Over the years, many others have worked—and continue to work—behind the scenes to bring each issue to life, enriching the magazine with their presence and commitment.
Sergio Sciascia
Tell us how your collaboration with Ombre e Luci began.
I knew Manuela Bartesaghi, and one day she introduced me to Mariangela Bertolini, who was building the Italian branch of Faith and Light at the time. I got involved, and later my daughter Barbara did too. I think it was around the time of the pilgrimage to Lourdes in '82 or '83 when Mariangela asked me to take on work for the magazine. I said yes—the Faith and Light experience had already convinced me.
Give us three words to describe your relationship with this magazine over the years.
I'd say it's been useful to me, first. Useful—I mean it's enriched me culturally and spiritually. It's also let me encounter very different positions on disability issues, and that clash of perspectives creates something fascinating. Finally, and I mean this in the best sense, it's been humbling. Over these years I've worked with people who had far less experience than me in communications, yet who were far more grounded than me in Faith and Light's world. I learned to accept correction. That did me real good.
Complete this sentence: "What makes this work very difficult is..."
The strain is minimal—and it's all positive.
Complete this sentence: "What makes this work very beautiful is..."
How Ombre e Luci has opened my eyes to the world of human fragility.
Since you've known the magazine for so long, what do you see as its special gift?
It manages to hold together the technical side of disability with the human reality underneath it.
You've given yourself to O.L. steadily and without pay for 24 years. Why?
Because I find so much here that touches what I care about most: subjects that broaden my understanding, themes that feed my spiritual life, the chance to learn more about the difficult nature of being human.
Natalia Livi
How did you come to O.L.?
I was at a point in my life where I'd decided on my own to get involved in the disability world. I'd had a few chance encounters with people connected to it, but nothing had happened. One day I was at a friend's house and I saw an issue of O.L. on the table. I asked if I could take it home. I read it there, and something about the spirit of that little magazine struck me. So I called Mariangela. We met and talked. It was just before summer, and she gave me two books to review. I did it—nervously, worried I'd get it wrong—and that's how my work at O.L. began. That was '89, and I stayed until 2003.
What did working at O.L. mean to you?
I want you to understand: stepping into the disability world was an enormous event in my life. A window opened onto truth and beauty. Some years ago I had to write a preface for a book called "In the Same Boat," and there I tried to describe what O.L. had meant to me (editor's note: Preface, in "In the Same Boat," Milan 2002, Ed. Ancora). I tried to convey how grateful I was, because what had been given to me was truly vast. I realized that parents, siblings, and young people were teaching me—as Jean Vanier says—so much. I discovered that I'd always had this hunger, but I'd never found a way to feed it until then.
What do you remember about life in the office?
For a long time it was just me, Nicole, and Mariangela. The workload was enormous. We'd be there until July 31st to finish everything, and we couldn't waste a minute. Then other editors came, and the pace eased a bit. The daily atmosphere really depended on how many people were there and who they were. I felt like I was "in the world"—it was beautiful to be with the others, to breathe air different from what I had at home (I had four children who kept me busy), and I got to learn about so many things and meet some remarkable people.
You've known the magazine from the inside and still read it. Are there changes you'd make?
O.L. is too short! The reading is over too fast. I wish there were more pages. It's too small. I'd like to see more of something we used to do and maybe do less now: more space for texts from great teachers, people who communicate real spiritual depth. More articles about people actually living this out. But that's a problem everywhere today—people seem afraid to even say the word God.
Speaking of now, what do you think O.L.'s mission should be today?
First, to stay close to its friends—the parents and siblings of people with disabilities. They already know this world well. O.L. can keep building closeness, through information, reviews, and resources. Keep doing what it does, because a magazine like this can show up by chance on someone's table and catch their eye. The way it caught mine.
Tea Cabras
How long were you part of the O.L. editorial team?
I arrived in 1989 and was there until around 2004. How did it happen? I knew the magazine, and it was a time when I'd stepped back from Faith and Light. I'd also finished my work as a teacher, and I hesitantly accepted Mariangela's invitation.
What did it mean for you to start working in this office?
It opened up a vital time in my life. As I told you, I'd finished teaching, and this new challenge kept me from shutting down and turning inward. It was a vivid experience—I was constantly running up against real human problems and a very alive environment.
What was the atmosphere like at O.L.?
I'd say tumultuous. But in a good way. We had different points of view among us. We agreed on some things, but on others we split. Especially on theological and religious questions—some of us emphasized one thing, others pushed for something else.
Any fun memories?
A family from Molise visited us once—people we'd gotten to know and sort of adopted—when they came for an audience with the Holy Father. They brought delicacies from their region.
Why did your time in the office come to an end?
There came a moment when it felt important to make room for younger people. I felt I'd given what I could, and I was running a bit thin on ideas compared to when I started.
What's your sense of O.L.'s place today?
I'm always amazed it isn't more widely read than it is. Maybe because its readers are a niche audience. But I keep hearing that people find it invaluable. They feel it's an authentic magazine—and the positive feedback I get comes from outside Faith and Light circles too!
What would you change?
I'd try to improve how widely it circulates, especially through thoughtful priests.
- edited by Cristina Ventura, 2007
