Modesta Valenti was about seventy years old. We know little of her life—she had come from Trieste and lived near the Termini Station, where she sheltered at night. On January 31, 1983, she fell ill. The ambulance refused to take her. She was too dirty, they said. Lice infested her clothes. While the hours passed and someone, anyone, might have helped her, Modesta died. The health system turned away.
Today I want to remember her and all the friends who have died in the years since. We need a sign of friendship and protection for everyone living without a home, without family, in hard conditions. This memory is great consolation for all of us. It is the sign that each one of us is loved by God and will never be forgotten. The friendship we share is a treasure we must always be grateful for. It helps us live.