In this slim volume, nine people—four women and five men—whose names carry weight in culture and commitment, known for their published work and achievement, bear witness to a shared experience: having a child who is different, having lived or still living alongside that difference. Each reflects in spare pages on their child's fate. They recall the birth, the discovery of disability, suffering, rejection and acceptance, the struggle against despair and discouragement, and trust. All the moments and states of mind that have marked, everywhere in the world, the lives of families with a handicapped child—like milestones or stakes in a vineyard.
The introduction notes that the book arose from an initiative by the "Fondazione Luisa Flaiano," created to promote and support activities that allow people with disabilities to participate in various pursuits complementary to those sponsored by public bodies.
Yet it seems to me these writers are driven to expose something so painfully private by a deeper urgency—one announced in the title itself: "It Concerns Us."
"The fate of being different, which fell to our children," they tell us, "transformed our own lives into something different too. Now that we understand, the fates of other different people concern us as well—and for all of them, for all parents, for our children, we testify here. But you who read us will also be marked as 'different,' because you can no longer ignore or forget."
As I read, I thought how much easier it is for the parents, relatives, and friends of "Ombre e Luci" than for an ordinary reader to respond emotionally to these situations, to share the states of mind described. The mother wrestling with the mystery and silence of her son, now grown but forever a child. The father sitting alone on his study sofa in the quiet house, his sick daughter on his lap. The mother blocked in traffic on the Lungotevere by the sudden, unaware assault of her beloved son—these are people we seem to have known for years. We understand them. We find ourselves in them. We want to tell them at once: yes, we understand. We know what it feels like. We know how much courage it takes. How much love.
The people who wrote this book are not, or do not openly claim to be, believers. They never invoke supernatural values, never speak of prayer, hope, or trust in God. Yet their stories are suffused with love, with sacred respect for these deeply marked lives, with the labor of strain to correct them, help them, let them grow. And from this labor of love springs attention to others—the need to share pain and hardship, but also the impulse to work toward common goals, to realize hope.
It seems right, then, to end by recalling a brief note found by his wife among the unpublished papers of the writer Flaiano...
«Christ returns to Earth... Jesus continued to perform miracles. A man brought him his sick daughter and said: I do not ask you to heal her, but to love her. Jesus kissed that girl and said: In truth, this man has asked for what I can give...».
- Maria Teresa Mazzarotto, 1994