W hen I moved from Italy to London 15 years ago, one of the things that I found most puzzling was how, in such a gloriously multicultural city, people still tended to form social groups based on where they came from. At first I thought it had to do with my personality, but one day the reason became clearer when I stepped into a coffee shop. While ordering, recognising the barista’s Sicilian accent, I switched to Italian and explained I was from Sicily too: that’s when the barista’s smile died and his tone became very rude.
Over the following months, there were similar incidents in bars and restaurants. Every time I tried to strike up a conversation with a fellow Sicilian they gave me the cold shoulder. On reflection, I realised that in Sicily people bonded over their sense of not belonging.
This perceived alienation from our birthplace and to its fellow inhabitants is a curse that every Sicilian carries, but is not always aware of. During my childhood and teenage years, the recurring pastime at family dinners and gatherings of friends seemed to be vehement complaining about Sicily and Sicilians. Be it institutions or individuals’ moral conduct, every anecdote was meant to prove how Sicilian society was doomed to failure.
The shadow of the mafia and corruption hung over our beautiful island, so when my parents asked me why I wanted to move to northern Italy for university and not even look at what local universities had to offer, it felt like it was a surreal question,.