I was watching two pigeons on my balcony. They pecked at each other gently, chased one another, drew close with their wings brushing, then pecked again in a delightful game. What a stunning language—so immediate! I thought: if they'd had to say all those things in words, they'd never have communicated so deeply, so joyfully. I thought about us. We've moved away from the primordial language of gesture, posture, glance. Words have given us a richer exchange, true—but not one nearly so unambiguous as that primitive tongue. Words can be played with, misused deliberately or not, misunderstood. Where is the warmth of gestural exchange, the force of it? Our young people often return to this primordial language. Sometimes necessity drives them—an inability to speak. But often it's a choice. Not always because they can't use words effectively, but because they prefer them. It matches something genuine and clear in them: the intuition that gesture remains the truest, most immediate language.
And so they challenge us. We have to understand and translate. It isn't always easy.
Who hasn't witnessed one of our young people act out violence? The first thought: something's broken in his mind, he can't control himself, he doesn't know what he's doing. Fear sets in. We see him as a clinical case, and the situation worsens. But we need calm—beyond the deep pain we feel as parent or loved one—and we need to understand. Beneath the violence lies profound anguish: the sense of being nothing, rage at being misunderstood or dismissed, the intuition that words will never reach anyone. So the young person communicates through violent gesture. It forces the other person to pay attention, to help him understand his own anguish, once the shock and rejection wear off.
If my son hadn't used the devastating language of violence during his hardest time, would I have searched stubbornly for the source of his suffering? Perhaps I wouldn't have made that long, exhausting journey of revising myself. Perhaps I wouldn't have searched so desperately for the right ways to reach him—with the tenderness he needed but couldn't ask for. The language of violence reaches another person intuitively. If there's love and a real desire to understand, it sends the other person searching for an adequate response. I don't believe my son—fragile and withdrawn as he was—could have opened my heart to the listening and change that actually happened if he'd used words instead of violence to express his wound. Gianfranco, an eleven-year-old boy, is sitting peacefully with us when suddenly he kicks off a shoe and flings it in the air. Someone says simply: "That troublemaker again." But we've begun to understand: he's signaling us. "I'm here too. Don't forget me!" If he tried to say it in words, a few might listen for a moment. Others would still not see him. He's searching for his identity. Being noticed makes him feel like a person. Without it, he falls into anguish. It's crucial for him to be present with others. A shoe in the air, a chair overturned violently—these get what he's asking for: attention to himself. It's a pattern that can ease and rebalance only if we calm the anxiety and anguish beneath it, never by repressing him. Approaching with affection and correcting with love—that's what works.
We have to convince ourselves of something strange: their gestural language has a force that words cannot match. The only danger is misinterpreting it, which pushes us away and makes dialogue impossible. But if their cry is understood, it has the power to change another person's heart and lead them toward astonishing discoveries.
It's important to notice that our young people don't just use gesture as language—they interpret it correctly too, in both positive and negative expression.
If my son hadn't used the language of violence, would I have searched stubbornly for the source of his suffering?
A few months ago, Luciano grew deeply unsettled. A sudden homesickness came over him—he wanted to go back to the original community he'd left with some of us to help start a new one in Bari. There was no convincing him with affectionate words or promises, no understanding why he acted this way: he wanted to return to Luisa and Father Mario. After some time he seemed at peace and announced his decision: "I'll stay in the new community." Then, almost teasing himself, he told Luisa privately: "I'm staying because Delia loves me. She gave me kisses on my head." It was that gesture—I don't even remember when it happened—that carried the reassuring message. Not all the many words. Words don't work with them unless they're deeply felt and verified through gesture, which doesn't lie.It's remarkable how they communicate with gesture among themselves. A few days ago Robertino was particularly restless at Mass: he disturbed others, clapped, tugged at his neighbor's jacket. Then Mario arrived—another young man with Down syndrome, but older. He began by staring hard at Robertino, making threatening gestures. Robertino nodded playfully. Mario pressed harder. At some point Robertino turned serious and made a contrite face. Mario didn't let up. He took him by the hand, stroked his shoulder, drew a warm smile. Then he put an arm around his neck and they went together to receive communion. I don't think any of us with words and compliments could have reached Robertino so quickly and so completely. Their silent dialogue was stunning. They communicated trust, forgiveness, friendship with perfect clarity.
Sometimes I wonder if it's really a regression for our young people to express themselves through behavior—or whether it's a necessity, a way of speaking.
The more time I spend with them, the more convinced I am: in ordinary verbal dialogue, truth is often veiled. We struggle to reach the heart of things. We complicate, distort, misunderstand even without meaning to. We can never fully break down the protective barriers each of us has instinctively built around ourselves. Once again, our young people push us toward authenticity—toward what makes a human being truly a person.
- Delia Mitolo, 1987
