There's the bus. My heart quickens a little. The door opens and we climb aboard. The driver smiles and greets us—he spends his Saturdays with these children, always patient and kind. In the front rows sit bright-eyed faces, alert and wide-eyed with curiosity. These are the children who've done this before; they know what to expect.
I choose a seat farther back. Partly by chance, partly drawn to her, I sit next to a little girl, maybe two years old, with a yellow bow in her hair. She looks like a chick. She's a bit frightened, whimpering softly, but I distract her by playing with the air-conditioning vents. She stands on the seat, opening and closing them. She's delighted. I ask where we're going, not really expecting an answer, but to my surprise she claps her little hands and says "we go play." Soon she points insistently at another small boy, calling his name; I realize a moment later it's her little brother. She talks much more than the other children, who are mostly quiet.
At the park, she heads straight for the slide, plays tag, plays chase, runs with me. Every time we do something, she tugs at my hand and says "again, again."
We walk together, and I show her a plant. "Smell that—it's called arugula," I say, and she repeats "orega." Then I point to a daisy: "mar-ghe-ri-ta," and she says "magheeta." We find two beautiful turtles and she calls them "tattauga." At lunch, she looks for her brother and sits beside him. When she eats her banana, she breaks it into pieces and shares each one with him.
She's in constant motion all day long. At one point she wanders off on her own. I watch from a distance, letting her explore. She turns back now and then to check I'm still there; reassured, she continues her small adventures.
The day ends. We board the bus to head back. Almost immediately she leans against me and falls asleep—she's exhausted. Goodbye, little one. Thank you for this beautiful day.
As the afternoon draws to a close and we prepare to leave, my heart sinks a little. After a day in the sun and open air, the children return to their mothers. That makes them happy, I know. But I can't help thinking about the cramped spaces they'll live in all week, dim and windowless, with little contact, little to stimulate them. It seems terribly unfair.
Yes, they have their mothers' love, and that matters. But it's not enough. To grow well, children need a comfortable, colorful, stimulating environment—not just walls and bars, but blue skies, fragrant flowers, friendly animals, smiling faces. Something has to change for them. These Saturday outings feel like drops of water in a desert.
Brunella, 2002
Association "A Roma insieme"
The Association "A Roma insieme" works with children who live in prison until age three so that their incarcerated mothers can care for them during this crucial period of development and growth.
The Association—led by president Leda Colombini (as of 2002)—also advocates for changes in law to better protect these children. One goal is to replace imprisonment with house arrest for mothers whenever possible. For the past eight years, it has run a significant program at Rome's Rebibbia prison. Every Saturday, six to ten children, each paired with a volunteer from the Association, leave the prison for a day outdoors—to parks, the beach, community centers, or the homes of families who want to help. A bus supplied by Acotral takes them there.
The children play freely, encounter a world full of new experiences, and spend the day with people who care for them with warmth, sensitivity, and genuine attention to their needs.