A letter to Pope Francis | Farian Sabahi | TEDMilano

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Farian Sabahi is a writer, a journalist, a university teacher and an expert in Middle East. Her talk is about the issue of the "peaceful violence" hidden in many seemingly perfect families, conveyed through two imaginary letters to Pope Francis.

Your Holiness,
I started writing two years ago,

one morning in late springtime
in a village in the Langhe district

with cobblestone streets
that spiral up to the square.

There's a castle and
an old church in the square,

like those you find all over Piedmont.

From that square, the valley
opens up to a breath-taking view.

At the end, hills covered
with woods, chestnut and hazel trees.

Below are vineyards and cornfields.

The beauty of the Langhe!

There, the extraordinary
beauty of the landscape

coexists with the horror
of certain families.

Like mine, a middle class one,
among the indifference of many.

Your Holiness, my name
is Ginevra and I’m forty.

I’m from Turin, where I grew up
and went to high school.

And later on, I met the man
I eventually married.

It was autumn.

He was from the Langhe district, Cuneo.

A slender young man who was so polite.

He had just enrolled to study medicine
in Turin, Corso Massimo D’Azeglio.

That day, the fog along the Po river
rose up to the park.

The atmosphere was chilling,
we looked at each other and were happy,

It was a dream that stayed in our blood.

He got his degree, became a specialist.

got married and celebrated
a lavish wedding.

I moved to his town.

Then came our first son, Matteo:
a gift from God.

Then the twins Pietro and Luca.

Pietro – Peter – is the rock
on which Jesus founded his church.

Luca is light, the Virgin’s favourite;

St Luke is the patron of physicians.

Francesca, green eyes and blonde curls,
has a kind of shy look.

She resembles me.

My children are beautiful!

They have the healthy complexion
of countryside people.

At the foot of the Langhe,
at the confluence of two rivers,

300 metres above sea level.

It was once a stopping place
for wayfarers and pilgrims

on the old road linking Albenga to Alba.

We live on a big farm,
and during the day

the children run barefoot
on the lawn and jump for joy;

at night the crickets sing.

Andrea is the heir of a wealthy family:

they own a building in town
and a beautiful home in Sanremo.

His family is well known in our town.

They generously donate to the Church

and on Sunday
he always goes to the service,

sitting in the first row,
with his family’s name on the pew.

As a young man,
he took time off to travel.

But instead of marrying a local girl,

one accustomed to country life,

he chose me.

Turinese, and a “foreigner” in Cuneo.

A slim blonde girl like others
he met around the world.

Unfortunately, our fairy tale ends here:

my husband doesn't have
the virtues of King Arthur.

When he got back
to his hometown, he changed.

It is probably due to the
chauvinistic farming culture.

Maybe his friends at the café,

for whom women don’t count
and are meant to serve them.

Fact is, Andrea got violent.

He's been beating me for 12 years,
and now he also beats our children.

And no Lancelot comes along to save us.

We're not living in some poor suburb.

Quite the opposite:
Andrea heads his hospital department.

He has a good salary.

He only allows me a few euros at a time,

and in the evening he checks back
the receipts from the grocery store;

he pays the butcher
at the end of the month.

But all in all, money isn't a problem.

The other night Andrea started kicking me,

but I was so tired I couldn’t
stand the pain and screamed.

My daughter suddenly woke up
and crept onto the stairs,

and she saw me on the floor
as her father hit me.

The next day,
she burst out crying at school.

The teacher hugged her
and she told her the whole story.

She was astonished:
she has known Andrea all her life.

She would have never thought
he was a violent man.

But children don’t lie.

Her teacher called me in
and said she would talk to him.

I begged her not to.

That would put me and my daughter
at risk of being killed.

As for now, I don’t feel like rebelling.

I can’t leave this beautiful house

to move into a tiny apartment
with my four children.

Plus, my husband is Catholic
and doesn’t want a separation.

My parents are also practising Catholics.

They live in the city
and I don’t see them often.

My mother has sensed
that something is wrong,

but I don’t want to load her
with my problems.

I already know she wouldn’t be happy
with a divorced daughter.

I do not want to leave Andrea, actually.

I don’t want to go to the police,
as my only friend told me,

a high school classmate
I sometimes meet.

It would be like betraying him.

Maybe I’m doing something wrong:
it all seems so strange to me.

When I met Andrea,
he was kind - he still is.

He beats me, then he hugs me
and says he loves me.

It happens all the time.

If I’m bleeding,
he naturally takes care of it.

No ER, of course:
everyone knows him there.

Families often become a place
of peaceful cruelty, instead of love.

The other day I got home
and his mother was there.

In her youth, she beated
her husband and children.

At home, she doesn’t speak
in Italian, just dialect.

In that rough language, a few nights ago
she egged Andrea on to beat me.

Then she was the very one who cast me off.

My children looked on us, astonished.

Maybe that's because people and cattle
are all the same thing here.

I’m from Turin and I come
from a respectable middle-class family.

She would have preferred a local girl,

one of those who stay at home
and don’t say a word.

On Sunday I went to confess.

Father Paolo said, I need
to be patient, to put up with this.

Jesus says that the people
who face the greatest suffering

are God’s chosen ones.

I must not complain.

Family is sacred and cannot be torn apart.

Of course, it’s hard to stay together
without mutual respect.

But that’s not just about respect.

There is violence,
and violence kills love.

After beating me,
Andrea confesses his sins,

and the priest forgives him.

Then it happens again, he beats me again,

and Father Paolo
forgives him yet again.

He is a country priest,

and my mother-in-law
brings him chickens and rabbits.

Things of the past.

Andrea means man.

Your Holiness, during the service
that started your papacy,

you said that every man must be
the keeper of himself and others.

Andrea was watching the service on TV.

Then it took some pretext
for him to beat me again,

in front of the children.

It has become routine, even for me.

I stay silent as I stare
at my man, distraught.

I raised four children,
but time didn't pass for women, here:

they bear children and have no voice.

I am covered in bruises

and I hide my scarred cheekbone
with a bit of makeup.

I have to do something
for them, for my children.

The oldest has started
hitting other people.

Your Holiness, I heard you on the radio,
speaking about the first believers.

I would like to ask for your help.

Maybe all it takes is a word of yours
to end all this violence.

I’ve heard it called
“violence disguised as love”.

But maybe it would have no effect.

What can you say
that hasn’t been said already?

Unless you, Your Holiness,

decide to talk
to priests like Father Paolo.

To not grant forgiveness
to men like my husband.

The Church should only offer forgiveness
when there's honest repentance.

Because formal repentance
allows people to access to the sacraments,

and then return to the usual violence.

One must show repentance,
try to mend oneself.

Before a fake contrition,

a priest cannot – and must not –
absolve that person.

[Two years later, April 18th 2015]

Your Holiness,
I wrote you two years ago,

but you had just become Pope
and it was the wrong time.

You already know me, I'm Ginevra,

I'm from Piedmont like your grandfather
Giovanni and his father Francesco.

I live in Turin: beautiful and ancient,

and when the evening becomes a star
there is a huge crowd of people!

Turin is like Naples
that goes to the mountains.

Turin, with its straight roads,
is the flip side of Rome.

Turin, a city suffering
from melancholy, as Venditti sang.

We live in a condominium on Corso Francia,

a straight road that goes
from Piazza Statuto, Porta Susa,

and leads to Chambéry in France.

It was built by the Savoy ruler
Victor Amadeus II in 1711

and connected the Royal Palace
to the residence in Rivoli.

During the Second World War,

when Italy went to war against France,

the city authorities changed its name
to Corso Gabriele d’Annunzio.

After the war, it got
called back Corso Francia.

The underground runs along here
every day, with nine stops!

At the beginning of Corso Francia

there are lots of lovely
Art Nouveau residences

built in early 20th century.

We live further down, towards Rivoli,
on the outskirts of Turin.

Office workers live in my building
and they leave early to rush to work.

Where I’m living is not my house.

It’s where I grew up, my parents’ house.

They are elderly and left me
their furnished apartment,

and then moved to the countryside.

Now I’d like to tell you
how I worked up the courage

to go to the police and sue Andrea.

I didn’t want to at the time.

Francesca was in fourth grade

when her father kicked me on the rug.

The next morning
she told her teacher about it.

Concerned that the teacher would
go talk to Andrea about it

It didn’t look good for my daughter
to go around and say what happened.

I begged her not to say anything,

as he would have beaten
both me and my daughter.

I had taken this tough decision
for Francesca, now a sixth grader.

After talking to the teacher,
I went to the police

and to the emergency room,
where they reported my bruises.

It wasn’t even the worst
beating I went through!

But it was enough to press charges.

A few weeks later
I went to a law firm in Turin.

I worked with one lawyer
for the criminal case

and another for the civil suit.

No legal aid from the State:
I needed someone I could count on.

I spent everything I had on lawyers.
It was a huge sacrifice.

Now Andrea gives me
500 euros a month per child.

Wealthy as he is,
he should have given me more.

but properties are all
in his mother’s name.

He doesn’t care if our children
no longer have the same chances.

He doesn’t care about my efforts
to pay for English and violin lessons.

The children’s life has changed.

They give up a lot of things,
they go to public school.

Yet they don’t complain,

and they’ve never asked
to go back to their father's town.

They don’t miss that old farmhouse

with frescoed vaulted ceilings,
the terrace, those beautiful arches.

I work part-time as a secretary
at a museum, for 900 euros a month.

We have a lot of expenses, although I pay
my parents just 500 euros a month in rent.

A symbolic figure.

They're both retired teachers
with a few health problems.

They get by, but I can’t ask for more.

They already do a lot and are not wealthy.

They are practising Catholics,

and after many reservations
they have finally accepted

the fact that I left my husband
and asked for a separation.

Can you imagine,
two years ago they asked me

to bear it, to turn the other cheek.

However, my siblings
don't accept my decision.

They live outside Turin,
and I only see them occasionally.

I know I’m running
out of time now, Your Holiness.

Let me just tell you about
how Andrea and his family reacted.

When I left, he was so upset.

Now he’s acting like a country gentleman
hurt in his honour,

and I’m painted as the crazy one.

During the week he's in his white coat
at the emergency room.

On Saturdays he volunteers
at the Green Cross

and works with the elderly every so often.

Service every Sunday, of course.

I’m the one who made it all up.

He has filed against me
in court: five lawsuits.

My mother-in-law took it worse,

now a sort of wild animal
with a wounded pride.

She thought silence
would protect everyone.

She thinks I’m a witch
to send to the asylum.

She doesn’t understand
why I would stand up for myself,

get rid of my country lady life

to live in a suburban apartment
that needs a reprise.

I’ve only whitewashed it,
she kept everything.

I only have a few clothes.

No jewellery at all, he never gave me any.

My string of pearls?

My mother's gift for my 18th birthday,
it’s a tradition in Piedmont.

I’ve never gone back to that town,
it’s Andrea’s territory.

I can’t go back to that house,
not even to get my things.

I ran away from there.

Two years ago it was June,
and schools were about to end.

I barely picked up
my children’s report cards.

One evening Andrea
had the night shift at the hospital.

I took the children and left,
heading to Turin.

We drove 80 kilometres in an old car

that Andrea's lawyers
got back a few months later.

We left no friends behind in the village,
neither me nor my children.

We were isolated, because their father
never wanted anyone over.

It's not been easy,
but I did it. We did it.

Your Holiness, I am not
asking you for anything.

I just wanted to tell you what happened.

I go to to Church every Sunday,
and I take my children with me.

They were accustomed
to that beautiful old church.

After the service,
as the bells were chiming,

we would go into the square,
enjoying a view of the Langhe.

Now we go to the neighbourhood
parish, in Corso Francia.

It’s not the same thing, but that’s fine.

I spoke to a priest about my story,
one I happened to meet on a train.

He made an impression on me.

His name is Father Carlo Caroglio,

and he said we must not
submit to violence.

He is a city priest, modern.

A native of Alessandria, he had lived
in Novara for many years.

Before becoming a priest, he trained
as a chemical technologist.

Just like you.

Father Carlo was different
from the town priest,

the one who keeps telling Andrea:

“It’s not your fault
if your wife left you.

A wife who leaves you doesn’t love you.

She’s the one who should feel ashamed.
She’s not worthy of you.”

Andrea would beat me,

then he would go to the priest,

said he was so sorry,

and the priest would absolve him.

That’s why Andrea now feels he’s right.

Your Holiness, I have nothing more to say
– I don’t have time now.

I trust in your goodness
and understanding.

I have just one thing to ask:

please, do not allow priests
to absolve violent men no matter what.

My warmest regards, Ginevra.

(Applause)