Nta la vita nun putemu fari piani. A li voti, nta un bàttitu d’occhi, tuttu cancia.
Era la stasciuni dû 1968 e comu ô solitu, a la fini di la scola, ogni annu n’arritiràvamu
‘n campagna a villiggiatura, nta na casuzza nicaredda, senza nudda cummidità.
Pi arcuni ‘villiggiatura’ significava divirtimentu, ma pi nuautri picciriddi cunsisteva jiri
‘n campagna a travagghiari.
Me patri avia tanti tirreni ô Mulinazzu chi curtivava pi putiri campari la famigghia di setti
figghi.
Dda cc’era lu beni di Diu: jardina di limiuna, ficu, ficudinnia, racina, ‘rranata, puma, pira,
varcoca, pèrsichi, pruna, cutugna … nun mancava nenti.
Nuatri picciriddi passàvamu la stasciunata a cògghiri pumadoru, citrola, alivi, mènnuli e
tanta produzzioni di la nuvara, sutta lu suli cucenti.
Doppu lu travagghiu, jàvamu a mari, a la Turri Mulinazzu, ni purtàvamu la truscitedda di
manciari e ni gudìamu la santa paci.
Ogni jornu jàvamu nta li vicini a pigghiari na quartara o u bùmmulu d’acqua, tirata cu la
corda e lu catu di lu puzzu; cucinàvamu cu la quadara fora cû focu addumatu e
manciàvamu tutti nzèmmula sutta la prèula. A la sira, usàvamu u lumi o la cannila.
Lu manciari era naturali, fruttu di na terra ricca, sutta u suli.
Èramu abbituati a la vita di campagna e nun ni lamintàvamu.
Lu Mulinazzu era na granni zona di terra a li pedi di Cinisi. Era amatu di tutti, un veru
Paraddisu! e tanti famigghi di lu paisi campàvanu cu li risorsi di campagna.
Ntô 1960, già asistìa l’Ariuportu Punta Raisi di Palermo ô Mulinazzu.
Li mali pruggetti chi criàvanu difficultà a l’aerii ni l’attirrari, ntô 1968 purtàu a lu secunnu
espropriu, pi custruiri la terza pista trasvirsali.
Ntô misi di lugliu 1968, si spargeru li primi vuci ô Mulinazzu ca l’avìanu a sprupriari.
Nuatri èramu tutti ncullurati e nun sapìamu si li nostri terri facìanu parti di ddu
pruggettu.
Ancora nun avìamu ricivutu un ducumentu chi ni avvirtìa di ddu mminenti espropriu.
Tuttu fu fattu ‘n sicretu, senza ca li campagnoli sapìssiru cosa.
Nta ddi jorna, ricivemu na littra di l’America, ca ni mmitava a la partenza pi ddu novu
munnu, doppu diciott’anni di aspittari.
Lu Signuri chiuvi na porta e grapi un purtuni!
Ntô misi d’austu, li studenti di Cinisi vìnniru ‘n aiutu di li cuntadini di lu Mulinazzu e
organizzaru na prutesta a lu Municipiu, ma senza bonu èsitu.
Unu di ddi studenti fu Pippinu Mpastatu, ca anni doppu fu ammazzatu di la mafia dû nostru
paisi.
A lu stissu tempu, ntìsimu la nutizzia ca s’avìanu a pigghiari li dui pezzi di tirreni chi me
patri pussidìa, unu ô Mulinazzu e l’autru a la Scalidda.
Èramu divastati. Nun cci sunnu palori pi discrìviri lu nostru statu d’ànimu.
Cci foru prutesti, lotti, ma a l’ùltimu lu Guvernu vincìu.
Ntê primi di Ottùviri 1968, sprupriaru lu Mulinazzu, tanti èttari di terra.
Li cuntadini vìnniru pagati picca e nenti.
Arcuni nun pigghiaru mancu na lira, picchì nun avìanu ducumenti di mustrari.
A ddi tempi, li làssiti èranu lassati a vucca, di patri ‘n figghiu e tanti arristaru ‘n puvirtà.
Me patri, spintu di l’amici e li parenti, dicisi di spatriari pi l’ America e dari un bonu avveniri
a li figghi.
Lu 4 jinnaru 1969, partemu cu lu vapuri Michelangelo pi dda nazzioni, ‘unni cc’era l’àrbulu
di dòllari e li strati chi lucìanu d’oru.
Lassamu la nostra patria e n’avviamu a dda terra scanusciuta.
Nova terra, nova vita
Tanti famigghi, nun sapennu comu campari,
lassaru pi sempri lu paisi nativu.
Salutaru li vicini e li parenti
e lu figghiu detti l’ùrtimu addiu a li vicchiareddi:
“Patruzzu meu, matruzza mia,
nun sacciu cchiù si ni videmu”
e si sparteru,
cu la raccumannazzioni stritta ô cori:
“lu Signuri ti binidici!”
e li làcrimi, comu sciumara sguttàvanu di l’occhi.
Cu la bunaca misa
e la valiggedda di cartuni,
si mmarcàu cu la so famigghia cû vapuri.
E comu aceddi migratura,
tanti fìciru lu nidu nta autri terri.
Parteru pi l’America,
‘unni tutti dicìanu:
“terra di travagghiu e di ricchizza!”
Attravirsaru lu granni mari,
cu li cavadduna comu muntagni,
prima d’avvistari a l’urizzunti
la maistusa Statua dâ Libbirtà,
chi dava lu benvinutu a li migranti.
E quanti spiranzi rinchiusi nta li cori!
ma nun mancaru dilusioni e sacrifici,
pi dari inizziu a la nova vita.
Tanti, cu l’ingegnu e lu travagghiu,
fìciru granni sta nazzioni,
ma ntâ menti, arristàu sempri vivu
lu disideriu di la terra nativa,
di rivìdiri lu paiseddu,
‘unni lassaru li cosi cchiù cari,
pinzannu cu malincunìa,
a lu Mulinazzu tantu amatu.
Figghi senza patria
Semu figghi senza patria,
nati ntô n paisi
ca n’assicutàu nta autri terri.
“Vojitivinni, ccà nun cc’è futuru!”
ni dissi na vuci.
L’ascurtamu cu amarizza na l’ìntimu dû cori,
sapennu nta ddu mumentu
ca l’avìamu a lassari
pi circari “pani” a autri banni.
E partemu in tanti,
pi mèttiri radici nta terri stranieri
e nonostanti lu passari dû tempu,
nun ntìsimu mai un senzu di appartinenza.
Lassamu un pezzu di cori ddà,
cu tutti li cari ricordi e i sentimenti
e l’autru ccà,
cu tutti li dilusioni, li sacrifici, lu benistari
e la spiranza sempri di turnari.
E nun fìcimu mai parti
nnè di dda terra, nnè di chista.
Semu figghi senza patria.
Maria Anna Manzella Vitale
Autrici di lu libbru: Lu jornu ca lu Mulinazzu chiancìu
Life never goes according to our plans. In the blink of an eye, all can change.
It was the summer of 1968. As usual, at the end of the school year, we moved to the country for vacation, to a small rural cottage with no modern conveniences.
For some people, “vacation” implied having fun, but for us children it meant going to the country to work.
My father owned several parcels of land in the zone of Mulinazzo, which he cultivated for his family of seven children.
Those lands were filled with God’s goodness: lemon orchards, figs, prickly pears, grapes, pomegranates, apples, pears, apricots, peaches, plums, quinces … Nothing was lacking.
All of us children spent the summer harvesting tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, almonds and various produce, under the scorching sun.
After work, we went to the sea, over the Mulinazzo Tower. We took along a lunch, wrapped in a towel and enjoyed the tranquility.
Every day, we went to the neighbors to fetch a galvanized jug or a clay amphora of water, pulled with a rope and a bucket from the well. We cooked outside with a quadara over a lit fire and gathered around the table to eat under the grape pergola. At dusk, we used an oil lamp or a candle.
The food was natural, fruit of a rich soil, enriched by the hot sun.
We were accustomed to the country life and did not complain.
The Mulinazzo was an extensive zone of land at the feet of the town of Cinisi. It was loved by everyone, a true Paradise! Many families of the town lived with its resources.
In 1960, an airport already existed in Mulinazzo called Punta Raisi Airport of Palermo.
The controversial project that created difficulty for the airplane’s functionality, led to the second expropriation for the construction of the third runaway.
In July 1968, the first whispers of the expropriation were spread throughout Mulinazzo.
Our hearts were broken and didn’t know if our family lands were going to be included in their project.
Up to that time, we had not received any documents that would warn us of the imminent expropriation.
The wicked plans were carried out in secrecy, no farmer was made aware of the facts.
During those days, we received a letter from America, inviting our family to emigrate to the other side of the world, after eighteen long years of waiting.
God closes a door and opens a window!
In the month of August, the students of Cinisi came down to Mulinazzo to aid the farmers.
They organized a protest at the City Hall, but without a good outcome.
One of those students happened to be Peppino Impastato, who, years later, was killed by the mafia of our town.
At the same time, we heard the news that two parcels of land that were owned by my father, one over Mulinazzo and the other by the Scalidda Beach, were going to be expropriated.
We were devastated. No words can describe our state of mind.
There were protests and standoffs, but in the end, the Government won.
At the beginning of October 1968, they begun the expropriation of Mulinazzo. It was an excessive number of acres of land that were stolen.
The farmers were paid a very low amount of money. Some didn’t receive any payment for their lack of documents. During those times, it was the custom to pass down the estates from father to son, by word of mouth. Due to the ruthless decision of the Government of not honoring prior customs, many people were left in poverty.
My father, encouraged by family and friends, decided to emigrate to America and give a better future to his children.
On January 4, 1969, we embarked on the Michelangelo liner to that nation where the dollar tree grew, and the streets were paved in gold.
We left our native country and headed toward an unknown world.
New Land, New Life
Many families, unsure how to live,
Left the native country for good.
They said goodbye to their neighbors and relatives
And the son gave the last farewell to the elderly:
“Dear Father, dear Mother,
I don’t know if we’ll see each other again.”
And departed,
Holding firmly the heartfelt recommendation:
“May God bless you!”
And the tears, like a river, overflowed from his eyes.
With only a jacket
And a cardboard suitcase,
He embarked with his family on a boat.
And like migratory birds,
Many built their nest in foreign lands.
They left for America,
Where everybody said:
“Land rich in work and wealth!”
They crossed the vast ocean,
With mountain high waves,
Before spotting on the horizon
The majestic Statue of Liberty,
That gave a warm welcome to the immigrants.
How many hopes were enclosed in their hearts!
But delusions and sacrifices were not lacking,
To give a new start to their lives.
Many, through their creativity and hard work,
Made great this nation,
But in their minds, the desire always remained alive,
The longing for their native land,
To see once more the little town,
Where they left behind their treasured memories,
Remembering with melancholy,
The Mulinazzo, so dearly loved.
Children Without a Country
We are children without a country,
Born in a nation
That chased us out to other lands.
“Go away, there is no future here!”
We were told.
We listened with bitterness to that voice
In the depth of our hearts,
Knowing in that moment
We would have to abandon it
To look for “bread” elsewhere.
Many of us left,
To put roots in foreign lands
And despite the passing of time,
We never felt
A sense of belonging.
We left a piece of our hearts there,
With all the sweet memories and sentiments,
And the other piece here,
With all the bitterness, sacrifices, and prosperity,
Always full of hope to return.
And we were never part of that land, nor of this one.
We are children without a country.
Maria Anna Manzella Vitale
Author of the book: Lu jornu ca lu Mulinazzu chiancìu