BENGALURU : Dear italy , yesterday I should have landed in Rome to reunite with my son, who goes to school there. I should have returned home and headed out to the piazza to shop for food. I would have undoubtedly run into a few neighbors and friends on the streets. I’d have said hello, and they’d have said, “welcome back.”It’s just that my son, along with millions of kids throughout Italy and elsewhere, doesn’t go to school anymore. A few days ago he unexpectedly and urgently returned to America, and shortly thereafter Trump banned travel from Europe, a scornful and already pointless gesture.
On the one hand I’m truly relieved my son is back, and that both my children are under the same roof during this time of deep uncertainty. And yet not returning to Rome this morning, not setting out for the market, even at the height of this crisis, pains me. It’s the same distress a daughter would feel at not being able to run to her gravely ill parent and lend a hand, because she feels compelled to, because she can do no less.
For a week now I’ve done nothing but follow the news in Italy and reach out to Italian friends, both in Italy and in the United States. My friends in Italy tell me things aren’t looking too good. They send me photos of empty streets all shuttered up. They tell me that the market stalls in Piazza San Cosimato have thinned out, and that supermarkets have signs asking people to stay a meter away from one another. I can picture all of this, more or less. They tell me they’re afraid, that they’re stunned, that the situation is brutally serious. And up until a few days ago, when I was still planning to board that plane, many told me, “Jhumpa, don’t come.”
I absorb their fear and feel equally stunned. At the same time, I absorb their courage, their patience, and their determination to battle and defeat this invisible enemy. Amid it all I laugh like mad, right along with them, when they share the hilarious memes spreading on social media. This is why Italy alone—which has already taught me so much—is now showing me how to face the coronavirus: with chin up, discipline, a touch of irony, and a healthy dose of optimism. And I’m gladly infected by their attitude.
Here in America alarmism is on the rise and friends are telling me: thank god your son got out! They have a point, sure—it’s better the family can be together in times like this, otherwise things would have been even harder.
And yet I’m nettled by such remarks.
Italy remains my point of arrival. For me, Italy is still a balm. A week ago, when I advised my son to come back, I told him Italy needs fewer people out and about right now, that we need to stand back and give the country the time and space it needs to recover. What I don’t understand is the attitude some people are displaying toward Italy now that it’s on lockdown, struck by an unprecedented crisis. It fills many with fear, even dread. Incomprehensibly, compassion is scarce—the US president expresses none whatsoever. I’m ashamed of it.
I still feel protected by Italy—even an Italy on its knees, bowed by such utter isolation. It’s precisely now that I feel Italy standing by my side, sharing—despite the ocean between us, despite Trump’s travel ban—its strength and dignity. It continues sharing its affection and advice, guiding and protecting me and my family. Extracted from Letter to Italy by Jhumpa Lahiri from the book And We Came Outside And Saw The Stars again with permission from Penguin Random House India