In the tragedy that takes place in Sardinia, the land is theprotagonist, a land that suddenly seems to kill its children. ---- Thehistory of militarized and contaminated Sardinia is emblematic of theagony of the earth, a land that depicts an interior, collective andindividual landscape where a great human tragedy takes place - unheard,underestimated, misunderstood. ---- In this tragedy intertwinesevocative names of fascinating places like in fairy tales -Perdasdefogu, Escalaplano, Salto di Quirra, Capo Frasca - and of commonfaces, faces of shepherds and ordinary people, attached to their land, aland that suddenly seems to go mad and begins to produce pain and death,an inexplicable, fast, atrocious and silent death.Fulminant leukemia is most often called this calamity that attacksSardinia, which affects the lifeblood of ordinary people. Fulminantleukemia, a real death sentence. It is the daily and forgotten tragedyof a land that dies with its fruits and its animals, of faces thatdisappear, thus into oblivion. It seems like an inexplicable calamity,of which no one knows or understands anything: but many know andunderstand very well, those who are responsible for what happens butremain silent, silent and criminal, sheltered behind their rubber wall.And this creeping death actually has many names: in addition tofulminant leukemia, there are Hodgkin's lymphoma, Hodgkin, tumors of alltypes. Lethal and aggressive types of tumors develop inside the bodiesof those exposed to depleted uranium.In the Quirra range, the largest NATO facility in Europe, there isuranium 238, the silent assassin responsible for this war crime inpeacetime: war pollution, which affects both those fighting on thebattlefield , and those who live near those bases where weapons aretested and devices which release this material at high temperatures areexploded.Sardinia has been expropriated and militarized and now hostsapproximately 60% of the areas designated for Italian military stateproperty. Cruel death strikes those who have never been to war and havenever thought of going: the shepherds who graze their flocks near theshooting range, who first saw malformed lambs being born and then whogot sick and died, thus, in a few months, without knowing why; the staffwho work on the base and the six-legged lambs; the children born withmalformations (in Escalaplano, 2,500 inhabitants, there are about ten)and the young leukemia sufferers. "For some time now, the ringing of the sheep in the pasture hasbecome a timid jingle. At every turn, during the tortuous journey bycar, it is not uncommon to find the corpses of animals lying on theground... There is no longer any joy in the town; the mourning ofwomen's clothes has become habitual. In every family there is "a lifethat is extinguished. The faithful pray that death will at least sparethe good arms for work because otherwise, in addition to pain, one willalso die of hunger and poverty" (*).Sometimes dealing with the topic of depleted uranium leads to bitterreflections: for example, many people believe that they can largelyignore the topic as it is linked to unidentified "distant places"connected with war missions. This would be a non-inherent problem dailylife and national public health, therefore to be viewed with detachment,almost as if it were a sort of "urban legend".Yet things are not like this and what seems far away is much closer thanmany can imagine.(*) Giulia Spada, I died like a Viet Cong, Sensitivi alle Foglie, Rome,2020.A story like manyGiulia SpadaThe Rock, they called him. Certainly not for his temples sprinkled withsnow, gray threads marking the grainy time. Not even for the strong jaw,tense around the chin, severe at the beginning like an oblique ridge butcapable of smiling with parted lips and crystalline laughter from a highaltitude source. Not for the chestnut eyes. Of that color that makes itit smells humid but then warm from the belly of the earth. Not for thestrong hands, eroded by splinters and tools of all sorts. Not for thevoice, deep like an unexpected cave, amazed oval in the side of themountain. It was the Rock because it was firm it was his love for life,and therefore for the little things in the world that strolled throughhis days like busy ants in formation. It was the Rock because anyneedle-probe-channel-drip seemed just an accessory placed on that solidbody.The Rock because a leukemia was an opportunity to study around theengineering of fluids inside and outside of oneself. The Rock becausenever a moan causes avalanches that shatter emotions. The rock. Hot bodysoaking in the breath of the end. The rock. Last sigh like a leaf givingitself to the light. The rock. Eternal trace in the heart of those who are.It was the beginning of the 2000s and I was waiting for the transitionbetween middle school and high school, when my father was diagnosed withblood cancer. I knew nothing about diseases, hospitals, hospitalizationprocedures. I liked reading the classics and looking for the stars onsummer nights, on the marble bench in the garden, sitting next to myfather. After emergency hospitalization, I, despite myself, became anexpert in blood values, blood cells white blood cells, red blood cells,marrow transplants. I followed my mother as she sterilized the objectsand clothes she would have to bring to the ward, in that sterile room ofa hospital overlooking an area that is military servitude. I obtained mymiddle school diploma by seeing my father twice: once in a small roomused for quick visits, while he tremblingly handed me the math schemes.I remember the color of his skin: it was like wood burned by therapy. Iremember his face: a huge ball, swollen from water retention frommedicine. I remember that the temples of the glasses were deformed onthe temple tracks. I remember the smell of his pajamas: of disinfectantmixed with the chemistry of the drug that permeated even night terrors.For years I washed my clothes by hand trying to remove that disgustingstench from my brain, fearing that it would come out again from thewashing machine. second time I saw my father just before he died. He wasinside the aquarium, the sterile room which had a large glassoverlooking the corridor, so that the doctors could read the valuesdetected directly from outside, so as not to risk altering the state ofthe immune system, now non-existent. I've never seen such a tangled messof wires like that. I remember my father sitting on the cot, holding ontightly, anchored to the edges of the cot. I remember seeing him firstin profile, as I approached and being petrified by that silhouette thatI no longer recognised. I remember walking the last few inches towardsthe glass in a state of terror, crawling along the wall, begging my eyesnot to let out the tears that rained straight from my broken heart. Iremember realizing that I would be an orphan and not understanding howor why. And when it happened, after a slow agony, I was left wonderingfor a long time about how and why. I became an adult, and I built mystudies by doing an autopsy on that how and that why.Many years after that death, I understood my experience: I am a warorphan but my father was not a soldier nor was he involved in any way inthe army. My father was a technical education teacher in middle schoolin a small town in southern Sardinia, located near one of the largestNATO ranges in our territory. In the fifty kilometers that separated himfrom his classes, my father breathed the poisons of that land for yearsand fell ill with a form of leukemia that killed him within a year.Sardinia has a long colonial problem. Since the aftermath of the SecondWorld War, armies from all over the world have come to test weapons andmilitary strategies which will then be used in theaters of war all overthe world. 65% of the island's territory is occupied by militaryinstallations: some of state property, others NATO. All this bringsserious consequences to the land and to the health of the people wholive not only within bases and ranges, but by extension to all theinhabitants of the island. Particulates, the nanoparticles that formafter the explosion of depleted uranium weapons and other dangerousmaterials, do not stay in one place. Sardinia is a land of wind and thewaters that pass through it nourish the subsoil towards every cardinalpoint. Unlike what the presidential circulars of the republic wouldlike, according to which an allowance can only be granted to those whofall ill with blood tumors and similar within a few kilometers of amilitary installation, particulates do not know borders, nor trafficlights or fences.Mine is not an isolated loss. Over the years, I have encountered manystories like mine in Sardinia and this has allowed me to reflect on thefact that on the island people do not die of leukemia or tumors, butthey die of war. And that this long occupation leaves on the territoryorphans, orphans, widows and widowers. The situation is currentlyidentical to before. There are independent committees and assembliesthat fight to bring out the issue and to oppose the dominant narrativewhich says that all in all these military installations are not soharmful to the territory given that they also bring employment. However,what we should aim for is precisely a rejection of the bases and of theentire war economy. The war supply chain invoices billions but inSardinia there is nothing left. We should move towards reclamation (someareas cannot even be reclaimed) and that those who have damaged the landshould pay for the damages. In short, what could be done in Sardinia isto free ourselves in every way from this form of colonization and startagain from an economy that is in harmony with the territory and notimposed by others.Taken from: Marilina Veca, Depleted Uranium: the earth is all mourning,Sensitivi alle Foglie, Rome, 2023.Marilina Veca, journalist and writer, has worked in the internationalrelations sector for various institutions. She is an "honor" member ofthe National Association of Depleted Uranium Victims, she is involved inpeace projects and humanitarian support in Kosovo and Metohija.Construction site no. 21 November 2023 ilcantiere@autistici.orghttp://alternativalibertaria.fdca.it/_________________________________________A - I N F O S N E W S S E R V I C EBy, For, and About AnarchistsSend news reports to A-infos-en mailing listA-infos-en@ainfos.ca
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