They asked me to write "something" about the camp at Alfedena. And here's where I get stuck. My pen isn't much of a friend, especially when I have to reach into the depths of my heart and pull out those feelings, those memories, those things I feel and live through. Things that have been and still are—chances to realize that life can happen beyond the tight circle of my world, where ideals and values, experiences and good intentions don't always find their way out.
Alfedena was an experience, but that word still doesn't say enough.
It was a piece of life. A family life made of difficulties and work, of joy, of play, and of serious moments too—all of it held together by simple, genuine goodness. Made of words, smiles, and silences that bound us to each other. A small world in which everyone who lived there carries inside themselves the love and simplicity that the young people shared with us.
A camp! And I really want to think of it as a piece of earth where each of us planted something.
The entire camp, from July 7 to 27, 1976, unfolded in three phases. Three groups of young people took turns during the whole period. We came from Rome in a group of twenty, all different ages. At the camp we were joined by friends who arrived from everywhere. The different ages among us wasn't a problem—nobody even noticed! We were all equal, all so happy to be together.
Every morning the first faces to appear in the open air would run to a big bulletin board to see what needed to be done. Some of us would tidy the hall, some would look for firewood, some would straighten the rooms, some would go shopping and prepare lunch for the hungry, and some found themselves happily washing dishes.
The second part of the morning was for different activities: some of us painted the old benches, some cleaned the garden, some drew, some sang. Others sat quietly, their silence and their gaze creating a climate of peace and true joy.
So many hands. So many eyes. So many looks, each one available to the other without fear, but simply, naturally.
Lunch and dinner, filled with laughter and stories and praise for the cooks of the day, were two of the many moments we gathered together—always with a calm underneath that's hard to describe but wonderful.
Giorgio's cries of joy, Claudio and Alberto's songs, Noris and Chicca's silence, Carla's deep gaze—all these things and so many others stayed with us the whole camp through.
The long walks, meetings with Father Michel, evenings full of laughter, the parties, the costumes—Michel the Indian, Mariangela the clown, Paolo the strongman, Gianni the troublemaker—these are the things that come alive today when we laugh and say, "Do you remember?" when we see each other.
At the end of each day, while the younger ones climbed into their warm blankets, we would gather around the fireplace to plan and organize the next day. Service assignments, different activities—all discussed together in the light, taking into account everyone's needs, week by week. The work shifts were arranged so that everyone, in teams of two or three or four at most, could complete various tasks during their week at camp.
Francesca washed dishes for the first time. Fabrizio prepared lunch. Others served at table.
Everyone learned something. Everyone taught something.
We didn't lack for ideas about different activities. Pinecones collected on a walk, pieces of wood, cardboard, flowers, drawings, certificates, letters to write—so many things to do together.
The handing out of diplomas was one of the important moments at camp. A simple piece of cardboard drawn by a small group of young people and friends, finished by Michel, Italia, and Mariangela. As simple as it was important, it was given to all the camp participants the evening before we left. One of the gifts that each of us brought and offered to others, often without even noticing.
The joy you could read on each person's face when they received their diploma was indescribable.
Many other things too were shared after we'd dealt with the practical organization of each day—the difficulties we'd faced, the joys we'd known together. Perhaps it was the quietest moment, given the hour, though sometimes we'd be interrupted by a phone call or an unexpected visitor. It always ended in silence, sometimes followed by a passage from the Gospel, a few words from Michela, a song. A moment when Christ's presence and his love lived among us in a particular way.
But there are so many things that words can't capture—things that became part of us: the solidarity between the older and younger of us, how available we were to each other, the moments of prayer, the simplicity and love of the young people, and so much else.
What remains from Alfedena's small world is the love—the friendship, the certainty that we grow together, singing because it is sweet to know we are no longer alone, but that we are part of an immense life.
Guenda, 1976
