Aldo Moro and his friends

The day before yesterday I stayed overnight on a large farm that belongs to Urbano De Leonardis.

By "chance" it turned out that Urbano is the son of Donato De Leonardis, a close and lifelong friend of Aldo Moro.

He also was with him during the war, when they were drafted for military service.

Donato De Leonardis wrote the book "L'umanitá di Aldo Moro" (The humaneness of Aldo Moro). Unfortunately he died a couple of years ago, but his son gave me the book.

Its 190 pages are a love letter to Aldo. All kinds of small stories and anecdotes from the time they spent together, all describing Aldo's character and demeanour. A unique work.

When I read it I found it almost totally consistent with what I learned from the reports of others who had known Aldo.

Nevertheless, I continued to ask myself: Was he really *such* an angel? Didn't he at least say "shit" sometimes?

Of course, here he is seen through the loving - and mourning - eyes of a close friend. Still, it is wonderful to get this confirmation that Aldo has truly deserved a pilgrimage.

Aldo was not a good soldier. He had already been a professor at the university when he was drafted.

An intellectual, only barely able to endure physical hardship. But his comrades, instead of mocking or bullying him, protected and supported him.

This book has not only increased my appreciation of Aldo (even more), but that of his friends as well.

Aldo did not want to receive any special treatment, which is why he kept his social status a secret. Therefore, due to his deficits as his soldier, he was treated especially badly by his superiors.

His comrades helped him as much as possible. When his puttees kept falling down because he was simply unable to put them on correctly, the others quickly wrapped them for him and prevented him from getting in trouble. They took some of his burdens when they saw that his strength failed on a march.

Aldo's sensitivity and vulnerability were experienced as enriching. Not as inferior, but as something that had to be protected.

And this is what I find truly remarkable. A tiny island of advanced humaneness - right in the middle of Mussolini's fascist Army.

The last part of the book contains letters from Aldo Moro to De Leonardis. This is an especially valuable part, since the texts are very private, even intimate, allowing a deep insight into Aldo Moro's inner life.

They are emotionally stunning and simply breathtaking.

I am astonished - and shocked - how much pain and inner desires still dwelt within him. How empty he often felt, and how overstrained by his surroundings, his social rank and his responsibility as a statesman and head of the family:

"It seems to me as if I am asleep, as if it is not me who lives my life."

He clearly mourned and missed his time with Donato for the rest of his life, something he expressed in melancholic, deeply emotional letters.

"Do you remember that Sunday afternoon when I was freezing, body and soul ... This unforgettable life we shared?

Sometimes it seems to me that time stopped than. When the pain was shared by two hearts beating in unison, melting into pure joy in this union. This is something that can not be experienced in lonely pain, something others are unable to understand. Not as you did understand it."

"I know that you are lonely. I am lonely, too. Lonely amongst many people (...) I miss our songs under the gentle light of the stars."

These words, these paragraphs full of pain make me sad. I knew that he was a melancholiac, full of deep inner conflict, but I had thought he was happier, all in all.

At the very end there is a letter by De Leonardi to Aldo in the afterlife: he apologises for publishing his private letters and some intimate details. He explains to him that it was his concern to let the reader discover the human being behind the politician.

I am sure Aldo has agreed.

And again, after this tsunami of emotions, I remember that terrible photo of the dead body in the car boot.

Ant I still can not understand how it was possible that such a wonderful person had to suffer such a deeply miserable fate.

Sometimes I wish I could indeed meet Mario Moretti as well. Theoretically, it would be possible. I would ask that arsehole whether he has even the slightest idea of the actual consequences of his crime.

The suffering he caused goes far beyond Aldo Moro's personal suffering.

Donato De Leonardis

"L'umanitá di Aldo Moro"

Capetta Editori

Dreams

Almost one and a half months have passed since I set out from Roiffieux.

 

No, it doesn't feel "as if it was yesterday". One phenomenon of this journey is that time seems to have slowed down.

The rush of the days has been stopped. It feels as if I began to walk a long time ago, as if I needed many weeks to cross the Vercors, and the same amount of time for walking through the valley of the Drôme.

Time is infinite, and the distances are huge.

I am not able any more to grasp what still lies before me. It is as it used to be in my childhood, when "in two months' time" was synonymous with "never".

This is certainly the case because, as in childhood, there is no daily routine. Every day is new, brings new experiences, and demands total openness towards the unknown.

This gift of slowed-down time, of a new eternity, is one of the most impressive aspects of this pilgrimage.

We have crossed the barren mountains between St Pierre, Majastres and Palude sur Verdon, the Vedon ravine, and finally the “Village perchés”. 

Bargemon, Seillans, Tanneron - these villages that have been built into the dizzyingly high slopes where every step leads either upwards, downwards - or straight into the abyss.

Every square metre of flat surface that has been wrestled from the steep slope by building terraces and using even the smallest protrusion is used, cared for and guarded. Olive trees and mimosas grow between small wooden stairs, rocks and walls.

A unique world between the mighty nature and the nearby posh Côte d’Azur.

I remember many things I see from very old dreams. Now they make sense. For example looking for a place to stay in these villages between heaven and earth, before the path continues into the mountains. I dreamt of it, more than 25 years ago. Later, I even wrote a comic about it, "North East Pass", which was published in an American anthology. It was so long ago! And now the dream has come true.

 

Anyway, dreams. I dream a lot, and very intensely, but I also forget more than usual. Which is due to the fact that waking up in a tent is not as cosy as waking up at home.

 

Gamin and I attract plenty of attention. This is not always pleasant. When cars slow down so that people can take photographs - without making any comment - and then speed up again, I feel as if I am an exhibit in the zoo.

 

I also find it tiring that so many people comment "oh, he carries a heavy burden". 

In Bargemon, a woman recoiled when I told her that I am on a pilgrimage. Before, she had pestered me with questions, now she disgustedly refused the flyer I tried to give her as a reply. 

But when I told her that I followed the footsteps of Aldo Moro, she was relieved and laughed again. "Oh well, a politician, that's ok then. I just don't want to hear about Marian apparitions and such things."

This is the first time that someone was glad to hear that I am on a pilgrimage for a politician ...

Soon afterwards I experienced the total opposite. A woman approached me. She seemed to lived in transcendent spheres. She asked me whether she was allowed to caress Gamin, because someone had prophesied that she would become lucky if she caressed a donkey on its way to Seillans. When I told her that we were indeed on the road to Seillans, she was touched and happy.

Nobody can be sure of the background to her experience. It was one of these mysteries of the south, with its alcoves in the stone, with its statues of saints and of the madonna, dreaming in the mid-day heat.

Which leads us back to dreams. Of course I dream a lot of Aldo, and also of John F.

I increasingly understand how much Aldo appreciates commitment, faithfulness and dedication. He detested - and still detests - superficiality, opportunism and arbitrariness. These vices explain how he was betrayed. If he was able at all to find an explanation for this betrayal, this is what it must have been.

But once he has realised that the dedication to him is honest, sincere, and, most of all, committed, he is also ready to commit himself strongly and permanently.

Sunny Paths

There is a deep melancholy within me, as always during the days around the anniversary of Aldo Moro's death. The enchanting landscape around the ”Sentiers du soleil”, as the network of hiking trails in the Haute Provence is called, enhances the gloom. Here, the loneliness of the heart echoes back in the songs of the cicada.

If I had sprained my ankle or sat on a cactus, I'd probably experience encouragement and comfort. But this pain is surrounded by nothing but silence.

 

Aldo, the anniversary of his death, my sadness - it simply doesn't matter. I might just as well be on a pilgrimage for a pharmaceutical company, for Mickey Mouse or Silvio Berlusconi. It would make no difference at all to the perception of my pilgrimage in the outside world.

 

The physical achievement is acknowledged.
The love behind it is not.

Pass Road

On April 29th, the wonderful sunshine defied all meteorolgists who had predicted rain and dreary weather.

An easy route via pass roads led us out of Bouvante, to Lente.

At the Col du Chaud Clapier

When you are able to walk without being scared of falling into an abyss after every step, your thoughts are free to roam as well.

Of course I think a lot about Aldo Moro. Most people I meet are astonished that this pilgrimage is dedicated to him. More astonished than about the fact that I walk with a pack donkey, or that the destination is so far away, or that it will take such a long time to get there.

In Léoncel it was especially nice: I had slept behind the village church. In the morning, a church employee turned up. She apologised for not having noticed me the evening before.

The church offers free rooms to pilgrims. But now, at least, I was to come and have breakfast.

I was happy to accept, but I explained to her that I was neither a Catholic nor on an "official" pilgrimage, but that it was for Aldo Moro.

“It doesn't matter,” she said. “Going on a pilgrimage is a very personal thing; each pilgrim has his or her own way. And it will do Aldo good, it will give him joy."

She said this very much as a matter of fact, which moved me a lot.

A living example of openness and interreligious tolerance.

This is certainly also due to the influence of the Vercor, which has many unknown, sleepy places of pilgrimage, far away from the popular Way of St. James. They open their very intimate ways of salvation to quiet pilgrims.

Most people are not spontaneously able to know who Aldo was. I briefly explain it to them, and each time I feel the strength that comes from pulling him out of oblivion.

Yes, it does him good. And me, too. The cold, cynical evil that became manifest in the merciless stubbornness of all protagonists whose actions finally led to Aldo's death, will not have the last word.

Almost fourty years later, the outcry of the heart is still there, still awake, and it will not fall silent.

The night in the tent near Lente was brutally cold: sub-zero temperatures! As you can see, Gamin had a frozen bum in the morning.

GR 56

Sometimes it is a strange feeling when big current events touch one's own little world. When I began to plan the new route, across the Vercor and the Maritime Alps, place names that I have never heard before suddenly became part of my world: Peyrus, Breil sur Roya,  Seyne, Barcelonnette...

And suddenly the whole world knows where Barcelonnette is.

My path through the mountains the GR 56, (Chemin de Grande Randonnée / "Great Hiking Trail") leads along the site of the crash, which is only 3,5 kilometres away.

At this point, the Ravin de l'Elve, there might be one of the most difficult parts of the trail. I seriously hope that a donkey will be able to manage it. And me, too. After all, Gamin has already crossed the Pyrenees, and there are difficult trails. But I ... with only a little hiking in the Vosges hills as my preparation ...

Memories come back. Almost 20 years ago, I drew a comic about a German plane that had crashed in the Alps.

Well, maybe my path will indeed follow the GR 56, but one never knows. I have stopped to set my plans in stone. I have become flexible, and I will follow the wind that fills my sails.

After all, the only important thing is that I will somehow make it to Torrita Tiberina and Maglie.

Don't harass me!

«If you don't want the bloke to be ablaze, don't light him up.»

This is the advice the author Zmile Brager provides in a special chapter for female riders in his trail riding manual.

Apart from the fact that it feels rather odd to a female reader that a man gives advice about menstrual hygiene - the sentence above is typical for a problem that women experience much more often than men: sexual harassment.

The author continues that women should not wear clothes that are too tight or too sexy, and not smile too often, or better not at all.

High heels and mini skirts are not very practical on a trekking tour, and very likely will only be worn by a minority of trail riders or hikers.
But smiling? Does it really entail "lighting someone up"?

What exactly is "provocative" behaviour and/or clothing?
I am certainly not the only woman who has been harassed although she was wearing loose clothing and an unfriendly expression on her face.

The actual problem is the reversal of the responsibilities. Not the man is required to control his urges and behave in a civilised way, but the woman is responsible for this.


An impossible demand, since the perception of what is "provocative" is subjective.
In some tribal cultures, all woman display their breasts without provoking anybody. In other cultures, women are required to don a sack in order to not become a temptation.

Also, statistics tell a different tale. Not the cheeky wearers of mini skirts are raped most often, but the shy wallflowers.
There is no such thing as an outfit that prevents harassment. The problem is the attitude of the men, who assess every woman's availability, instead of simply perceiving her, and treating her, as a fellow human being.
There is not a lot a woman can do against this, except signalling that she insists on being treated as a human being, no matter what kind of clothes she wears.

I will soon go to the hairdresser to have my hair cut short. It will be more practical on the pilgrimage, because the hair will dry faster after having been washed. I won't necessarily look good with a short cut. A side effect that is quite intentional.

What a pity that a woman has to think that way.

Who Are You?

Now, since the mundane, practical aspects are steadily getting sorted, I feel that the time has come to turn my mind more towards the goal of my pilgrimage: Aldo Moro.

I hear his calling. Stronger and stronger. And I feel the deep desire to fully open myself towards it.
I strive to let go of the everyday concerns and worries that still occupy me.
My gaze wants to turn to the inside, towards Aldo.

During this pilgrimage, my relationship with him is multi-faceted.

Sometimes I feel as if I am in the fairy tale of the Sleeping Beauty - with reversed gender roles.

Like a princess who looks for an enchanted prince, somewhere far away. For a hundred years he has been sleeping in a hidden burial chamber at the end of the world, guarded by roses and cicadas.

His immensely tragical fate has been softened by a good fairy godmother. A drop of blood and a tear fell on a rose and made it grow. Unnoticed, this rose grew on his grave and developed into a mighty thicket of thorns and blossoms, invisibly circling the whole world.

Only a few hear the calling that comes from this secret place. And only a few of those who set out to follow it will reach their destination, because the rose forest is thick and the thorns have no mercy.

Will I get through?

Will there be the redemptive kiss, the awakening from the pain?

Then again I experience Aldo as an adventurous and very lively young man. As a philosopher, politician and teacher. He wants to show me his home and tests my Italian vocabulary. He encourages me to learn more and to check out new frontiers.

Aldo Moro has his principles and his dignity. Sometimes he shakes his head and is stubborn.

Aldo Moro also is a grandfather. The old man with the gentle eyes, with whom you just want to sit under a shady pergola. Whose breath you love to hear when you are close to him, and whose sighs inspire kindness and attention.

And Aldo is the little boy who invites the little girl within me to play with him, who laughs and is naughty. A boy with whom I can dream all stars.

Loaded up!

The new pack saddle keeps its promises. Closing the straps is a little exhausting (Western system) and requires a lot of strength - which I don't have :-/ .
But the whole thing is solid. Even loading up the heavy bags (first one, then the other side) does not destabilise the construction.

I therefore dedicated the past couple of days to the reorganisation of the panniers. Filling them again, weighing them, distributing things differently. Even if both bags had the same weight, their volume was often very different. Which meant that they had to be repacked. Now we have ca. 16,8 kilograms per bag, and almost everything has been packed. Still missing are the hoof shoes and the first aid sets. And a bag for the upper middle, which will contain the feed.

The feed is one of my greatest worries. Heidi can graze on the way, but she is not supposed to eat too much of the young grass, because it might give her laminitis. But the stressful journey means that she will need a lot of food. At the beginning, I can carry concentrated feed. On the road, I must try to find some, maybe ask farmers ...

However, we are approaching the finishing straight of the preparations. Everything - or almost everything - has been bought. Now we must train with the full weight. Exactly one year ago I began the training, still in sport shoes and without a pack animal. So many things have changed since then! What a difference!

And slowly I need to say farewell to my settled life. To my home, my place of retreat, which means so much to me. But that's what I wanted.

The very same things that frighten me - the large distance, the incredibly long period of time - are the things that fascinate me, that are the salt in the soup of this adventure.

Will I really make it to Maglie? Will I really stand in front of Aldo Moro's statue in the Via Lama? I don't know? The future ist in total darkness. I will perceive the pilgrimage as successful if I at least make it to Torrita Tiberina, to Aldo's grave.
But Maglie, Apulia ... it would be beautiful.

January Cold

Although the thermometer only shows one degree below zero, it felt much colder today. Light snow. I comforted myself with the thought that it will be spring when we start. And yet: There may be temperatures like this, especially in the Alps.

The cold makes Heidi cheerful and lively. I, for my part, would prefer to snuggle under a blanket, with a hot water bottle ...

But my spirit lifts as soon as a ray of sunshine breaks through the clouds. The call from afar gets londer. I feel Aldo's hand in the wind. Slowly, the inner fire awakens again.

I also draw images from the journey ...

Je suis Charlie

Farewell to the Old Year

The last sunset of 2014.
Somewhere behind this horizon, towards the south-east, lies the far-away destination. The countdown will begin tomorrow.

The Old Era is ending ...

Soon it will be exactly a year ago when I decided to go on the pilgrimage.
156 days until the set day of departure. More then ever the venture seems to be crazy, impossible, hardly manageable. And yet: such a lot has happened during that year! The first idea and the current situation are worlds apart. Worlds of experience, and worlds of learning.

One and a half years of preparation have indeed not been too much.

My old life is a fire that is cooling down. Almost every day, I do something "for the last time". The dreaded time when the old is not there any more and the new has not yet arrived is approaching swiftly. This black hole that needs to be overcome.

And I still haven't got used to the new rhythm of life. I still feel under pressure, wanting to achieve things, to be finished quickly, to "apply" somewhere, hoping for success.
The closer the unknown comes, the more support I need from the patron and destination of my journey: Aldo Moro. I write letters to him. Ask him for his help, feel his warmth, and enjoy small signs.
But John F's energy is also needed more than ever. He is the pioneer, the adventurer. The "new frontiers", the departure into the unknown, were the topic of his life. On an intellectual as well as on  a physical level.
His courage gives me stability. Although - or because - it was he who said: "The stories of past courage can teach, they can offer hope, they can provide inspiration. But they cannot supply courage itself. For this each man must look into his own soul." But:

"We are not here to curse the darkness, but to light a candle that can guide us through that darkness to a safe and sane future. For the world is changing. The old era is ending. The old ways will not do. " - JFK