I have before me all forty issues published so far. I look at the photographs on the covers: Manuela, a child then, is eighteen now—she's made so much progress, she no longer brings despair to her parents. Gianluca smiles from a swing; he seems to say, "Remember that first retreat in Alfedena." Elena, wrapped in her mystery, reminds us of all the unanswered questions that parents of autistic and psychotic children live with. Andrea, already grown, yet still needing support, comes down one of Assisi's many staircases with Barbara. 1986, the year of the pilgrimage so bound up with Francesco Gammarelli, a devoted father, who would leave us not long after.
Clelia on her First Communion day! The Arosio parents with the young disabled people they welcome in their beautiful family home in Endine. Andrea, blind, embracing his first son alongside a little lamb. Claudia, whose behavior is so difficult. Antonio, happy between two great friends, Francesco and Stefano, on vacation by the sea; and Miriam, smiling at the Spring festival. Marco, like a true craftsman, gazing at a ceramic pot he painted with taste and skill. Gianni spreading pizza dough—he's now a seasoned helper at his sister's pizzeria. Flaminia, between Anna and Giulio, on their wedding day. From Viviana shines complete joy: she finally has her own family home.
These are all real photographs, all real people. Ombre e Luci is made first and foremost of people: parents, their children, boys and girls, young and adult people with disabilities or handicaps of varying severity, but always beloved sons and daughters. Brothers and sisters, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and friends—young and old; and educators, teachers, priests, sisters, catechists, therapists, doctors. Anyone, really, who has been drawn to live with them or beside them, whether by circumstance or by choice.
In early 1983, we didn't know where the idea of "starting a magazine" would lead. In fact, we were fearful and uncertain—the risk of producing mere words felt very real.
But a reality we knew well pushed us forward: too many parents seemed isolated, shut away in their homes, friendless. Every day they carried a weight alone that cannot easily be borne alone. We wanted to break through that loneliness, to circulate news from one family to another, to stir up commitment and initiative. To forge bonds of friendship and mutual help.
We succeeded in part. One idea sparks another. Soon came endorsements, suggestions, requests.
We always began with the needs and questions that reached us from parents: "Give us information about centers, schools." "How can I find work for Carlo, who…?" "Do you know a doctor who…?"
Then young people began wanting to understand more about their friends, why they faced these challenges, how to respond to certain needs. "What does brain-damaged mean?" "How should I act with Francesco when he won't go out…?" "With Chiara when she won't listen to me…?"
And again from parents: "Write articles that give us hope, comfort, courage; that help us fight, that help us stay on our feet in this crushing task."
As requests came in, we got to work. We searched, we went to meet people with expertise, those who had been working for years, those who had created something good and well-made. We looked for articles from Ombres et Lumière, our older sister publication, adapting texts to the Italian context.
Looking back, I believe we've traveled some distance together. Proof lies in the long list of articles you'll find in the final pages of this issue.
Ombre e Luci is truly made of people—many people, different from one another, from north and south, known and unknown. To all of them we offer our heartfelt thanks, and to all we ask: keep walking with us along this uphill road, certainly, a hard one, very hard for some, where sometimes it helps to rest for a while in the shadow and light of Ombre e Luci.
- Mariangela Bertolini, 1993