WE ARE THE bare feet and carved sticks of those who walk beneath the sun, waiting for the wind. If you die never having been at once imprisoned and free, then you have never lived.
We are the strong arms and greedy hands of farmers who never retire. If you live off sowing and harvesting, you cannot have great dreams, only great hopes.
We are the warm, mocking smiles of those who welcome the stranger with a blend of curiosity and suspicion. Every encounter is a migration, every skirmish an invasion.
We are the quizzical look and expert ear of those who lead their flock and bake their bread.
We are the innocent shrieks of children and the vindictive silences of the old.
We are the prayers, down on our knees, the singing around the fire, the one wine-stained word too many.
The fragrance of myrtle, the trunk of a juniper tree, the sharpness of cheese.
We are as stubborn as the maestrale wind, as limpid as the sea; we wear black shawls that herald misfortunes.
Sardinia has a single flag and every village its martyr. Ours is a woman called Teresa, and her death has been kept a secret for far too long.
No one talks about her, some ask, all remember.
Teresa was murdered, and it’s all our fault.