On January 10, 2019, Sergio Sciascia wrote a letter announcing his decision to step down as editor-in-chief of Ombre e Luci, a post he had held since the magazine's founding "with pleasure, given the great number of remarkable people" he had known and worked with over the years. In a few brief lines, the journalist offered his thanks for what he had received across nearly four decades of work.
Born in Turin in 1937 and moved to Rome as a boy, Sciascia showed an early passion for writing and a keen curiosity about the world around him—a combination that would become his profession. While working for the Messaggero di Sant'Antonio and the biweekly Messaggero dei Ragazzi ("with young readers, there's no such thing as brand loyalty—your text, your headlines, your illustrations, your comics have to engage them or they'll tune out"), Sciascia was introduced to Mariangela Bertolini through Manuela Bartesaghi, a friend of the newly formed Fede e Luce. Bertolini wanted to transform Insieme, a mimeographed newsletter linking the still-small Italian communities of the movement, into a proper magazine. Legally, though, she needed a professional journalist to serve as editor-in-chief and bring professional expertise to the fledgling editorial office. It was autumn 1981 when Sciascia accepted. A year and a half later, Ombre e Luci was born.
«The title "editor-in-chief" sounds like a heavy responsibility because it covers both legal liability and editorial quality,» he explains. «In my case, the role was really much narrower. A small magazine expressing the reality and ideas of Fede e Luce rarely generates legal problems. As for direction, the real editor was Mariangela Bertolini—a powerful personality, the driving force behind Fede e Luce in Italy. My function was more technical: partly as graphic designer and layout artist, and partly as someone to make what the magazine wanted to say actually work.»
Before taking on the O&L editorship, did you already know about disability?
My first real encounter with disability—beyond the surface-level "Oh, those poor people!"—came in 1980 through Fede e Luce. I saw that genuine friendship was truly possible between "normal" young people (then aged fifteen to thirty) and their peers living with serious or moderate disabilities. I felt the relief it brought their families. And I came to understand that for a family, a mild or moderate disability can be every bit as heavy a burden as a severe one.
Thirty-six years as editor is quite a record!
Actually, you have to trim those thirty-six years. For at least a dozen of them, my role was really limited to occasional meetings over tea and biscuits, chatting pleasantly about headlines, layout, and messaging.
There are stories about very lively editorial meetings—perhaps all the more productive for it.
There was one interesting tension, a professional one. Mariangela refused to publish a photograph of a young person if she thought he looked unattractive—even if the image was powerfully effective for the intended message—because she worried the parents would be upset. The same went for headlines and text. So we had a collision between the idea that the magazine existed for readers and the idea that respecting the feelings of individuals had to come first. Mariangela's position didn't come from any communication theory. It came from having lived through, firsthand, the pain of a parent with a disabled child.
You were the only man on an editorial team of women.
Working with a female editorial staff was a pleasure, thanks to the human and cultural gifts everyone brought. Differences never created bitterness or sharp conflict. Above all, that's because we shared the same religious, philosophical, and political vision of the universe of people affected directly or indirectly by disability. For instance, I believe everyone in Fede e Luce sees disability as a tragedy, and no one accepts the idea of a Catholicism that treats suffering as a gift to offer to God. Mariangela expressed all of this with a smile and a bed of deeply human toughness, saying: «I have questions to ask God when I see him.»
How has the magazine changed over time?
It changed because it follows the natural evolution of Fede e Luce itself. The children, young people, and parents of the 1980s became adults and elderly. The tools of graphic design and photography changed too, and they affect the quality of what we communicate. You can see the shift by taking the issue from 2014 published in memory of Mariangela and comparing its photographs, stories, and subjects with those of recent years. It's not a matter of better or worse, but of understanding the unfolding of people, ideas, and institutions.
What do you see ahead for O&L?
I think it will be harder than it was. The same is true for the movement itself. Fede e Luce was born in a time when children with disabilities—called "handicapped" or "deficient" or "differently abled" (notice how uncomfortable the language itself is, mirroring our culture's unease with disability)—were nearly all hidden at home, treated as shame and punishment, deprived of the sacraments except baptism, even feared as a "contagion" to expectant mothers. Much of that has changed.
Your fondest memory?
I watched many people—parents and friends, in Fede e Luce's language—mature beyond the mediocre cultural and religious environments they grew up in, through encountering disability and Fede e Luce, of which the magazine is a part. I believe that happened to Mariangela. And to me.