We found ourselves again at Charlton House on our way to business, and we stopped for the lunchtime concert, part of a series given every Tuesday.

This time, the concert was given by a mother-and-daughter team hailing from Malaysia. The official program wasn’t quite the one that was followed; indeed, the concert organiser noted that it was increasingly common for him to receive a program only to find it altered at the last minute by the performers. Here, then, is the programme as heard, with my wife’s annotations.

Two musicians whose work bridges performance and education across continents are pianist Mitra Alice Tham and her mother, educator and author Alice Chua. Malaysian-born and internationally active, they represent a partnership in which artistic achievement and pedagogical commitment reinforce one another.
Mitra Alice Tham established her reputation early, making her international debut as a child and developing a career as a pianist, composer, and arranger. Her studies at leading institutions in London and New York helped shape a cosmopolitan musical outlook, and she has performed in a wide range of prominent settings, including for distinguished audiences. Alongside recital work, her compositional activity has extended to commissioned pieces connected with major cultural and development initiatives in Malaysia, reflecting an engagement with music that is both artistic and civic.
Alice Chua, long active as a music educator, has built an influential career devoted to teaching and curriculum development. Her work with Yamaha Music Asia contributed to the expansion of structured music-education programmes across Southeast Asia, particularly at the early-learning level. As an author, she has produced widely used instructional materials, notably the Playing Piano is Fun series, along with further pedagogical publications addressing teaching method and learning theory. Based in London, she continues to serve as an examiner and adjudicator, maintaining an international presence in educational and competitive musical circles.
Together, their activities illustrate two complementary strands of musical life: performance at a high professional level and the patient cultivation of musical understanding in others. Their shared trajectory—spanning Southeast Asia, Europe, and beyond—highlights how musical culture circulates globally through both concert platforms and classrooms, sustained by individuals committed to artistic excellence and education alike.
The daughter’s performance was beautifully assured. I loved the way she played Bach’s Keyboard Partita No. 1, a piece that inspired me so many years ago to fall in love with classical music, particularly in the legendary performance by Dinu Lipatti. The Liszt transcription of Schumann’s Widmung, his love letter to his wife-to-be, showcased the pianist’s virtuosic grasp, and she pointed out the subtle allusions to Schubert’s Ave Maria towards the end of the piece.
The second half of the recital was lighter in mood and full of charm. Duos with the mother joining the daughter brought warmth and energy to the programme. Highlights included the brio of Brahms’ Hungarian Dances and the zest of Gershwin’s I Got Rhythm, alongside a delightful little piece in the pentatonic Chinese scale—the daughter’s own juvenile composition, which she arranged as a duo with her mother. It was perfectly timed for that Tuesday’s Chinese New Year, the year of the horse, beginning to unfurl itself with dragon dances and ceremonial processions.

All in all, it was a truly entertaining concert, immaculately performed by two virtuosi. The audience seemed to shed years during the hour, thoroughly carried along by the music.

One of the real pleasures of a weekday lunch hour in London is not merely the astonishing range of food available — the entire world’s cuisine seems compressed into a few square miles, from Balinese rice to Belgian fries, from Tibetan momos to Mexican tapas — but the equally rich cultural nourishment available for nothing more than the price of showing up. The city’s free lunchtime concerts are among its quiet civilising glories. For us, the greatest draw is the organ recital: up to an hour removed from commerce and traffic, seated in the cool acoustic shadow of a Wren church or, occasionally, something older and rougher-hewn, medieval and resonant with centuries of sound.
And the instruments themselves form a kind of living museum. One week it may be the exquisitely subtle George England organ at St Margaret Lothbury, capable of remarkable nuance under skilled hands — we heard resident recitalist Richard Townend there recently shaping a thoughtful dialogue between French and German Baroque works. Another week brings the altogether grander personality of the organ at St Michael Cornhill: an instrument whose lineage reaches back to Purcell’s era, much enlarged since yet still rooted in that long history of City music-making, and associated with figures of genuine stature — not least Harold Darke, whose In the Bleak Midwinter still resonates far beyond its liturgical context. Jonathan Rennert, the titular organist and concert organiser at St Michael Cornhill, continues that tradition of stewardship, and the concerts, although free, gratefully receive donations from those attending.

Yesterday’s recital in the long-running Monday lunchtime series — surely one of the most durable musical institutions in the Square Mile — arrived in midwinter, but without the expected gloom. The sky was brilliantly clear, the sunlight crisp after weeks of murk, and something of that brightness carried into the church itself. The recitalist, Douglas Tang, titular organist at St Pancras New Church, matched it with playing of commanding assurance and vitality.

The opening work was familiar in spirit if not in sonority: Bach’s Chaconne from the Second Partita in D minor, encountered here in organ guise rather than in its native violin form. It remains astonishing that Bach’s architecture survives such translation intact — the inexorable harmonic tread, the unfolding variations, the emotional trajectory — sounding entirely persuasive even when transferred to what we habitually call the King of Instruments. One is reminded again of Bach’s universality: music conceived in essence rather than medium.
From Bach to Liszt brought a leap not just in chronology but in physical demand. The Prelude and Fugue on the name B–A–C–H — that ingenious exploitation of German musical notation — is already formidable at the piano; on the organ, with pedals to negotiate, multiple manuals to coordinate, and registration to command, its complexity approaches the acrobatic. Tang’s virtuosity was unambiguous, yet the performance never felt merely demonstrative. Beneath the brilliance lay seriousness of intention: Liszt the dramatist, perhaps, but also Liszt the devout craftsman, shaping homage rather than spectacle.
The final work, Reubke’s Sonata on Psalm 94, I confess I approached with some reluctance. Late Romantic organ writing can sometimes dissolve into textural excess, and by then we listeners had been immersed in quite a volume of sound already. Yet this proved an entirely unfounded anxiety. The sonata unfolded with remarkable clarity, the colouristic possibilities of the organ exploited imaginatively rather than indulgently, its trajectory building patiently towards a magnificent culmination — not bombast, but breadth and conviction.
The audience, gratifyingly substantial for a weekday lunchtime, included the distinguished violinist Simon Standage — a reminder of the cross-pollination between musical worlds, and perhaps an ironic nod to that Bach Chaconne heard earlier in translation.

So the hour resolved itself perfectly: sunlight outside, cappuccino from Waitrose in hand beforehand, and inside a noble Wren interior filled with sound both ancient and freshly realised. That such an experience should remain freely available — requiring only curiosity and a little time — feels like one of London’s quiet, civilised triumphs. What more, indeed, could one reasonably ask of a lunch break?

“Residents have been informed that, following a sudden structural collapse of a wall and pavement at Ponte a Serraglio near La Cova, the affected stretch of road has been closed to traffic to ensure public safety and allow technical inspections. Access is permitted only to and from Fornoli in order to maintain connections for residents travelling to Riolo, Monti di Villa, Granaiola and nearby areas, while the route toward the capoluogo — Bagni di Lucca — remains closed. Temporary signage is in place for alternative routes, and the authorities apologise for the inconvenience and thank residents for their cooperation.”

That is the official wording — tidy, procedural, and carefully neutral. I received this news while in England, and like many who keep close ties with the valley, it naturally caused concern. But what does it actually mean in lived, day-to-day terms for those of us connected to this stretch of the Lima valley?
The junction beside the collapse is precisely the turning that leads toward Granaiola and Monti di Villa — the road that passes directly by our house. So yes, it remains technically possible to reach home by approaching from the direction of the Stazione di Fornoli, turning right and climbing in that way. What is not possible is continuing by car toward Bagni di Lucca itself. In practical terms, that means something as ordinary as driving to Bar Italia at Ponte a Serraglio is no longer feasible. Walking remains possible — nobody is realistically going to seal off pedestrian passage — but walking along a compromised roadside above an unstable riverbank is hardly reassuring. The phrase “closed to traffic” does a great deal of work in softening what amounts to the temporary severing of a local artery.
It is also difficult to accept the framing of this as merely sudden or exceptional. Anyone who has watched the Lima over time knows what happens where water meets curvature: the outer bank erodes — predictably, relentlessly, year after year. The collapse may have been sudden; the process behind it was not. Monitoring, reinforcement, and preventative intervention sit in that familiar grey area between Comune, Provincia, Regione, and other agencies — which often means they sit between responsibilities. Attributing everything to recent weather may be administratively convenient, but it is not especially convincing. The stabilisation required — surveys, permits, engineering works, funding — suggests months rather than weeks before genuine resolution.
Detours exist, of course. One can climb toward the Terme Alte and descend from that side — inconvenient but workable when transporting supplies. Alternatively, one can descend to Fornoli, cross the valley, and re-enter via the opposite bank toward Bagni di Lucca. Yet these are coping strategies, not infrastructure. They expose how fragile connectivity becomes when dependent on a handful of vulnerable links.
Nor is this fragility new. The river here is the Lima, tributary of the Serchio, joining it just beyond Fornoli before the combined waters continue toward Lucca. The Serchio corridor has for years required repeated works along the SS12 between Fornoli and Borgo a Mozzano — embankments reinforced, lanes narrowed, temporary signals installed. Residents know the routine well. If the present closure persists, traffic into Bagni di Lucca will increasingly divert through Chifenti toward the Via del Brennero, funnelled onto sections already constrained to alternating single lanes and heavy goods traffic. That is not hypothetical inconvenience; it is predictable congestion with economic and safety consequences.
Local memory confirms this is no anomaly. Villa has been cut off before by landslips. Ponte a Serraglio itself was severed from Villa only a few years ago by another collapse. The valley has a catalogue of such events, even if institutional memory often behaves as though each one were unprecedented.

There is also a broader geological reality. Italy — tectonically active and comparatively young — rests on terrain that moves, fractures, and reshapes itself. Slopes shift, sediment migrates, banks give way. Recognising this does not absolve governance structures of responsibility to anticipate and mitigate risk. By contrast, Britain’s much older geological base produces different problems: gradual tilting that contributes to flooding, subsiding eastern coasts, rising western shores, raised beaches on one side and erosion swallowing villages on the other. Those processes unfold slowly. Here the tempo is sharper, demanding sharper vigilance.
Discussion will inevitably turn to responsibility — municipal, provincial, regional — and to whether earlier intervention might have mitigated the outcome. Meetings, reports, and debates will follow; they always do. Yet accessibility underpins everyday life — mobility, small business continuity, deliveries, emergency access, and the seasonal tourism on which the valley increasingly relies. Infrastructure resilience is not cosmetic; it is fundamental.
And so we return to the closing sentence of the notice: “apologies for inconvenience and thanks for understanding”.

Understanding there will certainly be — residents are accustomed to these realities — but understanding should not be mistaken for passivity. People know the terrain, the history, and the pattern of response. What is required now is coordinated, transparent, and adequately funded intervention that recognises this collapse not as an isolated nuisance but as part of a structural reality demanding sustained attention.
Understanding, after all, is a two-way street.

In observing social media and online spaces, certain recurring themes have become particularly prominent. Three of these themes seem to dominate conversations at this time: immigration and national identity, whimsical dinosaur phenomena, and the visibility of the hijab in Western contexts. These topics, while different in tone and focus, share the common trait of provoking strong reactions and sustained engagement from online audiences.

Immigration and British Identity
One of the most persistent themes relates to immigration, particularly concerns about Britain losing its cultural identity. Much discussion centers on the growth of Muslim families in the country and the perception that this demographic change is reshaping society. Statistics do indicate higher birth rates among certain communities, but the long-term implications are uncertain—comparable, perhaps, to observing a shifting weather pattern: some trends may be temporary, while others will unfold over decades.
Online, these conversations are often charged with emotion. Many people express fear, anxiety, and nostalgia for a Britain they remember—or imagine—before large-scale demographic change. The discussions touch on multiculturalism, integration, and the preservation of national identity, sparking debates that are deeply polarized. These anxieties are compounded by broader European concerns, with Eastern European countries like Poland, Slovakia, and Hungary emphasizing cultural cohesion and, in some cases, political resistance to multicultural policies.

Dinosaurs: Humor and Surprise
In contrast to the heavy tone of immigration debates, another recurring theme is light-hearted: the appearance of costumed dinosaurs in parks, fairs, and public spaces. These dinosaurs—often oversized, prehistoric costumes animated by unknown performers—create surprise and amusement, especially for children. Unlike the topics of national identity or religious expression, this phenomenon is largely devoid of controversy. It functions as entertainment, a shared humorous experience that brings delight rather than debate.
Interestingly, the online visibility of dinosaurs highlights a pattern in social media engagement: some content spreads for its novelty and humour, rather than for fear or persuasion. While it does not provoke societal debate in the way immigration or hijab discussions do, the dinosaur theme underscores how online spaces mix serious, polarizing topics with playful, low-stakes content.

Hijab and Religious Expression
The third theme centers on the hijab and broader questions of religious expression. Campaigns such as “Hijab Day” encourage women to celebrate wearing the hijab, which some perceive as a form of persuasion or social pressure. This differs from fear-based reactions, as it seeks to normalize and glorify a particular cultural practice rather than provoke anxiety.
Yet, the discourse is complex. In parts of the Muslim world, compulsory veiling—such as the hijab in Iran or the niqab/burqa in Afghanistan—faces resistance, with women rebelling against enforced dress codes. Online debates therefore often juxtapose advocacy for cultural or religious expression in Western contexts against struggles for autonomy in countries where veiling is compulsory. Emotional responses range from admiration to discomfort, reflecting deeper questions about gender, identity, and freedom.

Patterns and Reflections
These three themes—immigration, dinosaurs, and the hijab—illustrate different ways in which content circulates online and elicits engagement. Immigration discussions provoke fear and anxiety; dinosaurs generate amusement and delight; hijab campaigns employ persuasion and cultural messaging. While their impacts differ, they share a common characteristic: each triggers strong responses, ensuring visibility and repeated discussion.
There is also a subtle connection between the first and third themes. Both immigration and hijab discussions touch on concerns about cultural change, influence, and the preservation of identity. The second theme, dinosaurs, reminds us that online discourse is never purely serious: humor and novelty coexist with fear and persuasion, shaping the emotional landscape of social media.

On a personal level, these patterns evoke reflection. I value national identity and understand the anxieties surrounding cultural change, yet I also recognize the complexity of multicultural societies. My own family history—my mother, a refugee who sought security in England—serves as a reminder that migration is not inherently threatening, but often a quest for safety and opportunity. At the same time, the online amplification of these themes can create distorted perceptions and heighten emotions beyond what statistics or lived experience may warrant.

Ultimately, these recurring themes are both a mirror and a lens. They reflect society’s fears, amusements, and debates, while shaping the ways we perceive each other and the world. Whether considering the demographic shifts in Britain, the joy of a costume dinosaur, or the visibility of religious dress, it is clear that online discourse is a complex interplay of fear, persuasion, and delight—a digital stage upon which society negotiates identity, belief, and community

I write in the library of Charlton House, while winter rain glazes the streets and gardens outside, puddles catching the grey light like scattered memories. The grand Jacobean mansion breathes softly around me; now a community centre its bricks hum with footsteps and laughter, music drifting from long ago, voices that mingle with the rain.

Charlton moves through me like a half-remembered song — streets, parks, festivals, concerts — each one folding into the next under the soft, wet veil of winter.

I remember Lewisham in the drizzle, the hospital where I was born, the streets of Lewisham Park, the classrooms of Royston House my first school and I recall returning there with my parents, letting their recollections drift along quiet, wet streets.

Today, I wander alone, rain on my coat, puddles reflecting the pale sky, edges softened by time, memories curling like smoke from wet cobbles.

Charlton pulses beneath all this, alive in both quiet and celebration. Work at the former Woolwich College connects me still to movement: I remember cycling from the main branch in Woolwich town centre to the Charlton annexe, following one of London’s longest uninterrupted stretches of green space, wind and rain in my face, leaves and puddles flashing past, a corridor of nature threading through the city. The music of gifted students at the Trinity Laban school rises and falls in the damp air, delicate threads weaving through parks, streets, and rooms.I also think about Italo Svevo, the author of that first truly modern Italian novel. Le confessioni di Zeno, who enjoyed some of the happiest moments of his life when he was manager of his in laws naval paint factory and lived on Charlton Church Lane in a house I would regularly pass on my way to work.

And when the Spring Horn Fair arrives — sunlight or drizzle — it bursts into life, a medieval echo of ribald merriment and laughter spilling through the village, costumes and stalls bright against grey, voices carrying across the puddled streets. Carol concerts linger afterward, notes drifting like candlelight in wet rooms and gardens, soft warmth in the chill.

Maryon Wilson Park becomes enchanted in this winter rain. I often imagined scenes from Blow-Up here: David Hemmings discovering the mysterious corpse at the glade at the top of the park, or Vanessa Redgrave gliding down the steps from that same glade, her skirt stretched tight across her wonderful legs, her eyes luminous with the most lachrymose expression — the park a stage where memory, imagination, and reality drift together. Deer move softly, ducks slip through puddles, paths gleam like ink, and the mist makes even ordinary corners shimmer with possibility.

Charlton village itself hums with history. The church stands quietly, stones worn with centuries, a place where whispers linger of the murdered Prime Minister who once walked within its walls.

Charlton House promises stories too: once destined for the successor of King James I, who sadly died young, it retains echoes of ambition and loss. At its entrance, England’s first mulberry tree was planted, a hopeful promise of a silk trade that never came to be, its leaves hinting at dreams thwarted by nature’s choice. Yet Charlton’s joys are also simple and bright: summer days at the open-air lido, families and friends splashing in Mediterranean-like blue waters, laughter rising over sunlit streets, warmth brushing the gardens and parks, moments so ordinary they feel like treasure.

The village — church, pub, gardens, cafés, faces beneath umbrellas — becomes a slow, wet music, a rhythm of life that softens and sustains. Beneath it all, youth moves like shadow and rain: energy, curiosity, laughter spilling over cobbles, mistakes dissolving in puddles, adventures shimmering along green corridors. Now, in the grey, those memories float freely, brushing leaves, puddles, benches, blending past and present, festival and silence, rain and music, cinematic vision and history, into one continuous, luminous current. Charlton becomes liquid memory, patient, alive, a place to wander, to dream, to remember — under drizzle, in the roar of the Horn Fair, in the hush of carols, in the shimmer of parks, in the promise of summer, in every pulse of rain that falls and lingers.

Today, we visited a major exhibition at the British Museum devoted to the Japanese samurai — the legendary warrior class that has so often captured imaginations in film and literature. Even after a long day, and admittedly feeling a little tired, we were captivated.

Reading every label wasn’t easy — the lighting sometimes made it hard to see — but the objects themselves spoke volumes. What struck me most were the full suits of samurai armour. Standing before them, I felt something extraordinary: a presence, solemn and dignified, yet brimming with a sense of pride. These were not mere costumes; they were instruments of duty, protection, and survival. The experience was both sobering and inspiring, as if the warriors themselves, long gone, were quietly reminding us of their lives, their responsibilities, and the values they upheld. The armour wasn’t just craftsmanship — it was humanity in metal and silk.

I also learned much about the samurai’s place in society. Early on, before the sixteenth century, social mobility allowed skilled fighters to rise into the samurai class, but later status became more fixed, hereditary, and stratified. And samurai weren’t always on the battlefield. During Japan’s long period of peace from 1600 to 1800, many worked as administrators and officials, guiding governance and civic life. They were defenders not only of territory but also of people — women, children, and families.

By the nineteenth century, sweeping reforms modernised Japan’s military, and the samurai class was retired, leaving only their memory, materialised in armour, swords, and traditions.

The exhibition also reminded me how much Western culture has imagined and interpreted the samurai. Their curved swords, archery skills, and ritual codes of honour — including seppuku — have inspired myth, music, and drama. For me, these reflections inevitably connected with Puccini and Madama Butterfly. Living in the part of Italy where Puccini was born and composed, we’ve felt the weight of his music — the tragic story of Cio-Cio-San, the cultural clash between East and West, her love for an American officer, and her return to Japanese tradition and honour in her ritual suicide.. Experiencing the samurai exhibition made that story resonate even more: it’s not just fiction; it is entwined with a real history of culture, loyalty, and the human heart navigating conflicting worlds.

Seeing the armour — the helmets with dramatic crests, the lacquered plates, the combination of beauty and deadly purpose — made the samurai real in a way no film or story could. I was moved, standing before objects that embodied centuries of duty, courage, and aesthetic refinement. It was almost like a conversation across time, and it reminded me of the depth and subtlety of human culture — both in Japan and in the ways it has inspired the West.

All in all, the exhibition left us with more than just memories. It sparked curiosity, reflection, and admiration — and a desire to explore Japan itself, to walk through its historic streets, to sense its landscapes, and to connect directly with a culture that created such profound and disciplined artistry.

Congratulations to the curators and everyone involved: this exhibition doesn’t just present history; it creates an experience, one that invites contemplation, empathy, and imagination. And for those willing to engage, it’s a journey that links the material, the historical, and the musical — a reminder that history is alive, and that its echoes can be felt far beyond its place of origin.

History often feels distant — something contained in archives, monuments, or textbooks. Yet sometimes it is carried quietly within families, and through them within places. For me, the story of the foibe and the upheavals of the eastern Adriatic is not simply a historical subject. It is part of a personal and local chain of memory that stretches from the battlefields of the First World War to commemorations today in Bagni di Lucca, Tuscany.

My Italian grandfather fought on the Karst front during the First World War, from 1915 to 1917, when Italy entered the conflict against Austria-Hungary. Those campaigns — the series of Isonzo battles along the Soča/Isonzo river in present-day Slovenia — were among the most brutal of the war. Soldiers endured exposure, thirst, relentless artillery, and near-impossible conditions. My grandfather distinguished himself in this theatre, earning the Gold Medal of Military Valour, Italy’s highest military decoration. He was eventually captured by Austrian forces and imprisoned in the notorious Špilberk Castle prison in Brno, Moravia, the same prison where, a century earlier, the famous Italian patriot Silvio Pellico had been held and wrote Le mie prigioni, recounting the harsh conditions of confinement and the endurance of the human spirit. For my grandfather, the experience combined physical suffering with the anguish of seeing the lands he fought to secure swallowed by the tides of war and diplomacy.

Bagni di Lucca and the surrounding Lucchesia have long been part of the history of reception. Already during the First World War, following the catastrophic defeat at Caporetto in October 1917, in the northeast of Italy near the Austrian border, the town received a large number of refugees from the front. They were accommodated as best as possible by local families and municipal authorities, although the sudden influx sadly contributed to illness (Spanish flu) and even deaths among some of the town’s notable residents both Italian and foreign – as one may note among the graves of our local Cimitero Inglese . This established a pattern of solidarity in the region that would be repeated decades later.

The Karst front and its limestone gorges, so familiar to my grandfather, would decades later become sites of tragedy for others. Between 1943 and 1945, as Axis powers fell and Yugoslav partisans advanced, the foibe became locations of extreme violence. Victims — often Italian civilians accused of fascist sympathies — were thrown alive into deep karst sinkholes, sometimes one body atop another, in acts of shocking cruelty. Many of these bodies were discovered only after the war, revealing horrors that had remained hidden for years.

This reality, fully recognized only in recent decades, underscores the brutality endured by Italian communities along the Istrian peninsula, Dalmatian coast, and the Karst plateau.

At this point, it is essential to consider the perspective of Francesco Poggi, former mayor of Borgo a Mozzano, whose extensive research offers crucial historical clarity. He emphasizes that Italian families in Istria and Dalmatia have been present for centuries — from Roman times, through seven centuries under the Venetian Republic, and later under the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The First World War erupted in the Balkans following the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in 1914, long before fascism became a factor. The Slavic populations in the inland Balkans were a minority on the Istrian-Dalmatian coast.
Poggi points out that while Fascism, like other regimes of the period, sought territorial expansion, the Italian populations in cities like Pola and Fiume were centuries-old communities with no political or military responsibility for the actions of the regime. As the singer Cristicchi put it, they were not fascists; they were simply Italians. He further explains that Tito’s communist regime targeted these Italian communities precisely to assert absolute control over the region. To enforce “Slavization” and remove a strong Western-oriented Italian presence, the regime resorted to violence and expulsion — with the foibe functioning as a tool of pressure, ultimately resulting in what can rightly be considered ethnic cleansing.

Poggi also reminds us that while fascism committed crimes, it is historically distinct and cannot be equated with all authoritarianism. It was a closed chapter, now over, and yet, as with many regimes, it left cultural, scientific, and infrastructural legacies — from the Gentile school reform to the Gran Paradiso National Park (1923), from the reclamation of the Pontine Marshes to the founding of Cinecittà and the Venice Film Festival, to the rationalist architectural style and even the Civil Code of 1942. Italian cultural icons were involved in this regime including both Pirandello and Puccini. Recognizing this does not excuse atrocities but situates events in a complex, broader historical framework, which Poggi stresses to avoid simplifications.

The Foibe killings coincided with the Istrian–Dalmatian exodus: hundreds of thousands of Italian-speaking inhabitants fleeing territories ceded to Yugoslavia under postwar treaties, particularly the 1947 Paris Peace Treaty. Families were uprooted, homes abandoned, cultural ties severed. Many found temporary refuge across Italy — including accomodation in Lucca’s Real Collegio, some even reaching Bagni di Lucca, where local families offered shelter and employment.

Two days ago, February 10, 2026, the National Day of Commemoration of the Foibe, a memorial was inaugurated near the Camper Park by the stadium in Bagni di Lucca, linking this local recognition to the national day, first officially observed in 2005, after decades of silence and neglect. The memorial not only commemorates the victims but situates national history within the local landscape, reminding the town’s residents that these tragedies, though geographically distant, are part of a shared collective memory.

Bagni di Lucca again played a crucial role regarding north-east Italy decades later following the Longarone dam disaster on October 9, 1963, when the Vajont dam collapsed in northeast Italy, killing nearly two thousand people and leaving thousands homeless. The town and surrounding Lucchesia, thanks to the magnanimous action of our former mayor and inspired poet Maro Lena (whose birth centenary we commemorated last summer with a walk to his favourite spot above Bagni), provided refuge to some of the survivors, demonstrating that the tradition of reception and solidarity toward displaced or suffering populations has deep roots and has recurred repeatedly throughout the twentieth century.

The foibe and the exodus did not occur in isolation. Earlier wartime occupation policies and repression under Fascist Italy between 1941 and 1943 in Yugoslav territories contributed to the climate that later erupted in violence. Yet even acknowledging this, the scale and horror of the atrocities — bodies thrown into the abyss, communities uprooted — remain almost unimaginable. By comparison, the forced expulsions of Germans from the Sudetenland, Silesia, and western Poland provide broader European context, but they cannot diminish the individuality of these tragedies.

Trieste, for example, illustrates the enduring complexity. For years after the war — until 1954 — its political status remained unresolved. The city endured not only the presence of the only German-style extermination camp in Italy (Risera di San Sabba: ser mynpost on It at Trieste) also the lingering trauma of occupation, reprisals, and forced migration. Such layers of suffering contributed decades later to the conditions in the Balkans that erupted in the ghastly wars of the 1990s, demonstrating how unresolved histories can echo across generations.

In my own family, memory intertwines with these histories. The landscapes my grandfather fought over, the injustices and violence experienced by displaced Italians, and the acts of hospitality and solidarity offered by locals in towns like Bagni di Lucca all exist in conversation with one another. Individuals’ experiences — a child expelled from Istria, resettled in Australia, later returning to Tuscany; families establishing roots in unfamiliar towns — illustrate both the fragility of belonging and the resilience of human connection.

Reflecting on all this — the frontlines of the First World War, the reception of refugees after Caporetto, the cruelty of the foibe, the exodus, the postwar resettlement, the Longarone disaster, Poggi’s historical clarifications, and the recent memorial inauguration in the Camper Park of Bagni di Lucca on the National Day of the Foibe — underscores a broader truth. War redraws borders, yet it cannot erase memory; violence leaves human lives fractured long after treaties are signed. What one generation gains, another may lose. What one map defines, another map may erase.

Ultimately, remembrance should strive for depth, breadth, and honesty. Personal memory, family legacy, local commemoration, and historical context together reveal both the human cost and the complexity of history. By holding these elements together, we honour those who suffered, learn from the past, and recognize that the tragedies of war, displacement, and political upheaval are neither abstract nor distant — they are lived experiences that shape families, towns, and nations across generations.

***

Dal fronte del Carso a Bagni di Lucca: Memoria, guerra e le Foibe

La storia spesso sembra lontana — qualcosa che si trova negli archivi, nei monumenti o nei libri di testo. Eppure a volte viene portata silenziosamente nelle famiglie e, attraverso di esse, nei luoghi. Per me, la storia delle foibe e dei disordini nell’Adriatico orientale non è semplicemente un argomento storico. Fa parte di una catena di memoria personale e locale che si estende dai campi di battaglia della Prima Guerra Mondiale fino alle commemorazioni odierne a Bagni di Lucca, in Toscana.

Mio nonno combatté sul fronte del Carso durante la Prima Guerra Mondiale, dal 1915 al 1917, quando l’Italia entrò in conflitto contro l’Impero Austro-Ungarico. Quelle campagne — la serie di battaglie dell’Isonzo lungo il fiume Soča/Isonzo nell’attuale Slovenia — furono tra le più brutali della guerra. I soldati affrontavano esposizione agli agenti atmosferici, sete, incessante artiglieria e condizioni quasi impossibili. Mio nonno si distinse in questo teatro, guadagnandosi la Medaglia d’Oro al Valor Militare, la più alta onorificenza militare italiana. Venne infine catturato dalle forze austriache e imprigionato nel famigerato castello di Špilberk a Brno, in Moravia, la stessa prigione in cui, un secolo prima, fu detenuto il famoso patriota italiano Silvio Pellico, che vi scrisse Le mie prigioni, raccontando le dure condizioni di confinamento e la resistenza dello spirito umano. Per mio nonno, l’esperienza univa la sofferenza fisica all’angoscia di vedere le terre per cui aveva combattuto inghiottite dalle maree della guerra e della diplomazia.

Bagni di Lucca e la Lucchesia circostante hanno da tempo parte in questa storia di accoglienza. Già durante la Prima Guerra Mondiale, dopo la catastrofica sconfitta di Caporetto nell’ottobre 1917, nel nord-est d’Italia vicino al confine austriaco, il paese ricevette un gran numero di rifugiati dal fronte. Furono ospitati nel miglior modo possibile dalle famiglie locali e dalle autorità municipali, anche se l’afflusso improvviso contribuì purtroppo a malattie e persino alla morte di alcuni notabili del paese. Ciò stabilì un modello di solidarietà che si sarebbe ripetuto decenni dopo.

Il fronte del Carso e le sue gole calcaree, così familiari a mio nonno, sarebbero diventate decenni dopo luoghi di tragedia per altri. Tra il 1943 e il 1945, con il crollo delle potenze dell’Asse e l’avanzata dei partigiani jugoslavi, le foibe divennero luoghi di violenza estrema. Le vittime — spesso civili italiani accusati di simpatie fasciste — furono gettate vive in profondi inghiottitoi carsici, talvolta un corpo sopra l’altro, in atti di crudeltà sconvolgente. Molti di questi corpi furono scoperti solo dopo la guerra, rivelando orrori rimasti nascosti per anni. Questa realtà, pienamente riconosciuta solo in tempi recenti, evidenzia la brutalità subita dalle comunità italiane lungo la penisola istriana, la costa dalmata e l’altopiano del Carso.

A questo punto è fondamentale considerare la prospettiva di Francesco Poggi, ex sindaco di Borgo a Mozzano, il cui approfondito lavoro storico offre chiarimenti essenziali. Egli sottolinea che le famiglie italiane in Istria e Dalmazia sono presenti da secoli — dai tempi romani, per sette secoli sotto la Repubblica di Venezia e poi sotto l’Impero Austro-Ungarico. La Prima Guerra Mondiale esplose nei Balcani dopo l’assassinio dell’arciduca Francesco Ferdinando nel 1914, molto prima che il fascismo entrasse in gioco. Le popolazioni slave dell’interno balcanico erano minoranza sulla costa istriano-dalmata.

Poggi osserva che, sebbene il fascismo, come altri regimi dell’epoca, cercasse espansione territoriale, le comunità italiane in città come Pola e Fiume erano comunità secolari senza responsabilità politiche o militari per le azioni del regime. Come ha detto il cantante Cristicchi, non erano fascisti; erano semplicemente italiani. Poggi spiega inoltre che il regime comunista di Tito mirava a queste comunità italiane per garantire il controllo assoluto della regione. Per imporre la “slavizzazione” e rimuovere una forte presenza italiana occidentale, il regime ricorse alla violenza e all’espulsione — con le foibe come strumento di pressione, che portarono a quella che può giustamente essere considerata una pulizia etnica.

Poggi ricorda anche che, sebbene il fascismo abbia commesso crimini, è storicamente distinto e non può essere equiparato a tutti i regimi autoritari. È un capitolo chiuso, ormai, e tuttavia, come molti regimi, ha lasciato lasciti culturali, scientifici e infrastrutturali — dalla riforma scolastica Gentile al Parco Nazionale del Gran Paradiso (1923), dalla bonifica dell’Agro Pontino alla fondazione di Cinecittà e della Mostra del Cinema di Venezia, allo stile architettonico razionalista e al Codice Civile del 1942. Riconoscere ciò non giustifica le atrocità ma inquadra gli eventi in un contesto storico complesso, come Poggi sottolinea per evitare semplificazioni.

Gli omicidi nelle foibe coincisero con l’esodo istriano-dalmata: centinaia di migliaia di abitanti di lingua italiana fuggirono dai territori ceduti alla Jugoslavia con i trattati postbellici, in particolare il Trattato di Parigi del 1947. Le famiglie furono sradicate, le case abbandonate, i legami culturali recisi. Molti trovarono rifugio temporaneo in tutta Italia — alcuni giunsero a Bagni di Lucca, dove le famiglie locali offrirono ospitalità e lavoro. Ieri, 10 febbraio 2026, in occasione del Giorno Nazionale della Memoria delle Foibe, è stato inaugurato un memoriale vicino al Camper Park dello stadio di Bagni di Lucca, collegando questo riconoscimento locale alla giornata nazionale, osservata ufficialmente per la prima volta nel 2005, dopo decenni di silenzio e oblio. Il memoriale non solo commemora le vittime ma inserisce la storia nazionale nel contesto locale, ricordando ai cittadini che queste tragedie, pur geograficamente lontane, fanno parte della memoria collettiva condivisa.

Bagni di Lucca giocò nuovamente un ruolo cruciale decenni dopo, in seguito alla tragedia del Vajont del 9 ottobre 1963, quando la diga crollò nel nord-est dell’Italia, causando quasi duemila morti e lasciando migliaia di persone senza casa. Il paese, seguendo le iniziative del sindaco Mario Lena, e la Lucchesia circostante accolsero alcuni sopravvissuti, dimostrando che la tradizione di accoglienza e solidarietà verso popolazioni sfollate o in difficoltà ha radici profonde e si è ripetuta più volte nel XX secolo.

Le foibe e l’esodo non si verificarono in isolamento. Le politiche di occupazione e repressione dell’Italia fascista tra il 1941 e il 1943 nei territori jugoslavi contribuirono al clima che poi esplose in violenza. Tuttavia, anche riconoscendo questo, la scala e l’orrore delle atrocità — corpi gettati nell’abisso, comunità sradicate — restano quasi inimmaginabili. A titolo comparativo, le espulsioni forzate dei tedeschi dai Sudeti, dalla Slesia e dalla Polonia occidentale offrono un contesto europeo più ampio, ma non possono diminuire l’individualità di queste tragedie.
Trieste, per esempio, illustra la complessità duratura. Per anni dopo la guerra — fino al 1954 — il suo status politico rimase irrisolto. La città subì non solo la presenza dell’unico campo di sterminio in stile tedesco in Italia, ma anche il trauma persistente dell’occupazione, delle rappresaglie e delle migrazioni forzate. Questi strati di sofferenza contribuirono decenni dopo alle condizioni nei Balcani che sfociarono nelle terribili guerre degli anni ’90, dimostrando come le storie irrisolte possano riecheggiare attraverso le generazioni.

Nella mia famiglia, la memoria si intreccia con queste vicende. I paesaggi su cui combatté mio nonno, le ingiustizie e le violenze subite dagli italiani sfollati, e gli atti di ospitalità e solidarietà offerti dai locali in città come Bagni di Lucca convivono tutti nello stesso discorso. Le esperienze individuali — una bambina espulsa dall’Istria, trasferita in Australia e poi tornata in Toscana; famiglie che stabiliscono radici in città sconosciute — illustrano sia la fragilità dell’appartenenza sia la resilienza della connessione umana.

Riflettendo su tutto questo — i fronti della Prima Guerra Mondiale, l’accoglienza dei rifugiati dopo Caporetto, la crudeltà delle foibe, l’esodo, il reinsediamento postbellico, la tragedia del Vajont, le precisazioni storiche di Poggi, e l’inaugurazione recente del memoriale presso il Camper Park di Bagni di Lucca in occasione del Giorno Nazionale della Memoria delle Foibe — emerge una verità più ampia. La guerra ridisegna confini, ma non può cancellare la memoria; la violenza lascia vite umane fratturate molto tempo dopo la firma dei trattati. Ciò che una generazione guadagna, un’altra può perderlo. Ciò che una mappa definisce, un’altra mappa può cancellarlo.

In definitiva, la memoria dovrebbe puntare a profondità, ampiezza e onestà. La memoria personale, l’eredità familiare, la commemorazione locale e il contesto storico rivelano insieme sia il costo umano che la complessità della storia. Tenendo insieme questi elementi, onoriamo coloro che hanno sofferto, impariamo dal passato e riconosciamo che le tragedie della guerra, degli sfollamenti e dei disordini politici non sono né astratte né lontane: sono esperienze vissute che plasmano famiglie, città e nazioni attraverso le generazioni.

For a long time, left- and right-wing politics felt fairly predictable. You could usually tell where someone stood on immigration, national identity, European integration, or education just from their party label. These traditional alignments were reinforced by class, history, and party loyalties, and for a while, it seemed like the political system could rely on these clear divisions.

But today, that clarity has mostly disappeared. People hold combinations of views that cross the old ideological lines. It’s no longer safe to assume that being left-wing means supporting immigration, or that being right-wing automatically means opposing European cooperation. Political identity has become more complicated, and I think that’s a good thing — it reflects a more nuanced understanding of the world. At the same time, it exposes the limits of our current system. First-past-the-post, for example, works on the assumption that voters fit neatly into one of two camps. In reality, it often underrepresents smaller parties and compresses diverse viewpoints into a confrontational, binary parliament. I sometimes imagine the House of Commons as just two benches throwing tin cans at each other — which is, of course, an exaggeration, but it captures the sense of oversimplified opposition.

This reflection was prompted by something a friend sent me recently. He shared his own thoughts about the state of politics, and it made me realise how many people feel similarly: that the traditional system does not reflect the complexity of modern political attitudes.

That’s why I feel we need some form of proportionality — not extreme, but enough to allow a wider range of voices to enter Parliament and encourage coalitions that genuinely reflect overlapping perspectives. Germany’s mixed system is a good example: smaller parties gain representation, yet governments remain stable. Italy shows the opposite challenge: too much proportionality has historically produced fragmented parliaments and frequent reforms aimed at restoring stability. These examples show that there isn’t a perfect system, but a careful balance between fairness, inclusiveness, and effective governance is possible.

Ultimately, political life has become more complex, and our institutions should reflect that complexity. It’s no longer enough to stick to rigid “either-or” politics. The public is more sophisticated than any single party can capture, and acknowledging this — as my friend helped me see — is the first step toward a system that truly represents the people it serves.

Rain drifts, soft and endless.
Streams swell and tumble, cascading like silver ribbons.
Catkins hang, slender and trembling,
Velvety as kitten tails.
Before the leaves, before the spring,
they whisper: warmth returns,
life returns,
always, quietly, patiently.

La pioggia cade, soffice e incessante.
I ruscelli si gonfiano e scrosciano, ridendo come torrenti scozzesi.
Gli amenti pendono, sottili e tremanti,
soffici come code di gattino.
Prima delle foglie, prima della primavera,
sussurrano: il calore ritorna,
la vita ritorna,
sempre, silenziosamente, pazientemente.

FP

(English translation of my latest Scrittura Creativa assignment: Invidia e Fratellanza).

Antonio, an old maestro, who had married late in life a much younger woman, watched his son Lorenzo with a mixture of pride and unease. From the age of six, the boy was already winning competitions that Antonio had once thought impossible. He played complex pieces, accompanied singers effortlessly, and composed small sonatas that astonished even the most experienced masters. Yet, while the world admired him, Antonio felt something darker, more ambiguous: a subtle, burning envy, a desire to guard the secrets of music, as if his son’s brilliance threatened to eclipse his own.
An old teacher, hands knotted and marked by decades of toil, he often told Lorenzo, “I say this for your own good—you’re not ready yet.”
But Antonio knew the boy had already surpassed him. The only choice left was whether to pass on the ultimate secret or carry it to his grave—a burden heavier than any score he had ever mastered.
Nerino, the grey cat with velvet fur, leapt on the piano stool. His green eyes followed every movement of Lorenzo’s fingers. When the boy smiled at a well-played chord, Nerino’s tail twitched in approval, as if sensing the truth buried in each note.

“I can’t believe it… you made that look easy,” Antonio murmured one afternoon, leaning against the piano. “When I was your age… it would have taken me months.”
Lorenzo’s face brightened with a radiant smile. “Dad, you know I like to try… and you taught me everything!”
Antonio pressed his lips together. Pride and envy intertwined like shadows in his chest. Nerino curled around Lorenzo’s feet, purring softly, a small balm for the tension humming in the room.
“I don’t want to hold you back… but there are things you must understand before facing the world,” Antonio said, his voice trembling.
“What things, Dad?”
“The way music breathes. The silence between the notes… the patience… the art of waiting for inspiration…”
“But I already feel all of that when I play,” Lorenzo replied, earnest and calm.
Antonio sighed, glancing at Nerino, who returned the look with quiet understanding. “Perhaps… perhaps you are already ready.”
Lorenzo’s talent grew with astonishing speed. By eight, he was composing symphonies and accompanying singers as effortlessly as he breathed. Each new chord he struck reminded Antonio of his own legacy slipping through his fingers, a river of time running away from him.

One afternoon, Lorenzo accompanied Gabriella, a young singer with dark hair and luminous green eyes. Sunlight poured through the rehearsal room’s tall windows, bouncing off the polished parquet, illuminating walls lined with both antique instruments and modern sheet music. Gabriella’s voice filled the space, clear and radiant, and Lorenzo followed her every nuance with intuitive precision.
“You’re incredible,” Lorenzo whispered, admiration spilling from him.
Gabriella blushed, a soft smile curling her lips. “And you listen like no one else. You hear every nuance… every thought flowing in my voice.”
Nerino sprawled across the piano keys, a silent witness to the birth of a rare and tender bond.

“Dad,” Lorenzo asked one evening at home, “why do you reject everything new? Even a simple cellphone?”
Antonio looked up, serious. “True music doesn’t need lights or screens. It lives in the heart, Lorenzo, not in circuits.”
“But sometimes the heart needs the right tools to express itself,” Lorenzo replied, firm yet respectful. Nerino rubbed against Antonio’s legs, as though pleading silently for understanding.

When Lorenzo won a scholarship to the London conservatory, Antonio’s house seemed to exhale a heavy, reluctant sigh. Every corner recalled past victories and unrealized hopes. Lorenzo departed with Gabriella, Nerino watching from the window, fur ruffled by the wind, sensing the first tremors of a new chapter.
In London, in grand halls with high ceilings and sparkling chandeliers, Lorenzo and Gabriella captured the hearts of audiences and critics alike.
“I never thought I’d feel like this on stage,” Gabriella confessed one evening after a performance.
“I wouldn’t have found my voice without you,” Lorenzo said, holding her hand beneath the golden lights.

Meanwhile, Antonio faced a slow and cruel decline. Paralysis silenced his fingers. The house, once alive with music, now sat in muted gray light. His wife, so many years younger, left him, taking him to a care home with cold, white-walled rooms and floors that shone too brightly under artificial lights. The only sounds were the soft, measured steps of nurses.

One February night, sitting in his bare room, Antonio listened to a radio concert: his son played the piano, Gabriella sang the final four songs of Brahms. Each note struck him like a wave, a piercing reminder of his roles as father, teacher, and man who had once feared being surpassed.
“Lorenzo… Gabriella…” he whispered, voice like a thread of wind. Nerino, curled nearby, purred in quiet solidarity.
Alone, Antonio passed away without ever revealing the final chapter of his musical treatise, the secret he had guarded all his life.
In the care home garden, Nerino stepped out and watched the first daffodils bloom: yellow petals swaying in the wind, carrying the silent music of a life lived in brilliance and envy, a rebirth Antonio could never know, neither as maestro nor as father.