers - and now I am here. Ivy grows into the mausoleum from the outside. Everywhere lies dust. A picture has fallen down next to the sarcophagus. There also is an A4-sized photograph of Eleonora Moro, who is buried here as well.

Yes, I already knew the grave from a photograph, and yes, last night over dinner I was prepared that it is "very quaint". And yet - this shatters me.
All these pretty chapels with brightly polished gates, crucifixes and gilded engravings - and next to them, shrouded in dust and ivy, lies a former statesman, a part of world history. Not even the dates of his birth and death have been engraved. And there is no cross either.

He, the practicing Catholic ... but his last remaining written statement was a criticism of the pope.

I search for "peace" at the grave. But there is none.
The sarcophagus is a scream turned into stone.
The simplicity is an accusation. No statesman rests here, no "historical figure", and definitely no "political symbol". Here lies a human being who wanted to live and to go home.

I sit down while my thoughts race like cars on a motorway. The first tears come. I visualise the many letters he wrote during his imprisonment, I physically feel the fear, the hope, the anxiety, the despair ...
And the answer to all of it is this sarcophagus.
I break down and cry bitterly. Without even realising, I say "humans are shit".

I am desperate because there is absolutely nothing I can do. I can make a pilgrimage to this place, I can cry, I can draw, but I can not travel back in time in order to help him. However, there is nothing I would love to do more in this moment.

And while I cry, it comes: the vision, the waking dream. The encounter.

A long silence. Then Aldo says to me: "Come on, let's go."

I walk back, return soon afterwards to take photographs and walk back again.

Later, I meet the father of the owner of the hotel where I am staying. Yesterday, I had eaten dinner with the family. They were CLOSE friends of Aldo Moro. He goes with me to the cemetery once again. More tears. Then he shows me the burial vault where Aldo was buried for the first year - as you can read on the internet, he was first buried "in the grave of a friend."

This friend was the father of my hotel owner. He guides me into the vault, shows me the alcove where "Aldo Moro" is written by hand, hardly legible still. Now it is empty.

"Will someone be buried there again?", I ask. "I don't hope so - at least not too soon", the friend responds, and we both start to laugh. For the first time. A little bashfully, but aware that Aldo is laughing with us.

Then he drives me to Aldo's little house here in Torrita. No luxurious villa, rather a witch's cottage. It is emtpy and overgrown.
He tells me about Aldo, who was his professor at the university. "He was able to listen for hours. During the students' revolt in 1968, many feared for his safety, but he was not afraid of the revolutionaries. He listened to them, only sighing sometimes "I find it a little difficult to understand these kids." No, he did not understand everything, but he listened.
He went shopping, alone or with his kids, even when he was a famous politician.

I meet elderly people in Torrita ... they all knew Aldo. They talk about him with deep love but also deep grief. The image I had gets confirmed. On the one hand this is very beautiful, but on the other hand my pain is increased: I see Aldo with my inner eyes, dead in the car boot, haggard, deeply exhausted, absolutely lonely. This merges with what the people here tell me. It becomes unbearably cruel.

He listened to others, but nobody listened to him. He opposed the death penalty, but he "had to die" - strangely, political faction of both the left and the right agreed on this. He was denied the kindness he had given to others.

He was plainly left do die in misery.

In a world where something like this is possible, it is no wonder that refugees' shelters burn and people are murdered or left to starve.

We go to the town hall. Aldo's friend introduces me and asked when the mayor was going to be back, because he wanted me to meet him. I am given the gift of a book about Torrita. It also contains a chapter about Aldo.
It is to some extent comforting that there are so many kind people in Torrita, who protect and shelter him. I am sure that the coming days will be very intense.