Talking about yourself is always difficult, especially when you need to convey emotions, affections, and deeply personal feelings that led me to make choices that weren't exactly "ordinary."
My name is Lena (Maddalena) Antonioli. I was born in 1938 and am married to Giuseppe Botta, born in 1937. We live in Milan and have two children, a son and a daughter, both married with three wonderful grandchildren between them.
In 1980, we discovered Fede e Luce and Jean Vanier, who opened to us a world of marvelous diversity. In 1984, while on vacation in the mountains—where we spent our summers—I met a young brother from Burkina Faso, a member of the Sacred Family order who had come to Italy to study theology. He was deeply homesick, especially for his mother. To my surprise, he asked if he could call me mom. I said yes immediately, not realizing how much that word means to them. We stayed in touch until 1989, when I suddenly learned I had a severe form of glaucoma. I could go blind at any moment. After urgent surgery, I asked my family if I might visit my distant "son's" homeland before I lost my sight completely—though, thank God, that never happened.
My family agreed, and I set off for Burkina Faso with the Sacred Family brothers from Chieri, Turin, joining one of their work and friendship camps scheduled around Christmas and New Year. Arriving in Burkina, in absolute poverty—I would almost say nothingness—with barely any water and no electricity, felt, strangely, like coming home. I repeated this journey for several years, hoping one day to share it with my husband, as I had already shared it with my children.
In December 1997, I finally left for Burkina with my husband, traveling with the group. While they stayed about twenty days, we had an open ticket for three months. For my husband, too, it was more than a positive experience. The following year, we stayed for thirteen months. Now we return every year, spending six months in Italy and six in Africa, all with my children's blessing.
Burkina Faso is one of Africa's poorest countries. The UN classifies it not as third world, but fifth world. It lies in the Sahel belt, has no mineral resources, difficult soil for farming, no ocean access, and suffers long droughts. Yet precisely because it holds no appeal for multinational corporations, people live in peace. The people are especially welcoming, and we have been adopted as "grandparents" (vaaba in the local language) of the village. We live within the Mission of the Sacred Family Brothers, where for several years now only local brothers live, though they remain connected to the Italian brothers. The mission houses a primary school and Burkina's only agricultural secondary school, both supported by Italy through child sponsorships.
The local language is impossible to learn, and the official language—French—is spoken only by those who can attend school. Yet eighty percent of the adult population is illiterate. We manage to communicate with locals, helped by our brothers. Besides our mission, the village has other organizations: the Apostolic Sisters of the Sacred Heart, who run a kindergarten and, more importantly, a school of sewing, embroidery, and literacy to prepare girls for work; and the Camillians, who run a beautiful hospital despite its remote location deep in the savanna.
We have a small house within the mission but work with all the organizations in the village. My husband handles general maintenance, while I divide my time between tailoring, making jam and tomato preserves (unknown to them before, given the absolute lack of containers and caps), and especially teaching in the primary school. Working with the teachers, I help children learn colors, geometric shapes, flowers, and fruits.
In their mother tongue, only five colors exist, and the only shape is the circle—because their huts, granaries, and everything else are round. To do this work, I must bring everything from home. The children have no colored pencils, paper, erasers, or pencil sharpeners. Depending on class size—fifty to sixty children per class—I prepare fifty to sixty bags of colors for whatever drawing we're doing, plus erasers and sharpeners. We manage our own kitchen and try to eat as Italian as possible, which means we drive to the capital, about a hundred kilometers away (two to two and a half hours by car if the roads cooperate, and few are paved), shopping at European stores for basic food safety.
Their staple foods are millet, beans, and Thai rice, served with sauces made from tree leaves or whatever won't poison them. If they're lucky, they eat once a day. Children who can attend school are fortunate because the missionaries arranged for all schools—even government ones—to serve at least a midday meal. Classes begin at 7:20 a.m. with the flag-raising and national anthem, ending at 5 or 5:30 p.m. For many children who walk four or five kilometers daily, that bowl of rice at noon is a lifesaver. For some women and children, we have become a reference point—both for continuing their education and for medical help.
With donations from friends, I can pay for school, food, medicine, and hospital care. My good relationship with the Camillians, the sisters, and the brothers helps me manage these needs well. Malnutrition, meningitis, malaria, and anemia leave many people handicapped, and through the sisters I'm helping many of them.
This is a small snapshot of my daily life in Africa. When I'm with them, though I miss everything, though I suffer terribly from the intense heat—forty degrees Celsius day and night—I don't feel homesick for Italy. When I think longingly of my grandchildren and see those malnourished, naked but smiling children, the pain of distance fades.
On October 19th we leave for another six months. They've already told us there's much work waiting. That will help us feel alive and useful.
Lena Botta, 2010
