The Mandello home welcomes 13 young people and adults with physical, motor, and intellectual disabilities. We visited it a few years ago. It struck us as richly rooted in human and Christian values. We want to write about it again because we believe it is a concrete sign of hope for those who cannot live with their families and cannot live alone.
Andrea Beretta, editor of the magazine "LA NOSTRA FAMIGLIA," introduces it to us in issue 2/93.
Up a gentle slope where olive groves once grew, on land left in inheritance to "La Nostra Famiglia"—the reason for our visit. Not far from the Church of the Sacred Heart, one of two parish churches, just beyond a gate and along a gravel path sits the white house, built in a single straight horizontal line, a one-story structure nestled where the landscape tightens against the mountain, so the building almost blends into the colors around it—nourished by the pale grays of the dolomitic rock—while to the right a well-tended green meadow refreshes the spirit.
"An oasis of peace!" That is what strikes you immediately. Carlo Piccolo, together with his wife Vittoria Raineri, runs the Casa-famiglia—or "family community," as this inspired institution of "La Nostra Famiglia" is also called. It offers a home for disabled people entrusted to a married couple who ensure continuity, stability, and a family atmosphere for a small group of disabled people or those in difficult circumstances.
Mandello is one of six such homes in Italy: three in Lombardy, one in Veneto, and two in Puglia.
Carlo and Vittoria are young—31 and 35 years old. They have one child, Luca, about three years old. Carlo is dynamic, with a cheerful manner, talkative; Vittoria is small-framed, seemingly fragile, radiating warmth and a sympathetic presence that draws people in, backed by an inner strength that comes from the heart. Both are convinced of their mission: as Carlo emphasizes, to "share a part of our life with the people who live in this house."
Faith and Social Work We are seated around a table in the center of a small room just inside the entrance, where a chapel opens onto the hallway. Carlo speaks first. He is open and does not shy away from the question that seeks confirmation of what one might already sense about the deeper motivation for this choice of life: "Our starting point," he explains, "is to make our Christian faith concrete."
Fair enough. But how much does faith actually matter?
Carlo clears his throat without hesitation: "This social work of ours," he says, "flows directly from faith. Believing, in turn, carries with it certain values we must embody. Believing in a God who asks us to love our neighbor as ourselves."
The Mandello Casa-famiglia has capacity for 14 residents. Currently it houses 13 disabled people: ten for extended periods with no fixed end date, and three for short stays rotating with other requests. The disabilities are primarily physical, though they vary in nature and severity; for some, there is also intellectual disability of varying degrees. The residents average between 20 and 30 years old.
Vittoria offers us a cup of tea, and we fall into an easy conversation without formal questions and answers. They married in 1989 and arrived at the Mandello Casa-famiglia the same year, initially working alongside another couple before taking over on their own in 1991. But even before marriage, both were committed to disability work: Carlo as an educator in Vedano, Vittoria as a physical therapist in Bosisio Parini. It was a natural step to offer themselves for a family home, as Vittoria explains: "We were both drawn toward something different in how we wanted to live our married life."
A Family Spirit
Now we tour the house. A long, wide corridor opens onto bedrooms and a room for communal activities. At each end: on one side, bathrooms and a computer work space; on the other, the dining room with kitchen attached.
We start in the kitchen. It is a large, open room with a table for about twenty people in the center and some chairs along the side. The space is expansive, but thinking of the small group who actually eat here, it takes on the warmth of an ordinary family dining room, complete with pictures and small objects that personalize and welcome. On a shelf sit eleven ceramic cups decorated with the residents' names: Pasquale, Patrizia, Angelo, Maria Grazia, Guido, Claudia, Enzo, Pina, Majed, Mara, Checco...
Their day begins here with breakfast, then they gather in the chapel for communal prayer. After lunch come times for craft work suited to each person's abilities. I saw genuinely beautiful work: ceramics, carved and painted wood, handpainted greeting cards that sell quite well. The methods vary according to an approach that prioritizes ease of execution without sacrificing artistic quality. The home works in every way to enable residents to use their functional capacities, fostering independence with advanced techniques—as we will see in the bedroom design—that have proven effective and applicable in an ordinary home.
Rehabilitation
Rehabilitation holds significant importance as part of the residents' daily engagement in the adjoining Motor Rehabilitation Center. They attend sessions in physical and kinetic therapy, occupational therapy, and neuropsychological rehabilitation. All leisure activity is structured with rehabilitation in mind and in continuity with or as an extension of specific interventions. The home also offers computer activities, general education, and guidance toward independence.
Volunteers
Volunteers are essential to a family home. They serve an integrative role, linking the home to the wider community—they allow "the outside world to come in," as Vittoria notes. Without them, she says, you risk becoming "a happy island with no real contact." There are also two conscientious objectors doing civil service, offering invaluable help.
We turn to the subject of volunteering. Carlo answers my curiosity.
"In the early years," he explains, "we had very few volunteers. Now things have changed a lot. Many young people have come to help us give them an ordinary life. Going to the cinema, to a café, to a show, or just for a walk...and if there are ten wheelchairs, you need ten volunteers." The people of Mandello understand the value of solidarity. After some natural initial hesitation, they have responded with growing enthusiasm.
A door stands open along the corridor. It is Majed's room—a Palestinian boy who has been with the "La Nostra Famiglia" centers for a very long time, almost always. He speaks clearly, intelligent, moves independently in his wheelchair. He is open to conversation, though busy packing cassette tapes and computer disks. Tomorrow he will be hospitalized for what promises to be a long stay, as he tells us, and he wants to bring as much as he can so as not to get bored.
He seems calm despite the difficult surgery ahead—three operations in succession on his spine.
I remark on Majed's composure, but I am told in confidence that it is only appearance; he is actually very worried.
Maximum Independence
The bedrooms have two beds, neat and filled with the ordinary things you find in young people's rooms—and very much in step with the times, with plenty of soccer. One bedroom wall is dominated by a poster of a Milan footballer.
Outside the doors, an air-compression button opens and closes them easily, even with your feet. Light switches have a special device: a light touch turns them on or off. The same goes for the bathrooms with showers and tubs adapted to different needs. The water tap activates by a lever fifty centimeters from the ground and automatically shuts off after a set time. But apparently that time is not quite long enough, so here is how they extend it: a small colored weight—like the shower soap—that residents hang on the lever. The solution makes me smile for the spirit of complicity and friendship it reveals.
Majed races down the corridor and skids through a sharp turn. He approaches and asks whether it might be better to box up the computer to avoid damage during transport. Carlo says it is fine and that he will help later. Majed asks again...when will they leave...what time...will they make it. Yes, now I understand he is worried and covering it with work to keep his mind occupied.
Carlo's authority as head of the house is not easy to explain. He is young and cannot adopt the role of a father, a figure that would have no real basis. What then is the most fitting role, the truest one? "Perhaps an older brother for some," he says, "and a friend for the older ones—someone who can help them make a decision and work through some problems together." That is true. He just demonstrated it.
Family presence matters at every moment, especially during group times like meals. Everyone gathers together. "But that is not enough," Carlo says. So he shows me a welcoming living room. "This is where we meet before dinner to talk about the day and plan activities. At the table we are too many, and the conversation keeps getting interrupted by a thousand things, including helping those who cannot eat on their own."
I notice in Carlo and Vittoria's voices a barely concealed satisfaction. They are proud of this idea. "The premise we give to the people we live in community with is that we are a family—in the sense that we function well together," Carlo concludes. In practice, the balance comes from being a couple, a family, and not losing that identity so we can pass it on to others.
The Piccolo couple confirms this as our visit comes to an end. I leave carrying with me a deep sense of peace, along with the sound of the parish church bells calling to evening prayer.
- Andrea Barretta, 1993
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