We are in the heart of Milan: a city that never stops and is always in a hurry, leaving no room for those who lag behind and quickly forgetting those who cannot keep up. Amid the clamor of voices and noise, commitments to chase and trains not to miss,the cries of a humanity denied and locked behind gray, cold bars — just like Milan’s climate — fade away.
Yet, the days of the Triduum, those of the Passion and Death, hold an unusual light: in Milan the sun is shining, it is warm. In the Via Caravaggio neighborhood, life seems to move more slowly; there is silence. It is here that an Easter waiting to be discovered begins for us: we are young people of various ages who arrive at the Piccola Casa di San Giuseppe without specific expectations, certainly in search of something. We are welcomed by the Sisters of Charity, some of whom have come from other parts of Italy to share this experience with us. For some, like many of us, it is their first time. It is precisely their witness that accompanies us: “concrete, silent, capable of transforming prayer into gestures, symbols, and living relationships” (Marta, 15 years old).
But there is a place that awaits us, a home where time is neither fast nor slow: San Vittore Prison seems to be there forever, timeless, untouched by the passage of time. Although it is nestled in the heart of the city and its walls—as Father Marco and Father Danilo, the chaplains, tell us—are “thinner” because of this.
The sun shines for the inmates too, for the prison volunteers, the chaplains… for us, who, between one celebration and another, stop for a few moments on their soccer field, in the spaces ofrecreation time.
Taking a break from the hectic pace of our days, amid studying the Word, rehearsing songs, and close encounters with the prison chaplains, something within us begins to change: “At one point I lay down in the middle of the field, thinking about the value of freedom. And I thought that the sun you see from there isn’t the same as the one outside; the sky isn’t an ever-changing backdrop: looking up from that perspective made it seem perpetually the same—an indelible reminder of what happens beyond those thick, reinforced walls, a sign of an invisible longing, of a painful past” (Elisabetta, 15 years old).
Once past the prison walls, one encounters scenes of life that are unforgettable, striking in their immediate concreteness: “I come out of it profoundly changed. In prison I encountered suffering, but also a surprising authenticity: the power of a word that, in such a harsh context, still manages to reach the heart” (Marta).
The transformative intensity of every moment occurs for usin the continuous exchange of emotions and thoughts that blossomswhen we are together: “The people with whom I shared these days were a fundamental part of the experience, and each one, in their own way—with their personality and their way of life—left such a special mark. During the celebrations, I was very surprised by Father Danilo’s style of celebrating, but by the end of the Triduum I realized just how authentic it is” (Caterina A., 20 years old).
A daily image and at the same time a very powerful one characterized our Triduum and what each of us carried in our hearts and eyes as we returned home. It is the image of hands: “Why choose to spend the Easter Triduum serving in prison? Because during these intense and profound days, I saw suffering and wounded hands that found the strength to reveal themselves and allow themselves to be touched—blessing hands, hands gently anointed with the intoxicating scent of nard, hands engaged in acts of care, hands of female inmates embracing or wiping away the tears of a fellow inmate nearby, hands of male inmates caressing the Crucifix with disarming love, hands of sisters and brothers who have become a home and a safe place for me. Because our hands have bent to serve… if it pleases God, forever!” (Caterina C., 23 years old)
At the prison gates, every step we took was restricted, monitored; in every corridor a door slammed shut behind us. From every cell came indistinct screams and shouts, of men and women trying to say something to one another, to reach beyond the bars with their noise, with a desire for redemption.
The overpowering smell of smoke made the atmosphere even grayer; the walls, plastered with notices and requests for visits, showed no mercy.
Everything suggested that in a place like that there could never be room for God—indeed, that God Himself had forgotten it and abandoned it to its own devices.
Instead, perhaps unexpectedly, we realized—each in our own way—how much God’s closeness breaks through with more truth, fewer preconceptions, and less difficulty; precisely in a place like this, among people judged and labeled or looked upon with pity, yet still from above.
Perhaps those behind bars are simply some of the best parts of society who have found no one to welcome their questions, their desires for a truer life. Because, among them, we never felt out of place, and we are ready to say it loud and clear: “In the prayers, I was struck by the image of the disciples who, after Jesus’ death, return to Jerusalem full of joy and ready to bear witness. The Easter Triduum was a journey that made me feel I was in the right place, helping me understand what truly matters” (Marco, 32).
We set out looking for something, we arrived trying to find what we were looking for, but in the end, upon returning, we realized that being on a search is precisely what allowed us to live an experience so important for our lives: “I didn’t come home with answers, but with the desire to keep searching and with the words that resonate after a girl in the group shared: ‘Even if I were to lose my way, He won’t lose me’” (Sofia, 28).
E.C.
