I was in Brussels from December 28 to March 31. It took two or three years before I could bring myself to go and work in a home caring for disabled young people.
My biggest emotion was fear. It started at Termini Station, but I pushed through because I kept thinking about moments when I'd want to be alone.
As the train was about to leave, I wanted to scream "I want to get off." But inside me there was a fierce pride: "I want to try. Why should everyone else be the brave one, the strong one, the one who actually does things?"
So my great journey began in every sense: twenty hours on a train, three months away from home and friends.
Through the night the same questions came back: "What if I can't do anything?" "Am I afraid?"
Finally morning. And there it was: the big sign "Brussels".
I rushed forward: "It's beautiful! There are people here for me too! Ivan, Nado..."
After introductions and various questions (which I answered in complete embarrassment!), we went to La Ruche—the house where I would live for three months with thirteen other people. A smaller house than the Toit, but full of human warmth, as every house should be.
The hardest impact came at the Yasse center, where disabled children with physical and motor disabilities attended school. It was hard because if the number of young people in our groups back in Rome had seemed like a lot, imagine the shock of walking into a center and homes where there were so many.
Those first days, just walking in there was a huge effort. "Because I was free to do anything, to move as I wanted, and they always needed someone to help them do any little thing."
But what was truly beautiful were the people who dedicated themselves to caring for them with complete openness and who always tried to keep a peaceful face.
What are our problems compared to someone who has had to sit in a wheelchair since birth? Or a mother who lives beside her son and hopes every day that one day he will speak, or run like all the other children?
In the house where I lived there were fourteen of us, but the number was never fixed because people were always coming to have this experience. And at lunch we always shared meals with the other houses.
I have to admit that those first days were hard living there.
I felt lost. But once I understood what my tasks were, I felt more independent.
The rhythm of the day was very active. We'd get up around eight for breakfast. Some had already left for work, but four or five of us would have breakfast together because we were the ones staying in the house.
From 8:30 on, the gate was always open. Anyone who wanted to stop by to say hello or ask for something always received a warm welcome.
Two or three times a week we'd pick up children from the Yasse center and have them eat with us. In the afternoon we'd work together on dinner or do collage projects and other things.
It was beautiful to see all those people in the little chapel squeezing together to make room for a wheelchair, to make space for a child.
Making room for all of us, but especially for the Lord to be present among us.
Another thing that brings many people together—those connected to Brussels or not—is Mass, every Saturday at the Collège Saint-Michel.
There's so much more I could tell you. I've shared what touched me most, and I hope that one day Rome will be able to do something like this too.
Elsa Persiani, 1978